De sens rassis: Essays in Honor of Rupert T. Pickens (Faux Titre 259)

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Acknowledgments

xi

Foreword

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RAYMOND C. AND VIRGINIA A. LA CHARITÉ Par ce que c’est luy…Rupert Tarpley Pickens III

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Publications by Rupert T. Pickens

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F. R. P. AKEHURST Adultery in Gascony

1

GERARD J. BRAULT The Prose Lancelot and the “Galehot Roll of Arms”

17

PAUL BRETEL Moines et religieux dans les contes de la Vie des Pères

35

GLYN S. BURGESS “I kan rymes of Robyn Hood, and Randolf Erl of Chestre”

51

KEITH BUSBY Filling in the Blanks: The Missing Miniatures in BnF, fr. 15101 of Florimont

85

WILLIAM CALIN The Occitan Baroque in Provence: The Example of Michel Tronc

97

CARLETON W. CARROLL One Text, Two Scribes: Manuscript P of Erec et Enide (Paris, BnF, fr. 375)

109

CAROL J. CHASE Christ, the Hermit and the Book: Text and Figuration in the Prologue to the Estoire del Saint Graal

125

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ROBERT FRANCIS COOK Notes sur le texte du Bâtard de Bouillon: le rôti et les fleurs; le nom de Bohémond

149

ALAIN CORBELLARI Les jeux de l’anneau: fonctions et trajets d’un objet emblématique de la littérature narrative médiévale

157

PETER F. DEMBOWSKI What is Critical in Critical Editions? The Case of Bilingual Editions

169

JEAN DUFOURNET Gaston Paris et Villon. Entre Auguste Longnon et Marcel Schwob

183

CHRISTINE FERLAMPIN-ACHER Perceforest et Chrétien de Troyes

201

JOAN TASKER GRIMBERT The Reception of the Tristan Legend in Renaut’s Galeran de Bretagne

219

BERNARD GUIDOT La famille de Narbonne dans Elie de Saint-Gilles

233

EDWARD A. HEINEMANN More on Speech Presentation in the Charroi de Nîmes: In Which Otran and Harpin Begin to Speak

249

DAVID F. HULT From Perceval to Galahad: A Missing Link?

265

TONY HUNT Wordplay before the “Rhétoriqueurs”

283

CATHERINE M. JONES Polyglots in the chansons de geste

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DOUGLAS KELLY How Did Guiolete Come to Court? Or, the Sometimes Inscrutable Paths of Tradition

309

WILLIAM W. KIBLER Huon de Bordeaux in its Manuscripts

325

CHRISTOPHER KLEINHENZ Rome and Florence in Dante’s Divine Comedy

339

AURÉLIE KOSTKA La ville, un Autre Monde? Discontinuité de l’espace urbain dans les romans arthuriens

353

NORRIS J. LACY On Armor and Identity: Chrétien and Beyond

365

OLIVIER LINDER “Par soulas et par envoiseüre”: rire et distinction aristocratique dans le Tristan en prose

375

DONALD MADDOX Intratextual Rewriting in the Roman de Tristan of Beroul

389

LAURENCE MATHEY-MAILLE L’étymologie dans le Roman de Rou de Wace

403

JUNE HALL McCASH Philomena’s Window: Issues of Intertextuality and Influence in Works of Marie de France and Chrétien de Troyes

415

PHILIPPE MÉNARD Les Prophéties de Merlin et l’Italie au XIIIe siècle

431

JACQUES E. MERCERON Le miracle et les gués de l’aubépine: signe de salut et seuils de l’aventure dans la matière de France et de Bretagne

445

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EMANUEL J. MICKEL Marie’s Use of Monologue and Dialogue in the Lais

467

MURIEL OTT Le siège de Narbonne dans le Siège de Barbastre et Buevon de Conmarchis

491

WILLIAM D. PADEN Before the Troubadours: The Archaic Occitan Texts and the Shape of Literary History

509

WENDY PFEFFER Lifting a Glass in Medieval Occitania

529

ELIZABETH W. POE Lord Hermit and the Joglar from Velay: Peire de Maensac as the Author of Estat aurai de chantar (PC 194,7)

543

DUNCAN ROBERTSON Seasons of Solitude: The Anglo-Norman Verse Life of St. Giles

557

SAMUEL N. ROSENBERG French Songs in Occitan Chansonniers: Mahieu le Juif in ms. O (Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, vaticani latini 3208)

567

BARBARA N. SARGENT-BAUR Rewriting Cligés

577

MARY JANE SCHENCK Spectacles of Violence: The Trials of Ganelon

589

SARA STURM-MADDOX “Signeur, vous qui l’oevre savés”: Amadas, Ydoine, and the Wiles of Women

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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FRANÇOIS SUARD Alexandre le Grand et Malraux

617

JANE H. M. TAYLOR “A rude heap together hurl’d”?: Disorder and Design in Vérard’s Jardin de Plaisance (1501)

629

†KARL D. UITTI The Codex Calixtinus and the European St. James the Major: Some Contextual Issues

645

JEAN-RENÉ VALETTE Le héros et le saint dans la Queste del Saint Graal: image et ressemblance

667

EVELYN BIRGE VITZ A Showcase for Talent: Performance in and of Flamenca

683

LORI J. WALTERS The King’s Example: Arthur, Gauvain, and Lancelot in Rigomer and Chantilly, Musée Condé 472 (anc. 626)

699

LOGAN E. WHALEN Marie de France and the Ancients

719

LENORA D. WOLFGANG The Manuscripts of the Chevalier de la Charrette (Lancelot) of Chrétien de Troyes. Preliminary remarks to a new edition: The case of ms. E. Part II

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The editors would like to thank Andy Peterson, Rosemary Hayes, and Beth McCoy of the University of Oklahoma for their generous and important technical assistance, especially with JPEG and TIF images and MS Word. We are deeply indebted to Lynne Levy and Dan Ransom of Variorum Chaucer for their copy-editing advice, and to Sandra Whalen for her countless hours of proof-reading. We also extend our gratitude to Catherine M. Jones, Norris J. Lacy, and Elizabeth W. Poe for their help in organizing this collection. Finally, our appreciation goes to Nancy Pickens whose constant encouragement made the completion of this volume possible. K.B., B.G., L.E.W.

Rupert T. Pickens

FOREWORD This collection of essays echoes the broad and varied academic interests of the scholar they honor. Rupert T. Pickens’s career as a teacher and researcher currently spans four decades and continues to flourish. Solidly trained by Urban Tigner Holmes, Jr., his scholarship on Medieval literature has already helped form the thought of two generations of scholars of Old French and Old Occitan Studies through conference papers, lectures, and publications on diverse subjects such as fabliaux, romance, epic, troubadour lyric, philology, Robert de Boron, Chrétien de Troyes, Marie de France, François Villon, and Jaufré Rudel. Clear and precise, erudite and profound, his work always demonstrates original ideas borne out by thoroughly informed and cogent arguments. His research is rigorous and exhaustive, his critical approach undaunted by fashionable modes of discourse, and his intellectual acuity unyielding. Likewise, his keen editorial skills have produced solid work in several fields, as evidenced by his editorial contributions to French Forum, his position as co-editor of the Edward C. Armstrong Monographs on Medieval Literature, and the editions of texts and collections of essays listed in his bibliography that follows. As a teacher, Rupert T. Pickens insists that his students adopt the same uncompromising discipline that defined his own training, while he exhibits patience and understanding through personal attention. Deeply committed to the success of their careers, he continues to serve as mentor to his students even after they become professional colleagues and close friends. His affection for education is also reflected in his dedication to the University of Kentucky where he has taught undergraduate and graduate classes for over 30 years. Moreover, he has served multiple terms as Chair of the French Department and founded several programs of study abroad. Rupert T. Pickens’s influence on academia extends beyond the pen or blackboard. Though an accomplished scholar and teacher, he is equally well known by his colleagues for his jubilant personality and joie de vivre, as is evident in the article, “Par ce que c’est luy . . .,” by his life-long friends and colleagues, Raymond C. and Virginia A. La Charité. Whether lifting a pen, a piece of chalk, or a wine glass, Rupert T. Pickens does it with verve, and that is why he is admired and

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respected by so many, and why we honor here his contribution to our profession and our lives. K.B., B.G., L.E.W.

RAYMOND C. AND VIRGINIA A. LA CHARITÉ

Par ce que c’est luy…Rupert Tarpley Pickens III oo” is the term of address bestowed upon Rupert Tarpley Pickens III years ago by his goddaughter. To this day, it is used affectionately by members of his extended family, for, like no other word, it captures the essence of this post-modern Renaissance man whose chosen vocation is his avocation, a professor of medieval French literature and culture with unparalleled credentials in Romance philology. It has been our immense pleasure and privilege to have been closely associated with him for over three and a half decades. A Tarheel born and bred, Rupert Pickens was born February 20, 1940 in High Point, NC, to a talented art teacher, Ida Munyan, and a prominent attorney and member of the North Carolina House of Representatives, Rupert Pickens, Jr. Just before Rupert entered the first grade, his father tragically drowned, leaving behind two bewildered boys, Andrew aged 12 and Rupert aged 6. To help fill the void and provide guidance and counseling, their uncle, Dr. Wyatt A. Pickens, a professor of Spanish at Louisiana State University, became a regular visitor to the household. Assuming the role of academic advisor, it was Wyatt’s practice each summer to review school schedules and plans. Looking at Rupert’s sign-up sheet for his upcoming junior year, Wyatt asked why he had chosen to be an accompanist to the school chorus and not signed up for a modern foreign language. Just because Rupert had completed the language requirements with two years of Latin did not mean that he had met his uncle’s requirements for a well-rounded high school diploma: “You will go to the principal, change your schedule, and take French.” And so Rupert began his journey into the study of French, little realizing that the French language and its literature would become the intellectual passions of his life. Although Rupert dropped chorus from his high school schedule, his enthusiasm for music continued. An accomplished pianist, he was also first chair cellist in the high school orchestra and the North Carolina All-State Orchestra and performed with the Winston-Salem city orchestra. Early on he sang in a local church choir and continued this interest in church music through his membership in church choirs in Chapel Hill, NC and Lexington, KY and his participation in numerous

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choir courses and festivals affiliated with the Royal School of Church Music. For nearly ten years, he has been an active member of Musickis Company, an early music performing ensemble of the nonprofit organization Center for Old Music in the New World. In addition to singing baritone and playing the portative organ for Musickis, he often serves as a substitute organist for his church. His lifelong commitment to the Episcopal Church is reflected in his service to St. Michael the Archangel in Lexington, KY, where he sings in the choir every Sunday and where he has generously given his time, serving on the personnel, stewardship and worship committees, as well as the vestry, holding the positions of Junior and Senior Warden. After graduating from High Point High School in 1958, Rupert followed his father and Uncle Wyatt to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Elected to many honorary societies, including Phi Beta Kappa, Pi Delta Phi, Phi Eta Sigma, and Sigma Delta Phi, he graduated with honors in just three years, excelling in language study, especially French. Awarded a Fulbright Scholarship in 1961, he spent a year in Brittany at the Université de Rennes, where he was able to study with the well-known medieval scholar Charles Foulon. Returning to North Carolina in 1962, he entered the graduate program in Romance Languages at Chapel Hill and, in 1963, married his high school sweetheart, Nancy Clinard, a woman of grace and warmth whose loyalty, understanding, and steadfastness over the years have enriched him and endeared her to all his friends and colleagues. At Chapel Hill, Rupert came under the tutelage of the incomparable medieval scholar Urban Tigner Holmes, Jr. In fact, Rupert’s work with Holmes is a saga by itself, for Holmes not only directed his doctoral dissertation; he also taught him in no fewer than 10 courses, including the study of some 18 Romance and Celtic languages, not to mention countless dialects. A serious, industrious, and responsible student, Rupert received his M.A. degree in 1964 and his Ph.D. in 1966. Recognizing his promise as a teacher-scholar of note, the Department of Romance Languages moved quickly to keep him in Chapel Hill and promptly hired him as a brand-new assistant professor. Outgoing and energetic, Rupert plunged whole-heartedly into campus life as a faculty member. Ever good-natured and enthusiastic and always popular with students and colleagues alike, he became active in various departmental projects, ranging from advising to

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course direction to editorial duties. Perhaps the most memorable moment of his early years in the profession was his success in staging and directing a performance of La Farce de Maistre Pierre Pathelin with Tigner Holmes as Pathelin. The supporting cast consisted of three brand-new assistant professors: Rupert, Raymond La Charité and Virginia La Charité. Earnest and ebullient at the same time, Rupert insisted that Pathelin be performed in the original old French with no linguistic concessions to the Alliance Française which was sponsoring the performance or to the undergraduate students who were providing most of the audience. Under Rupert’s guidance, the Pathelin cast brought down the house although very few in the audience could follow the language of the play. In fact, only Rupert and Tigner Holmes understood the nine languages which Pathelin uses in his efforts to avoid paying his bills. In 1969, Rupert accepted a position at the University of Kentucky, where he emerged as one of the leading medievalists of his generation. While his scholarly expertise encompasses French literature and culture before 1800, his teaching and research have focused primarily on medieval texts: Breton and Arthurian romance, Chrétien de Troyes, Marie de France, the chanson de geste, lyric poetry, didactic genres, drama, the culture of the court, medieval Provençal literature (especially the troubadour lyric), Romance philology (especially Vulgar Latin and Gallo-Romance), and medieval dialects. Drawn to narrative theory, genre theory, and medieval textual criticism, his strong work ethic and dedication to his chosen profession have resulted in a considerable body of published work: books, editions, articles, book chapters, encyclopedia entries, translations, and book reviews. He has read numerous papers at professional meetings here and abroad, including the Modern Language Association, South Atlantic Modern Language Association, South Central Modern Language Association, International Courtly Literature Society, International Congress for Medieval Studies, Medieval Academy of America, Southeastern Medieval Association, participated in various colloquia and symposia, delivered lectures, and organized the medieval French literature sections of the Kentucky Foreign Language Conference for over 30 years. Never one to deal with “les petites découvertes,” as one editor once outlined the goal of his journal, Rupert has delved into many kinds of

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thorny subjects and major issues, and he has always done so in a spirit of collegiality and respect. His solidity, integrity, and scholarly authority are well known. With impeccable critical rigor, he has brought his vast learning to bear on the Roman de la Rose, Robert de Boron, Philippe de Thaün, Froissart, Wace, La Chanson de Roland, the William of Orange Cycle, the Perceval Continuations, Villon, the language of courtesy, the Occitan chansonniers, Jaufré Rudel, the lais and fables of Marie de France, the Lancelot-Grail Cycle, the Roman de Mélusine, Chrétien de Troyes, and the future of Old French studies. Of great import is the fact that no matter how exciting and original his investigations or how keen his interest in contemporary critical theory, he has never forgotten the need to deal with medieval contextuality. Throughout his work one sees an ongoing concern for the language and rhetoric of medieval literary discourse, for strategies of selfdisclosure and the ways in which texts call attention to their own composition, for ambiguities and plurivalences, for irony and paradox, for narrative construction and organizational principles, for intertextual models, embedded secondary narratives, the feminine and its poetics, autobiography, the implications of cultural clashes, the use of space and toponyms, poetic and cultural boundaries, the subtle and productive interaction of history and commentary and of vasselage, courtliness, and courtesy, the complexities and ramifications of generic identification, psychological and narrative subtleties, the interplay of narrative and interpretive perspectives, and especially the poetics of mouvance and the history of modern textual criticism. This list hardly does justice to his grasp of medieval textuality and the richness of his contributions, but it does show that, like Marie de France’s poems, Rupert “dunc ad espandues ses fleurs.” The recipient of numerous honors and awards over the years, Rupert is considered a sensitive and meticulous reader of the text. Combining a love of words with dogged attention to detail, he has served as an editorial consultant to various commercial and university presses, monograph series, and professional journals. He has been a member of the editorial board of Romance Notes, Kentucky Romance Quarterly, French Forum Monographs, Romance Quarterly, and Tenso. From 1976 to 2000, he was the managing editor of French Forum. Today he is the co-editor of the Edward C. Armstrong Monographs on Medieval Literature. Vigorous in his pursuit of accuracy, he has been known to

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spend hours ferreting out a particular fact so that the recipient of his editorial work might benefit from a careful reading and compassionate evaluation. Pushing scholarly honesty to the nth degree, he once dunned the campus library for a certain book, which he was positive contained a nugget of information important to the hypothesis at hand; the book was not available; Rupert had to call it in and wait for it to be returned to the library; days passed; no book; repeated visits to the library were futile; finally, a librarian agreed to overturn long-standing policy and look up the name of the offender who had failed to return the book. The blackguard was…Roo! He had called the book in on himself! Rupert’s contributions to the Department of French at the University of Kentucky are too numerous to list. His willingness to accept responsibility and his stick-to-it-tiveness made him a desirable colleague and an administrator par excellence. In addition to a term as Chair of the Program on Comparative Literature, Rupert has held every departmental position and some more than once: Director of Elementary Programs, Director of Undergraduate Studies, Director of Graduate Studies, and Chair. He was single-handedly responsible for establishing several study programs abroad, including internships and exchange programs. In these various posts, his sense of humor, sunny disposition, basic optimism, and steadfastness have resulted in a loyal following of students and earned him the respect and admiration of his colleagues in the humanities. From 1992 to 1996, he served as International President of the Société Guilhem IX. In 1997, he was elected Second Vice-President of the South Atlantic Modern Language Association. In 1998 he became Vice-President and served as President in 1999-2000. Everyone who knows him has a Rupert story or a Roo-ism. There was the time he raced to Charles de Gaulle to catch a return flight, only to learn that the plane had left the day before! His joviality is legendary, for his contagious laugh is welcome by all who come into contact with him. But few are aware of his “tough” side. Behind the jolly demeanor is a highly principled, at times obstinate, person. Learned, indeed a veritable “abysme de science,” he is impatient with sloppy thinking. Candid, he is offended by hidden agendas. True to himself and to his friends, he is scornful of ambitious opportunists. Perceptive, he is disdainful of tactlessness. Endowed with savoir-faire,

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he is intolerant of poor manners. Thoroughly professional, he rejects everything that is mediocre, parochial and superficial. Forthright and honest, he adamantly refuses to adopt the politically correct stance so embraced by fence-sitters. Despite his stubbornness or more probably because of it, his reputation as departmental chair was that of an upbeat leader, with a judicious sense of things. Before every faculty meeting, he circulated a notice and an agenda; in order to make sure that everyone was present, he sent rather curt, if not blunt, follow-up email reminders. One famous or infamous morning, all instructors and faculty members assembled in the conference room with cups of coffee, notepads, pencils, and copies of the prepublished meeting agenda. And they waited. And they waited. Where was the chair? After some 20 minutes, a professor went to the office phone and called the chair at his home. From the conference room across the hall, everyone could hear a hearty guffaw. Rupert had forgotten his own meeting! He had failed to send himself a reminder! Considered by many a bon vivant, Rupert enjoys good food, fine wine, bons mots, and the company of close friends. He does indeed epitomize Rabelais’s “bon gaultier et bon compaignon,” “tousjours joyeux,” “et en ce nom [il est] bien venu en toutes bonnes compaignies de Pantagruelistes.” His interest in orchestral music, chamber music, and opera remain keen, but he also enjoys scrabble tournaments with his sons and competitive games of bridge. His love of reading is a favorite pastime, with a particular weakness for antique books, old maps, and medieval mystery novels. The loving father of two sons, John, a computer programmer in Lexington, Ky, and Edward, a pediatrician in Chapel Hill, NC, Rupert is now the proud father-in-law of a gifted artist, Martha Danek, and the doting grandfather of Anna Louise and Benton Thomas Danek Pickens. To his great delight, they all call him Roo. A Festschrift is a special volume, an academic event which honors an exceptional scholar, one who is widely read and highly respected by his peers. In this case, it also honors an extraordinary man, greatly admired and dearly loved by his family and friends. In the words of the poet René Char: “Dans mon pays, on remercie.”

PUBLICATIONS BY RUPERT T. PICKENS BOOKS, CRITICAL EDITIONS, AND SCHOLARLY TRANSLATIONS The Welsh Knight: Paradoxicality in Chrétien’s Conte del Graal. French Forum Monographs, No. 6. Lexington, KY: French Forum, 1977. The Songs of Jaufré Rudel. Studies and Texts, No. 41. Critical Edition. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1978. Second Edition, revised and expanded for the World Wide Web. Project begun March 1997, still under construction (http://www.uky.edu/ ArtsSciences/French/JRudel). Chrétien de Troyes. The Story of the Grail (Li Contes del Graal), or Perceval. Critical Edition. Trans. William W. Kibler. New York and London: Garland, 1990. The Story of Merlin. Scholarly Translation. In Lancelot-Grail: The Old French Arthurian Vulgate and Post-Vulgate in Translation. Gen. Ed. Norris J. Lacy. New York and London: Garland, 1993. Vol. 1, pp. 167-424. Revised and abridged in The Lancelot-Grail Reader. Ed. Norris J. Lacy. New York and London: Garland, 2000, pp. 4992.

EDITED VOLUMES The Sower and His Seed: Essays on Chrétien de Troyes. French Forum Monographs, No. 44. Lexington, KY: French Forum, 1983. Studies in Honor of Hans-Erich Keller: Medieval French and Occitan Literature and Romance Linguistics. Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute of Western Michigan, 1993. The French Canon. Special issue of Romance Quarterly, Vol. 41, No. 3, 1994.

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Thomas Merton’s Four Poems in French with Translations into English by Rupert E. [=T.] Pickens and Afterword by Robert E. Daggy. Lexington, KY: The Anvil Press, 1996. French Crash Course. Schaum’s Easy Outlines. New York: McGrawHill, 2000. (As Abridgement Editor.)

ARTICLES, CHAPTERS, AND NOTES “Hippolyte’s Horses: A Study of a Metaphorical Action in Racine’s Phèdre.” Romance Notes, 6 (1967-68), 267-77. [With James D. Tedder.] “Liberation in Suicide: Meursault in the Light of Dante.” French Review, 41 (1968), 524-31. “The Literary Activity of Philippe de Thaün.” Romance Notes, 12 (1970-71), 208-12. “The Concept of the Feminine Ideal in Villon’s Testament: Huitain LXXXIX.” Studies in Philology, 70 (1973), 42-50. “The Concept of Woman in Villon’s Testament.” In Medieval Studies in Honor of Robert White Linker. Ed. Brian Dutton, J. Woodrow Hassell, and John E. Keller. Valencia: Editorial Castelia, 1973, pp. 163-76. “Equitan: Anti-Guigemar.” Romance Notes, 15 (1973-74), 361-67. “Somnium and Interpretation in Guillaume de Lorris.” Symposium, 28 (1974), 175-86. “Thematic Structure in Marie de France’s Guigemar.” Romania, 95 (1974), 328-41. “Estoire, Lai and Romance: Chrétien’s Erec et Enide and Cligés.” Romanic Review, 66 (1975), 247-62.

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“Jaufré Rudel et la poétique de la mouvance.” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale, 20 (1977), 323-37. “History and Meaning in the Lais of Marie de France.” In Studies on the Seven Sages of Rome and Other Essays in Medieval Literature Dedicated to the Memory of Jean Misrahi. Ed. Henri Niedzielski, Hans R. Runte, and W.L. Hendrickson. Honolulu: Educational Research Associates, 1978, pp. 201-11. “La Poétique de Marie de France d’après les Prologues des Lais.” Les Lettres Romanes, 32 (1978), 367-84. “Historical Consciousness in the Old French Narrative.” French Forum, 4 (1979), 168-84. “‘Mais de çou ne parole pas Crestiens de Troies…’: A ReExamination of the Didot-Perceval.” Romania, 105 (1984), 492510. “History of the Language.” In A Critical Bibliography of French Literature (Cabeen). Vol. 2, revised: The Sixteenth Century. Ed. Raymond C. La Charité. Syracuse: Syracuse Univ. Press, 1984, pp. 36-51. “Le Conte del Graal (Perceval).” In The Romances of Chrétien de Troyes: A Symposium. Ed. Douglas Kelly. Edward C. Armstrong Monographs on Medieval Literature, No. 3. Lexington, KY: French Forum, 1985, pp. 232-86, 335-39. “Comedy, History and Jongleur Art in the Couronnement de Louis.” Olifant, 11, Nos. 3-4 (Fall-Winter 1986), 205-18. “Art épique et verticalisation: problèmes narratifs dans Couronnement de Louis.” Vox Romanica, 45 (1986), 117-49.

le

“Towards an Edition of Chrétien’s Li Contes del Graal: Hilka vv. 1869-2024.” L’Esprit Créateur, 27, No. 1 (Spring 1987), 53-66.

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“Histoire et commentaire chez Chrétien de Troyes et Robert de Boron: Robert de Boron et le livre de Philippe de Flandre.” In The Legacy of Chrétien de Troyes. Ed. Norris J. Lacy, Douglas Kelly, and Keith Busby. 2 vols. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1988, vol. 2, pp. 17-39. “Roland’s Apple: Truthful and Untruthful Discourse in La Chanson de Roland.” In Studies in Honor of Hans-Erich Keller: Medieval French and Occitan Literature and Romance Linguistics, pp. 7380. [See above, “Edited Volumes.”] “Poétique et sexualité chez Marie de France: l’exemple de Fresne.” In Et c’est la fin pour quoy sommes ensemble. Hommage à Jean Dufournet. Ed. Jean-Claude Aubailly, Emmanuèle Baumgartner, Francis Dubost, Liliane Dulac, and Marcel Faure. 3 vols. Paris: Champion, 1993, vol. 3, pp. 1119-31. “Symposium on the New Philology: Introduction.” In Towards a Synthesis? Essays on the New Philology. Ed. Keith Busby. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993, pp. 81-84. “Villon on the Road to Paris: Contexts and Intertexts of Huitain XIII of the Testament.” In Conjunctures: Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly. Ed. Keith Busby and Norris J. Lacy. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994, pp. 425-53. “The Poetics of Androgyny in the Lais of Marie de France: Milun, Yonec, and the General Prologue.” In Literary Aspects of Courtly Culture. Ed. Donald Maddox and Sara Sturm-Maddox. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1994, pp. 211-19. “The ‘Old’ Philology and the Crisis of the ‘New.’” In The Future of the Middle Ages: Medieval Literature in the 1990s. Ed. William D. Paden. Gainesville: Univ. Press of Florida, 1994, pp. 53-86. “History and Autobiography in the Vulgate Estoire and Prose Merlin.” In The Lancelot-Grail Cycle: Text and Transformations. Ed. William W. Kibler. Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1994, pp. 98116.

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“Grail and Grail Romances,” “Philippe de Thaün,” “Robert de Boron.” In Medieval France: An Encyclopedia. Ed. William W. Kibler and Grover A. Zinn. New York and London: Garland, 1995, pp. 410ab, 732b-733a, 803b-804b. “Marie de France and the Body Poetic.” In Gender and Text in the Later Middle Ages. Ed. Jane Chance. Gainesville: Univ. Press of Florida, 1996, pp. 135-71. “The Poetics of Paradox in the Roman de Mélusine.” In Mélusine of Lusignan: Founding Fiction in Late Medieval France. Ed. Donald Maddox and Sara Sturm-Maddox. Athens and London: Univ. of Georgia Press, 1996, pp. 48-75. “Vasselage épique et courtoisie romanesque dans le Roman de Brut.” In De l’aventure épique à l’aventure romanesque. Hommage à André de Mandach. Ed. Jacques Chocheyras. Bern: Lang, 1997, pp. 165-200. “Arthur’s Channel Crossing: Courtesy and the Demonic in Geoffrey of Monmouth and Wace’s Brut.” Arthuriana, 7, No. 3 (Fall 1997), 319. “Courtly Acculturation in the Lais and Fables of Marie de France.” In Court and Cultural Diversity. Ed. John Thompson and Evelyn Mullally. Cambridge: D.S Brewer, 1997, pp. 27-36. “Transmission et translatio: mouvement textuel et variance.” French Forum, 23 (1998), 133-45. “Courtesy and Vasselage in Chrétien de Troyes’s Conte del Graal.” In Echoes of the Epic: Studies in Honor of Gerard J. Brault. Ed. David P. Schenck and Mary Jane Schenck. Birmingham, AL: Summa Publications, 1998, pp. 189-221. “History and Narration in the Dits of Jean Froissart: The Case of the Bleu Chevalier.” In Froissart Across the Genres. Ed. Donald

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Maddox and Sara Sturm-Maddox. Gainesville: Univ. Press of Florida, 1998, pp. 119-52. “A Personal Note.” Le Cygne, 4 (Spring 1998), 19-21. “Marie de France et la culture de la cour anglo-normande: corrélations entre les Lais et les Fables.” In Plaist vos oïr bone cançon vallant? Mélanges offerts à François Suard. Ed. Dominique Boutet, MarieMadeleine Castellani, Françoise Ferrand, and Aimé Petit. UL3: Travaux et Recherches. 2 vols. Villeneuve d’Ascq: Université Charles-de-Gaulle—Lille 3, 1999, vol. 2, pp. 713-22. “In memoriam Hans-Erich Keller: August 8, 1922-May 23, 1999.” Tenso, 14 (1999), 252-60. “Hans-Erich Keller (August 8, 1922-May 23, 1999).” Bibliographical Bulletin of the International Arthurian Society/Bulletin bibliographique de la Société Internationale Arthurienne, 51 (1999), 376-77. “The Old Occitan Arts of Poetry and the Early Troubadour Lyric.” In Medieval Lyric: Genres in Historical Context. Ed. William D. Paden. Urbana and Chicago: Univ. of Illinois Press, 2000, pp. 20941. “Rencontres culturelles: monde francophone et matière de Bretagne.” In A French Forum. Mélanges de littérature française offerts à Raymond C. et Virginia A. La Charité. Ed. Gérard Defaux and Jerry C. Nash. Paris: Klincksieck, 2000. Rpt. E.C.A.M.M.L., 14. Princeton: Edward C. Armstrong Monographs, 2004, pp. 21-30. “Villon on the Edge/Villon at the Center.” In “Por le soie amisté”: Essays in Honor of Norris J. Lacy. Ed. Keith Busby and Catherine M. Jones. Amsterdam and Atlanta: Rodopi, 2000, pp. 385-403. “Le Sens du terme cortois dans les premiers poèmes du Cycle de Guillaume d’Orange.” In Philologies Old and New: Essays in Honor of Peter Florian Dembowski. Ed. Carol Chase and Joan T.

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Grimbert. E.C.A.M.M.L., 12. Princeton: Edward C. Armstrong Monographs, 2001, pp. 141-57. “Postmodernism and the Resurgence of the Modern.” South Atlantic Review, 66 (2001), 158-65. “Villon’s Ballade for Jehan Cotart: Implications of a Poetics of Water and Wine.” Romance Philology, 55 (Fall 2001), 1-20. “‘Mout est proz e vassaus’/‘Mout es corteis’: Vasselage and Courtesy in the Roman d’Alexandre.” In The Medieval French Alexander. Ed. Donald Maddox and Sara Sturm-Maddox. Albany: State Univ. of New York Press, 2002, pp. 89-109. “On Compilatio.” Tenso, 17 (2002), 25-28. [With Wendy Pfeffer.] “In memoriam George Wolf.” Tenso, 17 (2002), 71-72. “Marie de France Translatrix: L’Espurgatoire Seint Patriz.” Le Cygne, 1 (New Series) (Fall 2002), 7-24. “The Prologues: The Elucidation and Bliocadran,” “Robert de Boron (The Estoire dou Graal, Merlin, and the Didot-Perceval),” and “Merlin and Its Suite.” Forthcoming in Arthur of the French. Ed. Glyn S. Burgess and Karen Pratt. “Implications of Being ‘French’ in Twelfth-Century England.” Forthcoming in Bringing Medieval Literature into the Present: Essays in Honor of Samuel N. Rosenberg, Presented by His Colleagues, Students and Friends. Ed. Karen Fresco and Wendy Pfeffer. “Perceval or Li Contes del Graal.” Forthcoming in A Handbook of Chrétien de Troyes. Ed. Norris J. Lacy.

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In Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale, Encomia, Envoi, L’Esprit Créateur, French Forum, French Review, Olifant, Romance Philology, Romance Quarterly, Romanic Review, South Atlantic Bulletin, Speculum, Studies in the Age of Chaucer, Tenso.

F. R. P. AKEHURST

Adultery in Gascony provisional definition of Gascony is that part of what is now France that lies south of the Garonne River, and extends to the Pyrenees and the Côte Basque. Toulouse, of course, sits astride the Garonne, but can safely be included in Gascony even though the oldest part of the city occupies the right bank of the river, and thus does not qualify under the narrow definition. Equally problematic is Agen, which lies on the north bank of the Garonne, and is therefore perhaps outside the Gascon area strictly speaking; but since some of the material for this paper comes from Toulouse and Agen, they will be counted as Gascon here. Undoubtedly within Gascony lies the Béarn, with its subdialect Béarnais, and its capital Pau, birthplace of Lou noustre Enric, the future Henri IV. At the foot of the mountains, at St. Jean Pied-de-Port, is the beginning of the pass that leads to Rencesvals. In the plat pays between the Pyrenees and the Garonne you can find Auch, birthplace of D’Artagnan, and all the Armagnac region. According to the definition given above, Bordeaux and the Médoc peninsula, including Margaux, Pauillac and St. Estèphe, fall into the Gascon area, although they were seen in the later Middle Ages as being part of Guyenne. More poetically, on the Landes coast, celebrated by François Mauriac, lie the villages of Mimizan and Biscarosse. Further inland, fittingly on the river Baise, lies the most famous small town in France, Condom. Gascony has its own romance language, classified by some as a subdialect of Occitan, by others, mainly Gascons, as an independent branch of the romance tree, growing alongside Occitan, Catalan, French, Spanish and the rest from the Vulgar Latin trunk. The subdialect boundaries may run North to South. An Armagnac distiller I talked to in the summer of 2000 claimed that his dialect was virtually identical to that of Pau, due south of the Armagnac, and he instantly recognized a few expressions of Béarnais that I produced for him, such as “Que he calou” (il fait chaud) and “Que he hret” (il fait froid) and “hilh de puta” (an expression of surprise or disgust). A few of the Old Occitan troubadours are identified with Gascony, mostly by the slimmest of evidence. There is virtually no actual courtly poetry in Old Gascon, perhaps the best known piece being the stanza by Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, not himself a Gascon, in a descort

F. R. P. AKEHURST

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where each stanza is written in a different Romance language. All the poets assigned by Jeanroy and the vidas to Gascon origins write more or less standard Old Occitan. The following table identifies the poets associated by Jeanroy and others with Gascony: PC number

Troubadour

Origin

No. of poems 1

Bordelais Toulouse Astarac Gascony Agenais Gascony Toulouse Toulouse Gascony Blaye Toulousain Toulouse Gascony Médoc Toulouse Toulouse Gascony Toulouse Agenais

20 51 1= 8 15 1 12 8 10 7 1= 1= 42 1 1 18 2 49 3

1. In the Vidas, or by name: 09 10 179 112 132 172 217 240 243 262 272 288 293 338 345 355 362 364 456

Aimeric de Belenoi Aimeric de Peguilhan Bernart d’Astarac Cercamon Elias de Barjols Gausbert Amiel Guilhem Figuieras Guiraudos lo Ros Guiraut de Calenson Jaufre Rudel Jordan de l’Isle-Jourdain Na Lombarda Marcabru Peire de Corbian Peire Guilhem de Peire Raimon de Peire de Valeira Peire Vidal Uc de la Pena

2. In Jeanroy’s Jongleurs et troubadours gascons des XIIe et XIIIe siècles2 (and not listed above) 17 21 28 54 294

1

Alegret Amanieu de la Broqueira Arnaut de Comminges Bernart-Arnaut d’Armagnac Marcoat

2 2 1 1= 2

Poems written by two authors are identified by an equal sign. Alfred Jeanroy, Jongleurs et troubadours gascons des XIIe et XIIIe siècles, Classiques français du moyen âge 39 (Paris: Picard, 1923). 2

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3. On Jeanroy’s Poésie lyrique des troubadours list (and not listed above) 284 329 338 343

Lantelmet d’Aiguillon Peire de Bergerac Peire de Corbian Peire de Gavarret

1 1 1 1 total

271

On Jeanroy’s list but without a Pillet-Carstens number: Arnaut Guillem de Marsan Bernart de Panassac Peire de Ladils

Comment peut-on être Gascon? It seems that one must be born there. Their birth would seem to be, for many of the troubadours, their only connection with Gascony, since they left the region and spent most of their lives elsewhere. The vidas of various poets claim that they were of Gascon origin, among them Aimeric de Belenoi, Cercamon, Elias de Barjols, Marcabru and Peire de Valeira. Uc de la Pena was from the Agenais. Other poets are assigned by the vidas to the Toulousain, namely Aimeric de Peguilhan, Guilhem Figuiera, Guiraudos lo Ros, Domna Lombarda, and Peire Vidal, and we can suppose that Peire Raimon de Tolosa and Guilhem Anelier de Toulouse were also from that region. Jeanroy edited in 1923 a small volume in the Classiques français du moyen âge, called Jongleurs et troubadours gascons des XIIe et XIIIe siècles (see note 2), and he included songs by Peire de Valeria 2, Alegret 2, Marcoat 2, BernartArnaut d’Armagnac with dame Lombarda 1, Gausbert Amiel 1, Amanieu de la Broqueira 2, Guiraut de Calanson 10, and Arnaut de Comminges 1. Taking the broadest possible view, then, this is the Gascon corpus, a maximum of some 271 poems, a little over 10% of the total extant troubadour corpus. Not only the vidas, but also the troubadours themselves mention Gascony. There are 39 possible references, some spelled Gasc- and a

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few Guasc-.3 But none of these references is at all helpful for the topic of this paper. Troubadour scholars are perhaps too quick to assume that the only texts that can interest them are lyric poems. There are many other texts from Gascony that speak of adultery, two of which are discussed here. These are compilations of customary laws from Toulouse and Agen, extensive texts in prose. The first of these customary texts, the customs of Toulouse in Latin, has been recently reedited4 following an older edition.5 This Latin text of the customs of Toulouse was probably written down in about 1286, although there may have been some earlier or partial compilations, now lost. In addition to the usual customary laws on jurisdiction, land tenure, transfer of property, and so on, the Toulouse customary discusses a few crimes; but these crimes do not include adultery. Adultery is mentioned only in connection with temporary support for a new widow. There is, however, a 1296 commentary on the Toulouse customary, which Gilles has included with his new edition of the customary itself, and which is thus made available to the public for the first time. The commentator is no doubt one Arnaud Arpadelle, according to editor Henri Gilles (p. 25). The commentary takes advantage of a reference to adultery in the section on support for widows in order to expand on the definition and punishment of adultery. It is important to distinguish between the customary itself, and Arpadelle’s commentary. The section in the customary text on which Arpadelle writes a comment is entitled “On subsistence paid to wives and widows” (De necessariis uxorum et viduarum). A widow is paid subsistence from her deceased husband’s estate, unless she has been previously convicted of adultery, and not subsequently reconciled with her 3 References to gasc- (by Pillet-Carstens numbers): 10.42.47, 69.02.19, 80.13.24, 80.14.25, 80.22.24, 80.23.11, 80.26.63, 80.33.17, 80.39.39, 80.39.50, 80.40.38, 101.09.27, 112.2a.31, 112.2a.51, 173.04.01, 173.04.25, 173.04.47, 174.10.58, 182.02.21, 183.10.16, 210.01 19, 210.02x.21, 210.02y.21, 242.04.54, 242.04.59, 242.62.131, 242.74.86, 265.03 17, 323.02.55, 330.14.18, 335.56.26, 420.02.08, 437.06.06. (33 refs, some are to personal names, etc.); and to guasc-: 16.17.03, 29.07.18, 101.09.07, 305.11.44, 325.01.09, 366.28.28 (6 refs). 4 Henri Gilles, ed., Les coutumes de Toulouse (1286) et leur premier commentaire (1296) (Toulouse: Recueil de l’Académie de législation, 1969). 5 Adolphe Tardif, ed., Coutumes de Toulouse, Recueil de textes pour servir à l’enseignement de l’histoire du droit (Paris: Picard, 1884).

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husband. The word condempnate (convicted, feminine plural) in the customary then inspires Arpadelle to a comment, which discusses the proof and punishment of adultery, although this aspect of the law was not mentioned in the customary itself. Arpadelle declares that in Toulousain practice in his time, if a married man had sex with a married woman in his own home, he could not be fined or arrested by the authorities. Under these circumstances, the woman was not considered a criminal either, but she was considered an adulteress, and her husband could repudiate her; she was not entitled to subsistence when her husband died unless she had been reconciled with him. A married man who had sex with an unmarried woman was not considered to have committed adultery.6 It appears that it is the possibility of conception and the introduction into a family of blood other than her husband’s that is at the root of the definition, because the commentator Arpadelle gives his opinion that sex even with a married woman over forty or so is not adultery, since she cannot conceive. He backs up his opinion with the Latin brocard: “Cessante causa, cessat effectus.” The efficacity today of such an line of reasoning seems to me highly dubious, whether made to persuade a court or to persuade a domna. Arpadelle the commentator then passes to the punishment of adultery in Toulouse at the end of the thirteenth century. In this city, he says, the law of Justinian is not followed. This law, the Lex Julia (C.9.9.30), called for beheading the man, and the confinement of the woman to a monastery, where she would have her hair cut and be beaten “tondi et verberari.” In Toulouse, however, the punishment, as observed in practice, always according to Arpadelle, is the course or run through the town, or as we might say, the gauntlet: “Nam pluries vidi quod currebant villam nudus cum nuda, et erant judicati per sentenciam ad perdendum bona” (pp. 256-57). Other couples were, still according to the commentator, condemned to a mere money payment of 50 livres tournois. Yet others were condemned to the course and in addition to a fine of 40 sous toulousains (p. 257). One would like to know more about the nude running through the town, but the commentary provides no further details on this matter. 6

“Item queritur si conjugatus accedat ad solutam an committat adulterium. Respondeo non per legem” (citation to Code Lex Julia, p. 255).

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6

In addition to the Toulouse customary compilation of 1296, there are a number of other texts that mention adultery. In fact, this issue is very often the subject of a separate title in the customaries, according to Jean-Marie Carbasse.7 The Agen customary, for example, which is my second prose text, includes a whole chapter on adultery, which occupies one whole page of written material and several lines of another, in a text that includes some 152 pages. This text, of more interest to Occitanists, is in Old Occitan, grosso modo the language of the troubadours. The Old Occitan text of the section on adultery is as follows: D’ome e de femna pres en adulteri es aitals costuma a Agen, so es assaber que devo corre la vila nu, ligat ambedui d’una corda. E-l senher deu aver .v. sol d’arnaldencs 8 de gatge sobre cadau. E quant seran espiat, deu lo balles venir al cosselh, o cossels al balle, quals que primers o sapia. E deu i anar lo balles ab dos proshomes del cosselh o d’aqui en sus, e no senes homes del cosselh que sio dui o plus. E devo estre pres aquil adoltre si son trobat essemps l’us sobre l’autre, e si son nu e nu en un leghs, e que l’om aia las bragas trachas, e no en autra manera. E si l’om pot escapar avant que sia pres, o apres, es quitis, senes que-l senher no-i a re, ne aquel hom non deu passar neguna pena. (Costuma d’Agen, Agen, Archives départementales du Lot-et-Garonne, MS 42, folios 42r-43r)

This provision in the Agen customary is curious from several points of view. The punishment is mentioned first, and it is not an unusual punishment for this crime in the thirteenth century in the Midi, although it appears totally unknown in the North. It is clear that the man and the woman involved are treated equally: both are declared to be adulterers, and they both undergo the punishment, indeed roped together. They are also subject to a fine of five sous, not a large sum. There are two customary fines in Agen, the above-mentioned five sous, and sixty-five sous. The minor, five-sou fine is generally levied on persons who are late making payments, for example, and the sixtyfive sou fine on persons infringing the lord’s rights in the salt trade, or for false measurements, or for an assault that caused a bleeding wound. There is also the possibility of being fined at the lord’s will. The adulterers’ nudity during the punishment recalls their nudity during the 7

“‘Currant nudi’: La répression de l’adultère dans le Midi médiéval,” in Droit, histoire et sexualité, ed. Jacques Poumarède and Jean-Pierre Royer (Toulouse: Publications de l’espace juridique, 1987), pp. 83-102. 8 The local currency.

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crime. Then finally the text of the Costuma d’Agen speaks of the arrest and proofs of the crime. Anyone, apparently, can denounce the state of affairs to the authorities, but the only persons who can testify are the public official who represents the lord, namely the bailli, and at least two representatives of the city, prud’hommes, members of the council. These persons must therefore be taken to the scene in order to witness the event. The actions and attitudes and even the state of dress of the guilty couple must be duly observed, and the definition is narrowly drawn. Even then, if the man manages to escape, before or even after the arrest, he goes scot free. Prosecution would seem to be almost impossible, therefore, and the city’s attitude towards adultery can be surmised. Still, as with the Toulouse custom, we would like to know more about the material conditions of the prescribed punishment, namely the running naked through the town. Fortunately, the Agen customary is illustrated, and this punishment is one of the legal moments that the illustrator has shown us in a picture on folio 42v:

Figure 1. The Costuma d'Agen, Agen, Archives départementales, used with permission

Only seventeen pictures of this size appear in the one hundred and fifty-two pages of the Costuma. We can see from the illustration that the punishment is something of a parade: the guilty couple are exposed to the derision of the townsfolk, who are probably also permitted to beat them with clubs; they are preceded by two men blowing trumpets. In this way, the couple is shamed, and they probably lose some civil

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F. R. P. AKEHURST

rights as a result of their public humiliation and exposure, as Lancelot is seen by some to have lost civil rights after riding on the charrete. Graphic though the illustration of adultery in the Agen customary is, it is eclipsed by the marginal illustration found in the Toulouse customary discussed above along with its commentary. The punishment for adultery is not mentioned in the Toulouse customary itself, but only in the commentary. Nevertheless, on page 60 of the customary itself there appears a marginal illustration of the course.

Figure 2. The Coutumes de Toulouse, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, MS. Lat. 9187, p. 60. Used by permission

This small marginal drawing is one of a series of twenty or so that illustrate various punishments for crimes, such as decapitation (p. 63), exposing on the pillory (p. 59), and castration (p. 64). Even though the course, the punishment for adultery itself, is not mentioned in the Toulouse customary, but only in the commentary, the customary text includes this illustration, where one can see more clearly the function of the cord.

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Figure 3. The Costuma d'Agen, folio 44v Agen, Archives départementales, used with permission.

As a comparison, here is another illustration from the Agen customary, that depicts the punishment given to false witnesses, who are similarly paraded through the streets of the city, preceded by trumpeters, and with their crime indicated by the skewer that pierces the peccant part, here of course the tongue. There is another representation of adulterers, not far from Gascony. It is in the Conques tympanum, where the section that shows Hell includes several figures who portray some of the deadly sins. Lust is represented by a pair of nude statues, male and female, who are tied together by a rope halter.

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F. R. P. AKEHURST

Figure 4. Photo: author

Having now noted the legal point of view on adultery, as seen in the text and illustrations of the customary codes, and the religious view, as shown in Conques, we may return to the troubadours of Gascony and see what they have to say about adultery. Not surprisingly, they were generally in favor of adultery for themselves but not for other people. It is especially the poets of the second generation, Marcabru and Cercamon, who discuss adultery What did the troubadours as a whole have to say about adultery? I asked my computer to search through the complete electronic text of all the troubadours for the two words that appear in the Agen customary, namely adulteri and adoltre. The computer found no example of either group of letters a-d-o-l-t or a-d-u-l-t, whether standing alone or incorporated into other words. I further consulted the corpus for examples of corda, braga, and nuda, with no usable result except the rediscovery of a delightfully scabrous poem attributed to Montan [306.02] which did indeed refer to having braga bassada, but

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not in the context of a surprise viewing by the bailli and two council members.9 In the Gascon poets, remarks on adultery as such center round the person of the husband, referred to as the marit or the moillerat. There is also some mention of the gelos or gilos, since the role of the husband in most troubadour poetry is to be the victim whose only reaction is jealousy. He is a figure of fun, and his state earns him the opprobrious epithet of cogos, cous, Modern French cocu. One of the unfortunate and unavoided results of adultery may be illegitimate children, who may or may not be recognized by their mother’s husband for what they are. Several poets, including Marcabru and Cercamon, comment on these various aspects of adultery, and condemn those who are the actors in the little drama. For themselves, however, the poets, even those who chastise the conduct of others, tend to pursue women, married, single, or professional, it does not seem to be an issue. The minor Gascon poets represented in Jeanroy’s anthology provide very little of interest, except in one poem by Alegret, who comments on general promiscuity.10 Guiraut de Calenson, who appears not to be 9

Eu veing vas vos, Seingner, fauda levada, c’auzit ai dir c’avetz nom en Montan, c’anc de fotre non fui assassonada, et ai tengut dos anz un capellan, e sos clergues e tota sa masnada; et ai gros cul espes e trameian e maior con que d’autra femna nada.

Et eu vas vos, dompn’, ab braga bassada, ab maior viet de nuill az’en despan, e fotrai vos de tal arandonada que […]. Angelica Rieger, Trobairitz: der Beitrag der Frau in der altokzitanischen höfischen Lyrik: Edition des Gesamtkorpus, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, Bd. 233 (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1991), p. 367. 10 Alegret’s poem 17.02.43-49 contains this image: Pells maritz drutz vei tornan sec donnei qar l’uns l’autre con sen, [consen?] e qi-ll sieu laissa e l’autrui pren, el fron ll-en sors un’estruma qe lli er jase, mentre viva, parventz, e coven se q’ab l’enap ab qe-ll bec

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F. R. P. AKEHURST

having any success with a married domna, mentions her husband once. He makes the best of it by saying he loves her better with his abstinence than her husband with jauzir. This text is thus not very helpful either.11 Not much more can be gleaned from Guilhem Figueira, who was born in Toulouse but left for Italy in his youth. He urges some lady to keep her promise, but there is nothing provable in his poems about adultery. The same can be said for Elias de Barjols, whose most interesting poem, perhaps, is a partimen on the salad roquette 132.7a, and of Peire Raimon de Tolosa. Guiraudos lo Ros claims to be in love, but this timid poet does not reveal with whom, much less her marital status.12 Aimeric de Belenoi, in a poem of doubtful attribution, mentions nudity and beating, but it is the lady who is called on to do the beating.13 Guilhem Anelier de Toulouse mentions the blowing of trumpets, but in a defective stanza where the context is lacking and is most likely military.14

sai [Jeanroy fai] le cogos beva lai le sufrenz. For lines 48-49 Jeanroy transcribes from ms. C: “E tanh si be que l’enap ab que bec / Lay lo cogos ben assay lo sufrens” (which could also be or have been *beva say lo sufrens). Jeanroy, Jongleurs, op. cit., pp. 8,10. 11 Guiraut de Calanson 243.08, lines 43-46: Qu’ie-us puesc plevir Plus vos am leyalmen Ab sufrimen Que-l maritz ab jauzir. Jeanroy, ibid., p. 52. 12 Anna Maria Finoli, “Le poesie di Guiraudo lo Ros,” Studi Medievali, 3rd series, 15 (1974), 1051-106, rpt. Spoleto: Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, n.d. 13 Aimeric de Belenoi’s poem PC 09 05, lines 24-30: Domna, ve-us m’aissi fermansa: Pe-l sobretalan qu’es braus, e quar ma voluntatz brava m’a fag falhir, tot desnut, ab la vostra verja nuda m’en batetz lo cors e-l cor, tan qu’ieu aia ferm coratge. Maria Dumitrescu, ed., Poésies du troubadour Aimeric de Belenoi (Paris: Société des anciens textes français, 1935), p. 133. 14 Guilhem Anelier de Toulouse, coutz in lines PC204 001 014, 204 002 012, 204 003 025, and trompas in 204 003 037. M. Gisi, Der Troubadour Guilhem Anelier von Toulouse (Solothurn: Gassman, 1877).

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Aimeric de Peguilhan refers to Toulouse in some of his poems, but spent most of his life in Spain and Italy. His vida claims he had an affair with his married neighbor in Toulouse, for whom he made many songs. The neighbor’s husband quarreled with him over this, “e fes li deshonor.” To revenge himself, Aimeric hit the husband on the head with a sword, and as a result he had to leave Toulouse.15 There is no trace of this incident in the poems, however, which never mention the husband, and never reveal if the lady he speaks of is married. Peire Vidal’s boastful tendencies are picked up by his biographers. In the long Vida he is described as courting the wives of several noblemen, who do not take him very seriously.16 He claims to be irresistible to women and feared by their husbands: Et eu torn amoros Vas domnas e chauzitz Tan qu’enoj’als maritz, Per cui sui plus temsutz Que focs ni fers agutz; Quar don me volh m’en pren, Qu’us no las mi defen. (364.17.15-21)17

There remain the two early Gascon poets Marcabru, of whom so much has been written, and Cercamon. Rather than go through the analysis of Marcabru’s moralizing once again, I adopt the formulation of Ruth Harvey: “Marcabru frequently criticizes the practice of adultery among the noble classes. Both as a symbol and a cause of social and moral decay in his view, such promiscuity results in bastard children, the adulteration of the noble blood-line and thus of the hereditary noble virtues.”18 Marcabru’s comments are thus seen to be similar to those of Arpadelle a century and more later. Harvey mentions Marcabru’s criticisms of “[…] the adulterous circle of husband, wife and married lover,” (p. 82) and these three dramatis personae appear frequently in Marcabru. There is never any question 15 The Poems of Aimeric de Peguilhan, ed. William P. Shepard and Frank M. Chambers (Evanston: Northwestern Univ. Press, 1950), p. 46. 16 Les poésies de Peire Vidal, ed. Joseph Anglade, Les Classiques Français du Moyen Age 11, 2nd. ed. (Paris: Champion, 1923), pp. 155-59. 17 Op. cit., p. 126. He makes another similar claim at 364.30.47-48, ibid. p. 139. 18 Ruth Harvey, The Troubadour Marcabru and Love (London: Westfield College, 1989), p. 79.

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of the course, however, and the legal as opposed to the social effects of adultery are left in silence. Here is one stanza from among the many I could have cited: Maritz qui l’autrui con grata ben pot saber que-l sieus pescha e mostre com hom li mescha, qu’ab eis lo sieu fust lo bata, e aura-n tort si s’en clama, car drech e raços deviza que qui car compra car ven, ar, segon la lei de Piza.19

Perhaps the most interesting or revealing Gascon poem on the theme of adultery is Cercamon’s Ab lo pascor m’es bel qu’eu chan. Here promiscuous married men are castigated by the poet in Marcabrunian terms: Ben sai que lor es mal estan als moilleratz car se fan gai domnejador ni drudejan, e-l guizardo qe lor n’eschai ditz el reprovier lo pajes: “Q’a glazi fer a glazi es feritz d’eis lo seu colp mortau.” (PC 112 1a 15-21) 20

The same image appears in the Alegret stanza quoted in footnote 9. In the same poem, Cercamon sees all the players in the just mentioned drama, the drut, the moiller and the marit as condemned to Hell in the Last Judgment, especially ladies who lie with two or three partners. However, in a kind of palinode, in the last stanza of the very same poem, the poet asks the Saint Salvaire to help him to succeed with his own lady, in spite of her husband: “si be l’es mal al gelos brau” (112 1a l. 49). In Puois nostre temps comens’a brunezir, after complaining about the actions of the personified Escarsetatz and Malvestatz, Cercamon lays the blame at the door of the “[…] lauzengiers qu’an bec malahuros / qui son pejor que Judas, qui Dieus trays / ardre-ls 19 Poésies complètes du troubadour Marcabru, ed. J.-M.-L. Dejeanne, Bibliothèque méridionale, 1st series, 12 (Toulouse: Privat, 1909), p. 45. 20 Les poésies de Cercamon, ed. Alfred Jeanroy (Paris: Champion, 1922), p. 12.

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degr’om o totz vius sebellir” (112 3a ll. 34-36). Many troubadours complain about the lying lauzengiers. The two punishments of being burned or buried alive recommended for them by Cercamon are not, of course, the punishment we have seen for a false witness in the thirteenth-century Costuma d’Agen, where the convicted perjurer is led through the streets with a skewer stuck through his tongue; but Cercamon is writing at least a century earlier, and the punishments may have been different. Being buried alive, indeed underneath the body of his victim, was a punishment reserved in Agen for murderers. In conclusion, I hope to have demonstrated that adultery, while on the minds of both jurists and troubadours in Gascony in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, is treated very differently by the two groups. The jurists, while leaving loopholes in the law as wide as a barn door, concentrate on the proof and punishment, which makes no mention of illegitimate children and cuckolded husbands, although the commentators are not unaware of them. The poets, meanwhile, seem to be ignorant of (or unconcerned by) the law, and concentrate, in their lovesongs, on the joys and sorrows of the relationship itself and in the more or less comic aftermath for the husband. In the law books, the horny and guilty pair are preceded by trumpets; in the lyric, the ladies are sometimes the strumpets and the husband exhibits the horns.

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The Prose Lancelot and the “Galehot Roll of Arms” ne of the most authoritative registers of historical French coats of arms, the unpublished Urfé Roll, dated c. 1380-1400, adds, at the end, several short blazoned lists that are unrelated to this work and were probably compiled by a different author or authors writing at an earlier date.1 Most of these heraldic appendices contain fictitious coats such as those attributed to Saracen kings, 2 Charlemagne and his Twelve Peers,3 King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table,4 Alexander the Great and his noblemen, and the Nine Worthies. The latter, of course, all have literary connections. In the present article, I comment on the roll in Urfé entitled: “The Arms of King Galehot and the 30 Kings He Vanquished” (GR).5 I know of only four copies of GR, all dating from the fifteenth or sixteenth centuries and part of larger heraldic compilations: Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal ms. 5027 (Brouilly), f. 192v and 193r; Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale ms. fr. 32753 (Urfé), pp. 154-55; Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale ms. fr. 18651 (Coislin-Séguier), f. 103r-v; and Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek cod. 3336 (Ryneck Roll of 1 An edition of this roll was announced many years ago by the distinguished French diplomat and scholar, Jean-Bernard de Vaivre. A copy of the typescript of this roll made by H. Stanford London in 1952 is part of the Fonds Paul Adam-Even in the Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes in Paris. Although useful, it contains several errors and is incorrectly labeled “Galahad, etc.” in the running head. 2 Gerard J. Brault, “Les Enfances Ogier d’Adenet le Roi et la liste de sultans et de rois maures dans l’Armorial Vermandois,” in Jean Dufournet, ed., “Si a parlé par moult ruiste vertu”: Mélanges de littérature médiévale offerts à Jean Subrenat (Paris: Champion, 2000), pp. 91-101. 3 See my study of this roll (13 entries) forthcoming in the Mélanges Herman Braet. 4 Gerard J. Brault, Early Blazon: Heraldic Terminology in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries with Special Reference to Arthurian Literature [EB], 2nd ed. (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1997). Michel Pastoureau, Armorial des chevaliers de la Table Ronde (Paris: Le Léopard d’or, 1983), a study based on numerous manuscripts, many of them related, lists the coats of several Arthurian characters mentioned here as found in fifteenth-century heraldic compilations. Only a few individuals in his book, however, bear the same arms as our kings. 5 After the present article was written, my learned friend Michel Popoff, Conservateur au Cabinet des monnaies et médailles de la Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, informed me that he plans to publish a diplomatic edition and index of Urfé in the near future. I thank him for providing me with this and related information.

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Arms), f. 120r-v.6 The first two copies, which I designate A and B respectively, are in blazon; the third (C) and fourth (D) consist of painted shields with captions providing the individuals’ names. King Galehot is mentioned in several Arthurian romances but he is given special prominence in the Lancelot proper (LP) of the Vulgate Cycle, a lengthy prose compilation dated c. 1215-35. Indeed, the section of LP in which this character figures is sometimes designated by his name.7 Here, as a reminder, is G. D. West’s thumbnail sketch of Galehot as it regards his role in LP (I omit the numerous references he lists to this and other romances and the variant names he provides):8 Lord of les Lontaines Iles.9 Son of la Bele Jaiande. Cousin of le Roi des Cent Chevaliers; uncle of Galehodin. Ami of the lady of Malohaut. A tall man with great strength, a talent for warlike deeds, ambitions to conquer other lands, he invades Arthur’s kingdom, but sees Lancelot performing feats of arms, and is filled with such admiration that he agrees to the request made by his new friend Lancelot to halt the invasion and humble himself before Arthur. Thereafter, Galehot becomes a Knight of the Round Table, and he spends much of the remainder of his short life in the company of Lancelot. Finally, believing that his friend is dead, Galehot becomes inconsolable, and dies from fasting, the breaking open of a wound, and a wasting disease. Galehot is portrayed as a noble, magnanimous figure.

The title of the armorial in Urfé refers to an obscure part of Galehot’s biography that predates his appearance in LP. The 30 kingdoms Galehot is said to have vanquished are referred to by the insolent messenger who challenges Arthur to combat and, afterward, are also mentioned in passing (I quote below all three passages in 6 Jean-Christophe Blanchard is preparing a critical edition of the Ryneck Roll at the University of Nancy. I am indebted to Michel Popoff for apprising me of this work in progress and for sending me a copy of Blanchard’s transcript of D. I have personally collated A, B, and C, but I have relied on this transcript for D. 7 Vol. 3 of H. Oskar Sommer, ed., The Vulgate Version of the Arthurian Romances (Washington, D.C., 1910), is so entitled (The Galehaut). In this article, references to LP are to Elspeth Kennedy, ed., Lancelot do Lac: The Non-Cyclic Old French Prose Romance, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980). I follow Kennedy’s style of referring to page and line numbers in Vol. 1 (The Text). 8 G. D. West, French Arthurian Prose Romances: An Index of Proper Names [West, Prose] (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1978), p. 126. This is the character West refers to as Galehot1. For a more detailed summary of the role Galehot plays in LP, see Jean Frappier, “Le personnage de Galehaut dans le Lancelot en prose,” Romance Philology, 17 (1964), 535-54. 9 Also Lord of the Estranges Iles (West, Prose, p. 198; Kennedy 293.7).

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question in their entirety; the italics are mine). In the first passage, the messenger plainly refers to his sovereign’s conquests as a way of intimidating Arthur; the second gives the reader an idea of the magnitude of the army that will be ranged before the latter king. Finally, after Galehot has become Lancelot’s friend, the allusion to the 30 kingdoms in the third quotation reflects on his great ambitions when he refused to be crowned king before conquering Logres, Arthur’s realm: “Rois, a toi m’anvoie li plus preuzdom qui orandroit vive de son aage–c’est Galehouz, li filz a la Jaiande. Et si te mande que tu li randes tote ta terre, car il a conquis trente roiaumes, mais il ne velt estre coronez devant qu’il ait le reiaume de Logres. Por ce te mande que tu li randes ta terre, ou tu la taignes de lui. Et se tu vuels estre ses hom, il te tandra plus chier que toz les rois qu’il a conquis.” (263.37264.4) Galehoz oï dire que li rois Artus ert venuz, mais n’avoit encorres gaires genz. Si mande par ses homes les trente rois que il avoit conquis, et des autres tant comme lui plot. (276.19-22) “Ahi! Dex, fait Lanceloz, com a ci riche forteresce et orgoillose [l’Orgueilleusse Angarde, intended as a prison for Arthur], et com fu fermee de grant cuer.” “Certes, dist Galehoz, voirement diriez vos qu’ele fu fermee de haut cuer, se vos saviez que ge pensoie au jor que ge la fis faire, car j’avoie trente reiaumes conquis et mis en ma seignorie, si dis a moi meïsmes que g’estoie li plus viguerex hom del siegle et li plus redotez et que ge n’oseroie nulle chose anprandre dont ge ne venisse bien a chef, por ce que toz avoie mes anemis mis au desoz. Si me pansai que ge feroie tant que j’avroie lo reiaume de Logres. Alors si seroie coronez et porteroie corone en cest chastel si richement c’onques nuns rois si richement ne l’i porta, car ge avoie fait trente et une corone, si avoie enpensé que tuit mi roi seroient a ceste feste et que por l’anor de mon coronement porteroit chascuns d’aus corone.” (574.17-30)

The author of LP never lists the 30 kingdoms as a group nor, to my knowledge, are they ever enumerated in a later romance. In LP, as a matter of fact, the two principal kings in Galehot’s entourage, Le Roi Premier Conquis10 and Le Roi des Cent Chevaliers,11 are assigned no

10

West, Prose, p. 266. He commands the second detachment of Galehot’s army fighting against Arthur (310.9). 11 West, Prose, p. 265; Kennedy 226.38-227.7. Galehot’s seneschal, also known as Malaguin, commands the first detachment of Galehot’s army (Kennedy 310.7-8).

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specific realm.12 It appears that the compiler of GR simply decided to make up his own list. The author of GR was clearly familiar with LP—the very title of his roll indicates this—and he evidently searched this romance diligently for candidates. However, he was particularly drawn to the beginning of the work; to the marshalling of Arthur’s army, on the one hand, and to that of his adversary, on the other, on the second day of the second battle against Galehot (309.33-310.13); and to the list of Gawain’s 40 companions who set out on a quest for the Unknown Knight, i.e. Lancelot (298.39-299.12).13 Nevertheless, some of his choices of kings are surprising and/or not directly related to LP (e.g., King Erec and King Marc). Many shields are blazoned in LP,14 but, curiously, only a few of these coats appear in GR and, with the exception of Galehot (see entry no. 1 below), only indirectly as the arms of relatives. However, other coats in GR adhere to an heraldic tradition originating in the thirteenth century (EB, pp. 37-52). This fact and two additional ones argue persuasively, in the aggregate, that GR was composed earlier than the main body of Urfé. (1) While B consistently uses sinople in the meaning “vert,” indicating that this copy is contemporary with Urfé, A always employs the earlier OFr. heraldic term vert (sometimes spelled vair; cf. EB, p. 285) in this sense (see items 2, 15, 16, 20, and 31 below). The term sinople is a key marker in dating medieval blazon, the early meaning “gules” (red) having given way to “vert” (green) in the third quarter of 12 Le Roi des Cent Chevaliers is lord of Estregor, a land bordering on the kingdom of Norgales and the Duchy of Canbenic (sires de la terre d’Estregor qui marchist au reiaume de Norgales et a la duchee de Canbenic; Kennedy 227.6-7), but it is not clear that this is a kingdom (West, Prose, pp. 109-10). Cf. the Roi d’Outre les Marches de Galone (Kennedy 33.22). West, Prose, pp. 209, 266, identifies this monarch with Le Roi Premier Conquis, but, in LP, he is a distinct character. 13 On this list, an important aid in the classification of manuscripts of LP, see Kennedy 2: pp. 24-28, 199 (note to 298.40-299.12); and p. 247 (note to 364.24-30). 14 The terminology used to blazon these coats is analyzed in detail in my Early Blazon (EB). Micheline de Combarieu du Grés, D’aventures en Aventure: “Semblances” et “Senefiances” dans le Lancelot en prose (Aix-en-Provence: CUER MA, 2000), pp. 235-62, studies the colors in the entire Vulgate Cycle from a symbolic point of view and, most pertinently, in a separate section (pp. 275-94), those found on the characters’ shields. She also provides a convenient “Liste des écus portés par les héros du Lancelot-Graal” (pp. 360-62).

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the fourteenth century (EB, pp. 275-76). (2) Beginning in 1226, there were many tournaments and pageants at which kings, nobles, and, eventually, even wealthy merchants impersonated Arthurian characters, often displaying coats of arms associated with these figures.15 In 1331, a number of worthies masqueraded as our 31 kings, a festive event recorded in a contemporary document, “The Roll of Arms of the 31 Kings of Tournai.”16 This armorial lists the participants and the literary personages they imitated together with blazons of their coats. For example, Jacques de Corbry assumed the name and the arms of Galehot as found in GR: “Jacques de Corbry fu li roys Gallehos qui porta d’azur semé de couronnes d’or” (Van den Neste, p. 131; cf. item no. 1 below). Actually, 40 participants are listed but only eight are identified with characters in GR17 (however, one, possibly two other participants not associated here with an Arthurian king also bear arms found in GR).18 The Tournai Roll, then, is far from matching GR perfectly, but it does provide a terminus ad quem of 1331 for this armorial. On the value of the Tournai Roll, see also the following paragraph. The complete text of GR, which I have placed in italics, is provided below. All four copies of this short work are defective, but A, the basic manuscript used here, is less so. B, C, and D conflate two entries (nos. 15 and 16) that are preserved intact in A (no. 15 is also correctly transcribed in the Tournai Roll), but A omits the final entry. The result is that, despite the title, all four copies have 30, not 31 entries.19 C and

15 See Roger S. Loomis, gen. ed., Arthurian Literature in the Middle Ages: A Collaborative History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959), pp. 553-59. 16 See Loomis, pp. 555-56. For a more detailed analysis and an annotated edition of the roll, see Evelyne Van den Neste, “Tournois, joutes et pas d’armes dans les villes des Pays-Bas méridionaux à la fin du Moyen-Age (1300-1486),“ vol. 3, diss. Ecole Nationale des Chartes, Paris, 1994, pp. 129-36. Van den Neste does not mention GR. I thank Michel Popoff for bringing this work to my attention. 17 In order of appearance, they correspond to: GR 1, 2, 4, 9, 14, 10, 15, and 12. 18 They refer to GR 6 (in a quarter only) and 31 (the chief only). 19 Between items nos. 17 and 18, D alone adds a shield (Gules, three pales vair, a chief or), but the caption makes it clear that this entry does not belong to GR (Les arme des IIII filz Emont, maix il ne sont pas du nombre dez XXX roy). On the Quatre Fils Aymon in medieval heraldry, see Gerard J. Brault, “The FitzEdmund Arms (Heralds’ Roll 586-89) and the French Epic Renaut de Montauban,” The Coat of Arms, NS 12, no. 177 (1997), pp. 2-6. At the end, D also adds an uncaptioned shield (Plain

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D were no doubt based on a copy in verbal blazon, not vice versa, as they contain errors of interpretation (see items nos. 8 and 20; cf. also nos. 15 and 16). That the Tournai Roll follows the tradition represented by A, not B, is clear not only from its correct rendering of GR 15 but also from its use of vert (as opposed to sinoble) in the entries corresponding to GR 2 and 15. The author of GR doubtless provided proper names that corresponded more or less to those he found in LP; unfortunately, these became garbled in the copying process, sometimes hopelessly so. I have identified all but three of the characters in question (items nos. 12, 19, and 30; cf. no. 4), but I have felt it best, except in a few cases of obvious scribal error, not to correct the orthography of their names. In any event, all emendations and significant variants are duly noted. I have added numbers and, after each entry, an identification, a modern blazon,20 and brief comments as appropriate. Cy aprés s’ensieut les armes du Roy Galehot et de trente roys qu’il conquesta B s’ensuyvent; D sont; C the first three words are missing. 1. Le Roy Galehot porte d’asur a cinc couronnes d’or. por ] porte; B omits porte throughout; CD six crowns, 3, 2, and 1. King Galehot, Azure, five crowns or. The arms may reflect a passage in LP (535.16) in which Lancelot borrows his friend Galehot’s shield that the author blazons as follows: l’escu d’or a corones d’azur (Or semy of crowns azure).21 I am inclined to believe, because of the similarity of the tinctures, that GR’s coat is, instead, an instance of differencing by an increase of the charges in the arms ascribed to gules), the traditional arms of Perceval (EB, p. 30), but, in this case, the connection is by no means certain. 20 For the blazon, see EB and Allen M. Barstow, “A Lexicographical Study of Heraldic Terms in Anglo-Norman Rolls of Arms: 1300-1350,” diss., Univ. of Pennsylvania, 1970. 21 In this passage, Kennedy emends Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale ms. fr. 768, her basic manuscript, which reads a coroneus to a corones. For her ample justification, see 2: p. 350. On Galehot’s shield in LP, see EB, p. 47.

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Arthur (Azure, three crowns or) in numerous illuminations of early manuscripts of the Vulgate Cycle, and in later texts and works of art (EB, pp. 44-46).22 However, it needs to be pointed out that the threecrown coat is not ascribed to Arthur in the text of LP.23 2. Le Roy Pellés de Chasteau Perillous porte vert a trois croix d’argent. A erroneously inserts porte after Pelles instead of after Perillous; B substitutes the synonym de sinoble for vert (sometimes spelled vair) throughout; C the field is azure. King Pellés of Castel Perilleus, Vert, three crosses argent. In LP, Pellés, the Roi Mehaignié, is the father of Perlesvaus, or Perceval, the Grail Knight who sat on the Siege Perilleus at the Round Table (33.9). Cf. items nos. 20 and 25 below. The Chastel Perilleus, which plays a prominent role in the Perlesvaus,24 is not mentioned in LP. 3. Le Roy Abillas, enpereur de Constantinoble, porte geronnés de uit pieces d’or et de sable a une coronne d’argent. CD the crown is in chief; D Constance. Abillas, Emperor of Constantinople, Gyronny of eight or and sable, a crown argent. An Abilas is mentioned in the Agravain, a different part of the Vulgate Cycle (West, Prose, p. 3). From the armorial evidence, the character in GR appears to be a close relative of Sagremor le Desreé, a Knight of the Round Table as, in early heraldry, Sagremor consistently bears this coat minus the crown (EB, pp. 50-51). Also, in some romances, Sagremor is said to be of Constantinople for his mother is a daughter of Adrian, emperor of Constantinople (West, Prose, p. 270). In LP, Sagremor is one of Gauvain’s 40 companions 22

On this kind of differencing, normally used to indicate cadency, see Robert Gayre, Heraldic Cadency (London: Faber and Faber, 1961), ch.11. 23 However, for a similar device on a pennant belonging to Guenevere in LP, see EB, p. 46. 24 William A. Nitze et al., eds., Le Haut Livre du Graal Perlesvaus, 2 vols. (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1932-37).

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who set out on a quest for Lancelot (298.40-299.1). In the late French epic Theséus de Cologne, Abillant is a Saracen emperor of Constantinople,25 but, in all likelihood, this is entirely coincidental. 4. Le Roy Gluues, pere Gallegrenant, porte d’asur au quartier d’argent sur une couronne de geule et en l’asur deus testes de griffons d’or. Gluues porte dasur […] griffons ] Gluues, pere Gallegrenant, porte dasur […] griffons d’or; B Gleves pere de Gallegrenant dasur […] griffon dor; C Gleves pere de Gallegrenant; D Gleves Gallegrevant. King Gluues, father of Gallegrenant, Azure, two griffins’ heads or, on a quarter argent a crown gules. The name Gluues, or, in the other copies, Gleve has not been identified, but Gallegrenant is perhaps the same as Galeguinant, bastard brother of Yvain (305.22-38). This Yvain has been identified as Yvain li Avoltres, the illegitimate son of Urien (West, Prose, p. 308), not to be confused with Urien’s legitimate son, Yvain le Grant (see item no. 29 below). West conjectures that Gallegrenant’s father was the same King Urien (West, Prose, pp. 125, 297-98), but the author of GR evidently did not make this connection as he provided the father in the present entry with arms that were distinct from those in no. 29 below. As for the position of sur in the blazon, cf. the similar usage in item no. 16 below. Because of the general rule of heraldry that metal may not be laid on metal, nor color upon color, it is clear that the two monsters’ heads are on the blue field and that the red crown charges the argent quarter. 5. Le Roy Ereth porte party en bende d’argent et de geule. B substitutes the synonym miparti for party. King Erec, Party bendwise argent and gules. A Knight of the Round Table, Erec was the son of Lac, King of Estre-Gales (see item no. 28

25 André Moisan, Répertoire des noms propres de personnes et de lieux cités dans les chansons de geste françaises et les œuvres étrangères dérivées, 2 vols. (Geneva: Droz, 1986), vol. 1, p. 103.

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below).26 Erec is not mentioned in LP but was, of course, famous throughout the Middle Ages as the eponymous hero of Chrétien de Troyes’ romance. 6. Le Roy Gluyers porte d’argent a une patte de lyon d’asur tenant un ceur de geule et siet la patte en bende. B Gluiers le partie. King Gloier, Argent, a lion’s jamb bendwise holding a human heart gules. The words le partie in B were perhaps erroneously carried over from item no. 5 above. In LP, Galehot conquered Sorelois from King Gloier, who was a nephew of the King of Northumberland (356.2022). 7. Le Roy Loth d’Orcanye porte d’argent au quartier de geule. Logne dartonye porte porte dargent ] Loth d’Orcanye porte d’argent; B Loth dorcanie; C Loth dorcaine; D Loch dorcanie. King Loth of Orcanie, Argent, a quarter gules. Loth figures twice in LP, first as the brother of King Urien (181.2-3; see item no. 29 below), then as the father of Gauvain (386.14-15) who bears these arms in early heraldry (EB, pp. 39-42). Orcanie is mentioned only in passing in LP (230.3), but, in early Arthurian texts, this kingdom is traditionally associated with Loth (West, Verse, pp. 106, 126; West, Prose, pp. 199, 238). 8. Le Roy Galogancens porte de sable au lion d’or et au griffon de mesmes couronné de geule. sable au griffon dor couronne de geule ] sable au lion d’or et au griffon de mesmes couronné de geule; B sable a ung lion dor et ung griffon de mesmes corone de gueles; CD the lion and the griffin are rampant and face dexter, the griffin is not crowned. 26

G. D. West, An Index of Proper Names in French Arthurian Verse Romances 1150-1300 [West, Verse] (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1969), p. 56.

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King Galegantin, Sable, a lion or and a griffin of the second crowned gules. Galegantin le Galois is one of Gauvain’s 40 companions in LP (299.3; West, Prose, p. 125). A evidently modified the coat by omitting the lion from his blazon. The author of GR probably intended the lion and the griffin to be combatant (cf. entry no. 19), not facing the same way as in CD. 9. Le Roy Bans de Benoic porte d’argent a trois bastons de geule. King Ban of Benoïc, Argent, three bends gules. Ban (1.3-3.33) was the father of Lancelot, who bore these arms in early and later heraldry (EB, pp. 46-47; Pastoureau, no. 26), and the brother of Kings Lionel and Bohort (see items nos. 10 and 14 below). 10. Le Roy Lyonnel porte d’argent aux lyonceaux de geule passans. B a lionciaux de gueles; CD six lioncels passant gules, 2, 2, and 2. King Lionel, Argent semy of lioncels passant gules. Lionel (18.10), the brother of King Ban and the son of King Bohort of Gaunes (see items no. 9 above and no. 14 below), was Lancelot’s cousin. The tinctures, but not the charges, in Lionel’s coat are those in Ban’s arms. This, then, is a case of differencing by changing the charges (Gayre, ch. 5). On the procedure, cf. items nos. 1 above and 28 below. 11. Le Roy Yons d’Irlande porte d’asur a une porte d’or yssant ung cerf hors encorné d’or fuyant en une lande. Brous dirlande ] Yons d’Irlande; B Boors dirlande […] suyvant une lande; CD Bohors dirlande, the gateway is argent, the stag is proper and courant on a rolling prairie or hillock (D adds two trees) vert. King Yon of Ireland, Azure, a stag attired and issuing from a gateway or courant on a heath. This character, whose realm is Irlande la Menor, a land said, in LP, to be contiguous to Scotland (21.35,

“THE GALEHOT ROLL OF ARMS”

27

33.21),27 bears a famous coat attested in Chrétien de Troyes’ Charrete, where it is ascribed to Yder, a Knight of the Round Table.28 The arms are associated with Ireland as early as the thirteenth century (EB, pp. 27-28). In Chrétien, no tinctures or details relative to the animal are provided; in AB, the tinctures of the stag and of the heath are missing, and the attitude of the beast, said to be fuyant (B suyvant), is imprecise but probably courant as in CD. 12. Le Roy Gandefour porte d’argent au chief d’asur sur deus couronnes d’or et en l’argent une couronne de geule. B Candonosor […] suz corones; CD Candenosor, two crowns in fess. King Gandefour, Argent, a crown gules and on a chief azure two crowns or. This monarch, whose name is probably garbled, has not been identified. 13. Le Roy Abillas de Camelide porte de geule a trois couronnes d’or. King Abiblas of Carmelide, Gules, three crowns or. Three such charges may be placed in pale, or 2 and 1 as in CD. In LP, Ca(r)melide is the land of Guenevere’s father, King Leodagan (584.14), whose name may have been inaccurately transcribed here. 14. Le Roy Boors de Gannes porte d’or a trois bastons de geule. King Bohort of Gaunes, Or, three bends gules. A brother of King Ban (1.4), this ruler differences the latter’s arms (see item no. 9 above) by changing the tincture of the field (Gayre, ch. 2).29

27

For a discussion of this assertion, see West, Prose, p. 167; Kennedy 2: 81, note to 21.35. In LP, Yon is initially allied with King Aguisant (see item no. 23 below) against Arthur, but subsequently joins forces with the latter. 28 West, Verse, p. 161, s.v. Yders3. 29 For the arms, cf. Pastoureau, no. 35 (Argent semy of mullets sable, three bends gules).

28

GERARD J. BRAULT

15. Le Roy Baudemagu de Goere porte de vair a couronne d’or. Baudemagu porte ] Baudemagu de Goere porte; B Baudemagu de goere de sinoble ou chief de gueles sur ung lupart dor passant; CD Baudemagus de goere, Vert, on a chief gules a leopard or. King Baudemagu of Gorre, Vert semy of crowns or. Note that vair = vert (B substitutes the synonym sinoble; see items no. 2 above and 16 below). There is an obvious conflation, in BCD, of items nos. 15 and 16.30 Early on, a scribe, encountering two blazons beginning identically (de vair a / au), inadvertently omitted the intervening words; the source of CD plainly followed a blazoned exemplar containing this flaw. In LP, Baudemagu is a nephew of King Urien (see item no. 29 below) and a leader of Arthur’s fifth detachment (310.12). For the usage of sur, cf. item no. 4 above. 16. Le Roy Hannaulx de Bretaigne porte de vair au chief de geule sur ung lupart d’or passant. BCD see the preceding entry. King Aramont of Brittany, Vert, on a chief gules a leopard or. Aramont, que les genz apeloient Hoel en sorenon (1.18-20), turned to Uterpandragon for aid in his struggle against King Claudas (see the following entry). The name may have been spelled Haramont in A’s source. For B’s substitution of vair / vert for sinoble, see item no. 2 above. 17. Le Roy Claudas de la Deserte porte d’or a trois sanglers de sable les dens d’argent. Claudas de la Frete […] les ij dargent ] Claudas de la Deserte […] les dens; B Claudas de la Deserte […] les ij dargent; CD Claudas de la Deserte, the boars have no tusks.

30 Cf. the entry corresponding to GR 15 in the Tournai Roll: “Jehan Payen fu li rois Baudemagu de Gore qui porta de vert semé de couronnes d’or (Van den Neste, p. 132).

“THE GALEHOT ROLL OF ARMS”

29

King Claudas of la (Terre) Deserte, Or, three boars sable armed argent. I have accepted London’s suggested emendation (les ij [= deus] ] les dens ‘tusks’). In LP, Claudas was an enemy of Ban, Bohort, and Arthur (1.17). 18. Le Roy de Cent Chevalliers porte quartelé d’argent a ung lyon d’asur rampant en bende et de geule a deus couronnes d’or. B Destreuche Valliers; C dez Cent Chlirs [abbreviation for Chevaliers]; D des Cent Chevalier. The King of a Hundred Knights, Quarterly, 1 and 4, argent, a lion rampant bendwise azure, 2 and 3, gules, two crowns or. Malaguin, King of a Hundred Knights, was Galehot’s cousin and his seneschal (310.7-8; 446.1-3). 19. Le Roy Feners de la Hault Ronnier porte de geule a ung wuivre d’argent saillant a ung dragon. B Roy Tenoires de la Haulte Rune […] saillant ung dragon; C Roy de la Haulte Runiere; D Roy Tenore de la Halt Riviere; CD the serpent-like wivern and the wingless dragon, which is or and lacks forepaws, are palewise and combatant. King Fener of La Hault Ronnier, Gules, a wivern salient argent and a dragon combatant. This character, whose name is no doubt garbled, is probably Graier de Haut Mur in LP (95.26-27), a cousin of Ban and Bohort (see items nos. 9 and 14 above). In AB, saillant appears to indicate both the springing attitude of the wivern and the fact that the two monsters are combatant, i.e., facing each other in an aggressive posture. However, no tincture is specified for the dragon in the two blazoned copies. CD provide a plausible rendering of this coat and make the dragon or (cf. entry no. 22 below). 20. Le Roy Pellés de Listenois porte party de vair et de geule. Polinnes porte ] Pellés de Listenois porte; B Le Roy Pelure de Listenois; C Le Roy Pelles de Listenois, the painted shield is

30

GERARD J. BRAULT Gules, a carbuncle or; D Roy Pelines de Listenoys, Party gules and vert, over all a carbuncle or.

King Pellés of Listenois, Party vert and gules. In LP, Pellés, or Perles, brother of Helai(n)s le Gros (146.22), is sometimes associated or confused with the king named in item no. 2 above.31 In CD, the carbuncle (OFr. charbocle, charboncle; EB, pp. 139-40), which is plainly erroneous, was perhaps occasioned by a misreading of sinoble as in B. 21. Le Roy Clamdas porte de geule et d’argent semé de fleurs de liz d’asur. porte de geule semé de fleurs de lis dargent ] porte de geule et d’argent semé de fleurs de lis d’asur; B Claudas de gueles et dargent semé de fleurs de liz dazur; CD Claudras (D Claudas), party gules, and argent semy of fleurs de lis azure. King Clamadas, Party gules, and argent semy of fleurs de lis azure. For the name, cf. item no. 17 above. A omits the partition and makes the entire field Gules semy of fleurs de lis argent whereas BCD have a different and no doubt correct disposition and tinctures. Clamadas, a vassal of Galehot, was King of the Loigntaines Isles and commander of Arthur’s fourth detachment (310.10-11). The phrase used to blazon the party field (de […] et de […]) is discussed in EB, p. 165. The semy appears only on the white field because of the rule cited in item no. 4 above. 22. Le Roy Caradas Bribas porte d’asur a ung dragon d’or vollant. King Carados Briebraz, Azure, a dragon volant or. In LP, Carados Briebraz, or Briesbraz, is one of Gauvain’s 40 companions (299.7). 23. Le Roy d’Escoche porte d’or a ung lyon de geule a ung tressoir de mesmes. 31

For discussion, see West, Prose, pp. 156 (Helains7) and 246 (Pelles1); Kennedy 2: 89-90, note to 33.8-15. For another coat see Pastoureau, no. 148 (Pellinor).

“THE GALEHOT ROLL OF ARMS”

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a ung lyon de geule en ung sauthor de geule ] a ung lyon de geule a ung tressoir de mesmes; B a ung lion de gueles a ung tressoir de mesmes; C the lion rampant is in a tressure flory counterflory gules; D the tressure is plain gules. The King of Scotland, Or, a lion rampant within a tressure gules. A plainly misinterpreted tressoir, which designates a narrow border along the edges of a shield but set off from it, and substituted the term for saltire, i.e., a diagonal cross. Initially an enemy of his cousin Arthur, King Aguisant of Scotland subsequently joined forces with him (33.20-22). As is sometimes the case in other medieval literary texts, the blazon of the Royal Arms of Scotland (Or, a lion rampant within a double tressure flory counter-flory gules) is slightly altered here–the tressure has no ornamentation in BD–but it is nonetheless unmistakable (EB, pp. 38 and note 1; 133, 171). 24. Le Roy Brangoires porte de geule fretee varié d’argent et d’asur. Brangegrires ] Brangoires; BD Brangoires; C Brangorie. King Brangoire, Gules fretty vairy. In modern blazon, the term vairy alone indicates the blue and white fur of a squirrel and only other tinctures are specified; medieval practice lacked such precision (EB, pp. 285-86). Not attested in LP, Brangoire is mentioned several times in a different part of the Vulgate Cycle, the Agravain (West, Prose, p. 48; see also West, Verse, p. 24). The author of GR assigns Brangoire the arms borne by the Saracen King Carahuel of Orcanie in Adenet le Roi’s Enfances Ogier32 as well as by Hoel of Nantes in the roll entitled “The Arms of Charlemagne and his Twelve Peers” preserved in the same manuscripts as GR copies A, B, and C. 25. Le Roy Peshairres porte party d’or et de sable au lyon de geule rampant tenant une couronne d’argent sur la patte de devant. B Pecheoirs; C Pesceor; D Pesteouz. 32

See Brault, “Les Enfances Ogier,” p. 95.

32

GERARD J. BRAULT

The Fisher King, Party or and sable, over all a lion rampant gules holding a crown argent in its forepaws. In the Vulgate Cycle, including LP, the Fisher King is usually identified with Pellés, the royal personage in item no. 2 above (33.9). However, this is not the case in the Agravain where the Fisher King is Pellés’ father and it is the latter who is said to be the Maimed King (West, Prose, p. 266; 2: 89-90, note to 33.8-15). It appears that GR also makes this distinction. 26. Le Roy de Norgalle porte de sable a une couronne d’or. Roy Norgalle […] sable couronne ] Roy de Norgalle […] sable a une couronne; B Roy de Norgailles […] sable a une coronne; C Roy de Norgalle; D Roy de Norgalles; CD one crown. The King of Norgales, Sable, a crown or. In LP, Tradelinanz is said to be King of Norgales (418.25). Norgales is sometimes, but not always, identified as North Wales (West, Prose, p. 235). 27. Le Roy Mars de Cornuaille porte de geule a trois testes de lupars d’or. King Marc of Cornwall, Gules, three leopards’ faces or. In medieval heraldry, leopards’ heads were sometimes shown in profile; here, the author of GR probably intended them to be affronted as in CD. Like Erec and the latter’s father, King Lac (see items no. 5 above and no. 28 below), Marc was not mentioned in LP but was very well-known to readers of the Arthurian romances. An ally of King Arthur in some of the early romances (West, Verse, p. 111), Marc, husband of Iseut and Tristan’s rival for her love, later evolved into a decidedly evil character (West, Prose, pp. 208-09). 28. Le Roy Lach de Roche Bise porte d’argent et de gueles party en bende a trois anniaulx de l’ung et de l’autre. dor et de geule ] d’argent et de geule; B dor et de gueles; CD or and gules.

“THE GALEHOT ROLL OF ARMS”

33

King Lac of Roche Bize, Party bendwise argent and gules, three annulets counterchanged. Lac, father of Erec and a recurring character in the Arthurian romances (West, Prose, p. 183), does not figure in LP. His identity in GR is certain, however, as the author has him difference his son’s arms by adding annulets (cf. item no. 5 above). This relationship is justification enough to prefer the tinctures as found in A rather than those in BCD. In the metrical romances, Lac is said to be King of Estre-Gales (West, Verse, p. 97). Roche Bize, a toponym that is not mentioned in LP, does appear in a different part of the Vulgate Cycle, the Vulgate Merlin Continuation (West, Prose, p. 263), but it is not connected to this king. De l’un a / en l’autre is a heraldic phrase indicating that there is a reciprocal change of tinctures when the charges are placed on a party field (EB, p. 166). 29. Le Roy Uriens, pere a Monsieur Yvan, porte d’argent au lyon de geule. Bronurs ] Uriens; B Uriens pere a monsieur Nevain; C Le Roy Urien pere de messire Yvain; D Roy Brieupe monseigneur Yvain. King Urien, father of Yvain, Argent, a lion rampant gules. In D, Brien is a scribal error for Urien and the letters pe which follow correspond to the beginning of pere (originally probably written per). Urien was the brother of King Loth (181.2-3; see item no. 7 above), but he is best known as the father of Yvain, the eponymous hero of Chrétien de Troyes’ poem. In LP, Yvain, sometimes referred to as Yvain le Grant to distinguish him from other Yvains in this romance (see entry no. 4 above), is one of Gauvain’s 40 companions (298.40). Urien differences his brother’ arms by substituting a quarter for the lion rampant. Cf. item no. 10 above. This coat derives from Yvain’s famous encounter with a lion (EB, p. 49). In early and later heraldry, Yvain generally bore a lion on his shield (EB, pp. 48-50; Pastoureau, no. 176 [cf. also Urien, no. 171]). 30. Le Roy Fitry de la Rouge Montaigne porte d’or a trois couronnes d’asur. B Le Roy Sistor […] iiij coronnes; C Roy Listos; D: Roy Listot; CD three crowns, 2 and 1.

34

GERARD J. BRAULT

King Fitry of La Rouge Montaigne, Or, three crowns azure. This king has not been identified, although Rouge Montaigne is mentioned in passing in LP (526.6). 31. Le Roy Do, pere a Gliffet, porte d’asur au chief d’argent sur ung demy lion de geule couronné de vair. A the entire blazon is missing; B: Le Roy pere a Gliffet dasur ou chief d’argent suz ung demy lion de gueles coronez de sinoble; C Le Roy pere de Agrifflet; D Roy pere a Giffat, the crown is sable. King Do, father of Girflet, Azure, on a chief argent a demi-lion rampant gules crowned vert. The addition of this blazon, missing in A, is patterned on B with slight alterations to conform with the spelling and, in one case, the terminology (vair instead of sinoble), found everywhere else in A. The emendation Do, which is not found in any copy, is based on the names in items nos. 4 and 29; on the fact that, in the Arthurian romances, only Do, or Dué de Carduel figured as the father of Girflet (West, Verse, p. 50; West, Prose, p. 95); and on the monosyllabic aspect of the name which was perhaps puzzling to the scribe. In LP, Girflet, duly identified as Do’s son, is one of Gauvain’s 40 companions (299.1-2).33 The lion rampant on Do’s shield is couped at the middle, only its upper half appearing on the chief (EB, p. 167).

33

For early descriptions of Girflet’s arms, see EB, p. 207.

PAUL BRETEL

Moines et religieux dans les contes de la Vie des Pères epuis l’étude d’Edouard Schwan jusqu’à la récente édition de Félix Lecoy, les travaux portant sur la Vie des Pères en ancien français1 ont permis de dégager la genèse et la composition d’une œuvre composite et complexe, sans que pour autant en soient définitivement résolus les problèmes de datation et d’attribution. Le titre lui-même du recueil fait difficulté. On entendait en effet habituellement par Vie des Pères une littérature adaptée ou traduite des Vitae Patrum latines, de l’Historia monachorum in Aegypto de Rufin d’Aquilée et des Verba Seniorum, qui racontaient la vie des premiers ascètes qui, tels Antoine, Hilarion, Malchus ou d’autres pères, saints ou saintes se retirèrent, à partir du IIIe siècle, dans les déserts de Palestine, de Syrie ou d’Egypte. Or ni l’ensemble du recueil français, ni même chacune des trois parties qui le composent, ne dégagent cette impression d’homogénéité que confère aux Vitae Patrum et à leurs traductions2 l’intérêt exclusif porté aux ermites orientaux. La Vie des Pères se subdivise en trois parties distinctes (1VP, 2VP, 3VP, sigles auxquels nous ajouterons le numéro attribué par Félix Lecoy à chaque conte). La première Vie, composée vers 1230, comprend quarantedeux contes, parmi lesquels quatorze ont pour héros des ermites, habituellement anonymes (à l’exception de Thaïs, conte VI), vivant dans des contrées d’Egypte ou de Palestine; parmi les autres récits on trouve des contes mettant en scène des moines cénobites, des histoires édifiantes ou morales (XLII) et sept miracles de Notre Dame, auxquels on ajoutera le conte X, récit combinant deux sources différentes, l’une relatant une triple conversion érémitique, l’autre un miracle de Notre 1 Cf. sur ces questions: E. Schwan, “La vie des anciens Pères,” Romania, 13 (1884), pp. 233-63; J. Chaurand, Fou, dixième conte de la Vie des Pères (Genève, Droz, 1971); G. Bornäs, Trois contes français du XIIIe siècle, tirés du recueil des Vies des Pères (Lund: Etudes Romanes de Lund, 1968); F. Lecoy, La Vie des Pères, 3 vols. (Paris: 1988, 1993, 1999). 2 Cf. Wauchier de Denain, L’Histoire des moines d’Egypte, éd. M. Szkilnik (Genève: Droz, 1993), ou Vitas Patrum: A Thirteenth-Century Anglo-Norman Rimed Tranlsation of the Verba seniroum, éd. B.A. O’Connor (Washington: Catholic Univ. of America Press, 1950).

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PAUL BRETEL

Dame. La proportion des miracles de la Vierge augmente en 2VP (huit miracles sur dix-neuf contes), qui fut composée probablement entre 1241 et 1250, ainsi qu’en 3VP, légèrement postérieure, dont le terminus ad quem se situe en 1252 (douze miracles sur treize contes). Parallèlement, le nombre des récits centrés sur un personnage d’ermite diminue (neuf dans la 2e Vie, si l’on inclut le conte LX; un ou deux en 3VP). Ainsi, si l’on excepte les seuls contes LXXIII et LXVII, 3VP se présenterait comme un recueil de miracles de Notre Dame, tout à fait semblable à ceux qu’a produits la première moitié du XIIIe siècle. Plusieurs manuscrits présentent ainsi sous un même titre trois séries de contes, dont la caractéristique commune est la visée édifiante, mais dont le contenu se modifie avec le recul progressif des modèles érémitiques–et donc monastiques, l’érémitisme étant habituellement considéré comme une forme de monachisme–au profit d’un genre qui place la dévotion à la Vierge au cœur de sa spiritualité, et qui, sans méconnaître l’apport et l’importance de la vie monastique, accorde, au milieu du XIIIe siècle, une place prépondérante à un nouveau type de religieux. Ces transformations, qui interviennent dans une œuvre à la fois une et trine, reflètent des changements profonds dans les sensibilités et les mentalités religieuses aussi bien que dans les préoccupations de l’Eglise. L’image que 1VP donne du clergé séculier est nettement contrastée: on trouve ainsi dans cette première série de contes quelques chapelains exerçant loyalement leur ministère, même si souvent ils se contentent de diriger ceux qui les sollicitent vers une autorité, spirituelle ou hiérarchique, plus qualifiée (XVII, XVIII); l’un d’eux, cependant, profite de la situation dans laquelle se trouve sa pénitente pour exercer sur elle un odieux chantage (XXVIII). Le début du conte X (Fou) évoque d’autre part les rentes dont “richement se vivoient” (4351) trois “clers gentilz homes”, et leur goût pour le “jeu” aristocratique de la chasse, ainsi que pour tout “autre soulaz”, “come noble gent k’il estoient” (4367), richesses et plaisirs auxquels ils renonceront d’ailleurs en se convertissant à la vie érémitique. A la fin de ce conte, c’est la Vierge qui dénonce l’attachement du clergé et des prélats aux biens terrestres, et le mauvais exemple qu’ils donnent aux fidèles, “par qoi .M. anmes vont a honte.” Des reproches comparables se lisent dans XXIV et XXXI, où l’auteur oppose les appétits temporels des clercs et

LA VIE DES PÈRES

37

des prélats à l’austérité et aux mérites d’un ermite 3 et des moines d’une blanche abbaye.4 Les mêmes reproches que ceux qu’il adresse aux clercs visent cependant aussi, avec peut-être plus de virulence encore, la branche la plus ancienne du monachisme, c’est-à-dire les bénédictins traditionnels, vêtus de noir, dont la fondation est antérieure à l’émergence, à la fin du XIe siècle, de nouveaux ordres comme les Cisterciens ou les Chartreux. Le conte XXXII raconte comment le diable se sert d’ “un cras moine”5 qui “a son gré le servoit” (14691), pour séduire une jeune recluse et pour la faire apostasier. De manière plus explicite encore, l’auteur interrompt son récit pour une longue intervention discursive (14714–61) au début de laquelle il assimile d’emblée les moines à des “deable privé,” avant de leur reprocher leur observance relâchée, leur manque de charité6 et leur goût pour les plaisirs du monde.7 Il conclut sa diatribe en disant que saint Benoît fut bien mal avisé “quant moine fist” (14751), que s’il avait pu prévoir leur conduite, il ne les aurait jamais “establi” et que s’il pouvait les 3

les talentes que Deus li crut si les moutiplia et crut que de .II., .IIII. l’en rendi. A l’enfoïr pas n’entendi si com li prelaz qui or sont, qui des grans rentes que il ont. ne font pas ce que fere doivent, [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] Mes bien saichent qu’un jors vendra que reson lor en convendra, ou il vueillent ou non, a rendre et loier selon lor fet prendre. (1VP XXXI, 14244-50, 14258-61) 4 Ne penserent pas as murgoes si conme li cler qui or sont qui del patrimoine Deu ont les vins, les blez et les deniers dont il emplent les granz greniers et toz jors et plus et plus aünent, et li povre a lor huis geünent […]. (11141-47) 5 Le même adjectif “gras” qualifie un usurier au vers 16193 (conte XXXV). 6 Alors qu’ils sont établis pour “povres hebergier / et les nuz vestir et chaucier ” (14720-21), les moines “sont pas apris de doner.” 7 “As deliz del monde s’acordent”(14726); “bons vins aiment et bons morsiaz” (14730); or lorsque “ventre [qui] est pleins de vin,” il “est tost esmeüz a luxure” (14738).

38

PAUL BRETEL

voir aujourd’hui, il les “desfeïst.” Tous les moines cependant ne sont pas confondus dans le même opprobre; avant de reprendre le cours de son récit, l’auteur prend soin de préciser que les moines blancs ne sont pas visés: “cil sont bon et de sainte vie” (14759), si bien que Dieu les aime, tandis qu’il hait les noirs “pour les grans vices qu’en els set” (14761). Cette attaque contre les moines noirs, ainsi que l’importance accordée dans plusieurs contes de 1VP aux moines blancs, et parfois explicitement aux Cisterciens, a conduit J. Chaurand à penser que l’auteur était “un moine cistercien ou un clerc en passe de le devenir” (p. 3), opinion partagée par F. Lecoy qui suppose que l’auteur “vivait dans une ambiance cistercienne” (t. I, p. xxiii). Le réquisitoire prononcé dans le conte XXXII contre les moines noirs s’inscrit dans la polémique qui a opposé Cisterciens et Clunisiens à partir des années 1124-25, avec la lettre adressée par saint Bernard à son cousin Robert de Châtillon, dans laquelle il stigmatise le mode de vie des Clunisiens, et qu’il fait suivre d’une Apologia ad Guillelmum où il reproche aux Clunisiens les adoucissements apportés à la règle par leurs coutumes, leur goût pour la décoration, et l’orgueilleuse vanité de certains de leurs abbés. Bernard s’efforcera ensuite, dans sa correspondance avec Pierre le Vénérable, d’apaiser les passions, mais la controverse rebondira à la fin du siècle avec le Dialogus duorum monachorum qui fait débattre un moine cistercien et un moine clunisien: œuvre partisane dans laquelle le clunisien s’avère incapable de répondre aux critiques de son contradicteur.8 L’Exordium Parvum expliquait déjà la fondation de l’Ordre de Cîteaux par la décadence du monachisme cistercien traditionnel, sans toutefois citer nommément Cluny, ce que fera l’Exordium Magnum, compilé par Conrad d’Eberbach dans les années 1190-1210. Au début du XIIIe siècle cependant, la polémique semble avoir perdu de sa virulence, d’autant que Pierre le Vénérable avait déjà introduit à Cluny plusieurs réformes qui pouvaient rendre caduques certaines critiques adressées à son ordre. Mais, alors même que dès le milieu du XIIe siècle s’introduisent dans les maisons cisterciennes de graves manquements à l’idéal

8

Sur le Dialogus, cf. Adriaan H. Bredero, Cluny et Cîteaux au douzième siècle– L’histoire d’une controverse monastique (Lille: Presses Universitaires de Lille, 1985).

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primitif de pauvreté,9 les prises de position partisanes en faveur des moines blancs continuent à s’exprimer et le conte XXXII de 1VP en est un bel exemple. On lit encore dans les sermons de Humbert de Romans, qui fut le maître général des Prêcheurs (Dominicains) de 1254 à 1263, les mêmes idées reçues à propos de la décadence des moines noirs,10 auxquels il reproche sept défauts principaux, dont certains (dureté dans l’exercice des œuvres de charité, introduction des mœurs séculières dans le monastère, etc.) recoupent les critiques que nous avons relevées dans le conte XXXII.11 L’hommage rendu aux moines blancs par ce conte se retrouve dans plusieurs autres récits de 1VP qui leur attribuent des qualifications toujours positives et qui leur confient des rôles importants. La blanche abbaye du conte XXVI est ainsi de “sainte gent garnie” (11959) “qui sont plein de Saint Esperit” (11982); les “blans moines” du conte XXIV “bone vie / a Deu et au monde menerent” (11129-30); l’un d’eux, le héros du conte, est favorisé d’une vision qui lui montre son abbaye assaillie par des milliers de diables, tandis que seul un “malfé” veille sur les murs du château voisin. Son abbé lui expliquera la “glose” (11361) de sa vision: les diables assaillent par milliers leur abbaye sans toutefois y pouvoir “rien forfere” (11373), car les moines mènent une sainte vie, alors qu’un seul démon suffit pour “tenir en garde” les gens du château qui sont “usirier et mescreant” (11365). Dans ce conte enfin, l’auteur insiste, parmi les mérites qu’il attribue à ces moines blancs, sur la pratique de la charité: “De toz les biens qu’il laborerent / la disme as povres Deu donerent” (11134-35), et “Li moine blanc, qui Deu doterent / vers les povres bien s’aquiterent / sanz fere bobant ne revel” (11176-78). L’échelle des vices et des vertus mise en place par 1VP privilégie plus que toute autre l’opposition entre l’appât du gain, associé à l’usure, et la charité et la compassion à l’égard des pauvres. Cette vertu 9 La littérature pamphlétaire anti-cistercienne est abondante. Cf. par exemple, Gautier Map, Contes pour les gens de cour, (I, 24, 25), trans. A. K. Bate (Turnhout: Brepols, 1993). 10 Cf. Jacques Dubois, “Ordres monastiques en France d’après les sermons d’Humbert de Romans, maître général des Frères Prêcheurs (†1277)” Sacris Erudiri, 26 (1983), 187-220. Humbert évoque “le laisser-aller des noirs” (Ad Monachos griseos quoscumque) et dit que l’ordre des moines blancs “a été créé pour la réforme des noirs, qui s’étaient effondrés” (Ad Monachos albos quoscumque praecipue Cistercienses). 11 Cf. le sermon intitulé Ad Monachos nigros bonae conversationis.

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constitue l’argument principal du conte XXXIV (Rachat) où un moine, envoyé par son abbé à une foire “por viande querre” (15641), utilise l’argent qui lui est confié pour faire l’aumône à un chevalier qui, endetté auprès d’un usurier, avait “engagé” son fils (“quar il est pres conme venduz” 15693); à son retour, craignant le courroux de ses frères, il implore leur pardon. Cependant: quant cil la charité connurent, abes et covent, tuit corrurent. et devant lui s’agenoillerent et Damledeu et lui loerent por la charité qu’il ot fete. (vv.15928-32)12

Les moines de ce conte sont des Chartreux, qui portaient aussi un vêtement blanc (sans que toutefois la dénomination de “moines blancs” leur ait été habituellement attribuée),13 et qui appartiennent, comme les Cisterciens, au grand mouvement de rénovation qui, à la fin du XIe siècle aspire à retrouver les valeurs primitives du monachisme en s’inspirant des idéaux et des exemples des Pères du désert. Ainsi, dans le chapitre liminaire de la Lettre d’or qu’il adresse aux Chartreux du Mont Dieu, le Cistercien Guillaume de Saint-Thierry célèbre ses destinataires “par qui la lumière de l’Orient et l’antique ferveur religieuse des monastères égyptiens–le modèle de la vie religieuse, le type de la vie céleste–se répandent dans les ténèbres occidentales et dans les froidures des Gaules.”14 Les auteurs cisterciens se réfèrent constamment aux pères orientaux, et, le Grand Exorde rend 12 Le substantif “charité” parcourt ce conte, dont il constitue le leitmotiv, y compris dans l’épilogue; il est coordonné à “pitié” aux vers 15914-16, où les deux mots entrent dans des structures parallèles. En 1VP, XXXVII, on lit ces conseils d’un père à son fils: “Les povres Deu obliez mie, / de charité fetes amie” (16882-83). Inversement, plusieurs contes dénoncent l’usure comme le premier des péchés: “Mout a male chose en usure: / ivrece, avoltire et luxure / ne font tant com ele sole […] ” (1VP, XXXV, 16140-42, cf. aussi 16146-48, 16420-21, [passim]). 13 Les titres des sermons de Humbert de Romans distinguent ainsi nettement les moines blancs (Ad Monachos albos quoscunque praecipue cistercienses, Ad albos bonos, Ad albos malae vitae) et les Chartreux (Ad Carthusienses). 14 Sur l’influence exercée par les Pères du Désert sur les Chartreux et sur les Cisterciens, on consultera D. M. Laporte, Aux sources de la vie cartrisienne, 8 vols., In domo Cartusiae (Saint-Pierre-de-Chartreuse: La Grande Chartreuse, 1960-71), p. 435 et ss, et le chapitre 6 de Jean Leclercq L’amour des lettres et le désir de Dieu (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1957).

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hommage aux exemples des Pères qui ont servi de modèle à la Règle de saint Benoît, à savoir Antoine, Pacôme, Basile, Macaire, Paphnuce, Pambo, Isidore et “beaucoup d’autres” (I, 3-4). Les Chartreux ne sont mentionnés dans 1VP que dans le seul conte XXXIV, et les Cisterciens ne sont de même explicitement nommés que dans le conte X, au début duquel Félix, l’un des trois chanoines qui décident de se convertir à la vie érémitique, affirme son intention de “finir ses jours en l’ordre de Citeaz” (4442), vœu qu’il réalisera à la fin du récit (5304 et 5312), après avoir mené à Besançon une existence d’ermite urbain et de fou de Dieu. Pour le reste, les moines de 1VP sont toujours des moines blancs ou appartenant à une “blanche abbaye,” et vivant le plus souvent “en Egypte” et “jadis” (X, 4347, 4478, 4485; XIV, 7063; XXVI, 11938-58; XXIV, 11126-269: “Jadis, en un jor trespassé /dont je pas le conte ne sé, / ot en Egypte une abeie / de blans moines […]”). Comment identifier ces moines blancs implantés en Egypte, en un temps si reculé que l’auteur dit ne pas pouvoir le préciser ? Pour J. Chaurand, “voilà une curieuse association, qui invite à ne pas trop chercher dans notre conte des éléments pris dans la réalité” (p.39). Il n’est pas douteux que, même si les Cisterciens avaient en terre sainte au moins un monastère (Saint-Serge de Jubino, dans la Montagne Noire près d’Antioche), l’auteur de 1VP, n’a pas voulu faire accroire que ces abbayes égyptiennes dépendaient de Cîteaux. D’autre part, tous les “moines blancs” n’étaient pas nécessairement pour les gens du Moyen Âge des Cisterciens, comme le montre le titre d’un sermon d’Humbert de Romans: Ad monachos albos praecipue cistercienses. L’auteur de 1VP semble utiliser l’adjectif “blanc” comme classificateur pour désigner des moines qui, indépendamment de leur implantation et de leur époque, vivent dans la fidélité à l’idéal des Pères du désert et suivant leurs préceptes.15 Pourraient donc être légitimement appelés “blancs” aussi bien des cénobites égyptiens “du temps jadis” que des moines occidentaux contemporains des auteurs des Vies des Pères, au premier rang desquels les Cisterciens (praecipue cisterciences). Ce sont bien, me semble-t-il, les Cisterciens

15 Il n’est pas exclu que se surajoutent à cette valeur des connotations positives: le blanc est signe de chasteté, d’entrée en initiation, de régénération; c’est aussi la couleur du vêtement des êtres spirituels et des anges.

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que désigne le conte XLI, dans un passage discursif au présent, où l’auteur révèle les destinataires de ses sources latines: Es Vies des Peres trovons Ceste estore que ci lisons. Bone aprison i porra prendre qui de cuer i voldra entendre. A ces blans moines les lit l’en chascun qaresme d’an en an. Mex en font et meins en mesprennent par les essamples qu’il i prennent. (17842-49)

La 1VP ne traite pas exclusivement de la vie des ermites ou des moines orientaux, comme le faisaient les Vies latines; mais, parmi tous les gens d’Eglise, ce sont eux qui sont majoritairement représentés. Si l’on excepte quelques anachorètes qui cèdent à la tentation et aux sollicitations du siècle (contes I, III, XIII, XXVII, XXXIII, etc.), la plupart donnent effectivement des exemples d’ascèse et d’observance propres à édifier un auditoire de moines: les caractérisations qui leur sont attribuées ne méritent pas d’examen particulier; elles se retrouvent dans d’autres genres littéraires, dès qu’il s’agit d’évoquer la sainte vie d’un solitaire.16 Tout au plus relèvera-t-on l’importance accordée ici au travail manuel, souvent occulté dans la littérature romanesque, mais qui fut réhabilité, par les Cisterciens en particulier, comme une composante essentielle de la vie monastique. Il convient en revanche de s’intéresser aux fonctions que la Première Vie délègue à ses ermites; diverses et importantes, elles semblent couvrir l’ensemble du champ d’action attribué aux ermites dans la littérature. Alors que sa vocation est d’abord de “vaquer à Dieu seul,” l’ermite, en raison même des charismes que lui vaut cette intimité, est représenté comme chargé de la cura animarum: les laïques (parfois les religieux) viennent recueillir auprès de lui un conseil, une parole de réconfort ou de sagesse;17 il entend leur confession et absout les pécheurs;18 il est un convertisseur: c’est par lui que les païens embrassent la foi chrétienne 16

Cf. Paul Bretel, Les ermites et les moines dans la littérature française du moyen âge (1150-1250) (Paris: Champion, 1995), pp. 400-50, et 1VP, 14590 et ss. 17 Contes V, VI, VII, X, XII, XVI, XVIII, XIX, XXIII, XXXV. “Li hermites tant chastia / l’usirier et tant l’escria / que hors de son peché le mist” (16172-74). 18 Contes V, VI, X, XIII, XVI, XIX , etc. Au vers 2045, l’ermite de “Copeaux” est dénommé “le saint confessor,” cf. aussi XI, 2457.

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(XXV et XXXI), et c’est lui qui accompagne le pécheur dans une démarche de conversion des mœurs qui le conduira au désert ou dans un monastère.19 Dans le conte XXVIII, il intervient dans le monde, après que Dieu l’a averti pendant la nuit du châtiment qui attend une reine injustement condamnée. Malgré la stabilité qui caractérise son état, il lui arrive de quitter son “reclus” pour se faire prédicateur itinérant: “Par la terre ala preechant, / les viles, les chastias cerchant / pour les foles genz chastier, / qui a Deu voloit toz alier” (XXV, 1159497). Et quand il est seul, il adresse à Dieu des prières d’intercession: “en la roche ou il se seoit / ou por toz pecheors oroit” (XIX, 9008-09). Ainsi, les hommes de Dieu sont-ils une sauvegarde pour la terre où ils se sont retirés: “Par un home est enluminez / uns grans païs et une terre” (VII, 2794-95). La représentation des gens de religion dans 1VP paraît particulièrement instructive: elle relègue à un rang subalterne le clergé séculier, auquel elle adresse de vives critiques, et privilégie à l’inverse le monde monastique, dans sa double composante érémitique et cénobitique. Elle ne traite cependant pas de manière égale tous les cénobites, discréditant les moines noirs, dont elle dénonce les vices et le relâchement, valorisant les moines issus du renouveau de la fin du XIe siècle, auxquels elle attribue d’ailleurs les mêmes rôles qu’aux ermites (XIV et XXI). Invoquant une source latine dont les contes édifiants étaient lus en période de carême aux moines blancs, les contes en roman de ce premier recueil s’adressent peut-être à un public un peu différent, celui des convers cisterciens, à moins que, comme le pense J. Chaurand, ils n’aient été “lus devant un auditoire composé principalement de clercs, que l’auteur se propose d’édifier et d’attirer dans le monde monastique” (p. 54). Mais ils ne semblent pas destinés aux laïques. Par sa composition et son contenu, 1VP paraît très représentative de la spiritualité et de l’idéologie du monachisme, et plus particulièrement du monachisme blanc: fidélité aux valeurs premières d’ascèse et de renoncement illustrées par les exemples des premiers ermites orientaux, à quoi s’ajoute une composante nouvelle, inconnue des premiers siècles du christianisme, la dévotion à la “Mère de Dieu,”20 dont témoignent en particulier les contes X, XIV, XX, qui 19

Contes VI (où l’ermite assure le passage de Thaïs du lit de luxure au lit spirituel, 2641 et 2647-48: “Amis, Deux a sïe / Taÿs Ke tu as convertie”), VII, IX, XIII, etc. 20 Sur la piété mariale dans le monachisme des XIIe et XIIIe siècles, cf. Bernard de Clairvaux, A la louange de la Vierge Marie, éd. M.I. Huillé et J. Regnard (Paris:

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ont pour héros des ermites ou des cénobites. Au début du XIIIe siècle, parallèlement aux traductions des Vitae Patrum, fleurissent, dans les milieux monastiques, des recueils de Miracles de la Vierge. En faisant alterner les exemples érémitiques et les miracles de Notre Dame, en les combinant même parfois dans un même récit (X), 1VP est très représentative de la spiritualité qui imprègne, en cette période, le monachisme rénové. Le même caractère composite se retrouve dans 2VP, avec cependant une plus grande homogénéité (réduction des contes moraux) et un équilibre presque parfait entre les miracles et les contes érémitiques, tandis que en 3VP, les ermites ne se rencontrent plus qu’à l’état résiduel. On retrouve d’autre part dans ces deux derniers recueils, à propos de la représentation des moines, des éléments tout à fait conformes à ceux que nous avons dégagés en 1VP: – mise en garde contre l’attachement excessif aux biens de ce monde (LIII); – incitation à la vigilance face aux tentations et aux entreprises du démon (XLIII; XLV; XLIX; LV), et, inversement, exemplarité de l’observance des ermites auxquels sont attribués les mêmes mérites et les mêmes fonctions qu’en 1VP, en particulier en ce qui concerne la cura animarum;21 – hommage rendu au monachisme blanc, qui accueille les néoconvertis à la vie monastique, et dont on mentionne la dévotion particulière à notre Dame.22

Éditions du Cerf, 1993), et à H. Du Manoir de Juaye, Maria, Etudes sur la Sainte Vierge, 7 vols. (Paris: Beauchesne, 1949-1971), voir vol. 2. 21 Cf. 2VP, XLV, 19524-32, 19552-59: A lui s’en venoient souvant confiesser les gens du païs, et li preudom ert ententis de gieter les de lor pechiez. Ja n’i venist si entechiés a lui que tous liés n’en alast et que a bien n’en retournast. Voir aussi 2VP, XLIX, 22037-39; 3VP, LXXIII, 29916-25, etc. 22 Cf. 2VP, L, 22929-22933: Avoec les dames en Egypte en ordre blanc vodra entrer ilued vodra plaindre et plorer

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Mais 2VP fait intervenir une catégorie de religieux qu’ignorait la Première Vie. Alors que jusqu’à la fin du XIIe siècle la vie retirée du monde que menaient les moines apparaissait comme l’unique modèle de la vie parfaite, le début du XIIIe siècle voit apparaître de nouveaux ordres qui, dans la pauvreté individuelle et collective, se donnent pour mission de prêcher l’évangile et le Royaume de Dieu en allant au devant du peuple chrétien. Fondés par saint Dominique (1170-1221) qui était allé solliciter Innocent III en 1215 au concile du Latran, les Frères Prêcheurs reçoivent en décembre 1216 une bulle d’approbation qui marque le début véritable de leur ordre, lequel, ayant adopté la Règle de saint Augustin, se rattache canoniquement aux chanoines réguliers; les disciples de Dominique se voient concéder en 1218 l’hospice de Saint-Jacques à Paris, dont ils tireront le nom de Jacobins sous lequel ils seront connus en France. Les disciples de saint François reçoivent, pour leur part, en 1223, une règle propre, rédigée par leur fondateur; ils sont connus sous le nom de Frères Mineurs (à partir d’une citation de l’Evangile adoptée par François: et sint minores ) ou de Cordeliers (en raison de la ceinture de corde qui tient leur robe). Vivant d’aumône et de mendicité, les deux ordres furent dénommés Ordres Mendiants. Allant souvent par deux, passant de ville en ville (à la différence des moines, astreints à la stabilité), les religieux mendiants se virent chargés de combattre les hérésies, d’enseigner le peuple chrétien et de veiller au salut des âmes, tâches auxquelles les moines étaient mal préparés parce qu’elles ne leur incombaient pas et que les prêtres de paroisses, souvent ignares, étaient incapables d’assumer. “Nous enseignons les peuples et leurs gouvernants, nous enseignons les sages et les pauvres d’esprit, les religieux et les séculiers, les nobles et les roturiers, les petits et les grands,” écrit en 1260 Humbert de Romans, maître général des Frères Prêcheurs. Entièrement engagés dans l’action pastorale, mus par l’Esprit de Dieu dont ils délivrent la parole auprès des hommes, tout en menant une vie de pénitence et de renoncement, les religieux mendiants furent souvent perçus comme les prophètes du XIIIe siècle. Ils occupent en cela dans et servir Dieu et Nostre Dame, pour faire pure et nete s’ame. Voir aussi 2VP, XLVI, où l’ancien larron soutenu par Notre Dame sur le gibet décide de se consacrer à son service: “en blanche ordre m’enserrerai / et serrai ses sergans loiaus” (20765-66).

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l’imaginaire collectif une place dévolue jusque là exclusivement aux moines et surtout aux ermites. Or, c’est bien à ce même déplacement que procède, partiellement, l’auteur de 2VP: alors qu’en 1VP les ermites (et quelques cénobites) étaient les détenteurs exclusifs du charisme de la parole, la 2VP en investit également les Prêcheurs et les Mineurs, sans opérer de distinction entre les deux ordres (ce qui justifie que nous n’entrions pas dans le détail de leurs différences). Les religieux mendiants sont évoqués dans le prologue du conte XLIV23 et dans l’épilogue des contes LII et LVIII: dans ces deux textes, c’est Dieu (ou Jésus-Christ) qui envoie aux hommes les Prêcheurs et les Mineurs, exactement comme dans l’Ancien Testament, il envoyait ses prophètes au peuple d’Israël.24 Dans le conte XLVII, c’est dans le récit qu’intervient “frere Jordains,” un personnage historique, dont l’auteur précise qu’il était “li secons maistres souverains” (maître général) “de l’ordre as 23

Assez avons d’enseignement: veez l’ordre des Preecheeurs et cele des Freres Meneurs qui ne finent de sermoner por nos de noz pechiez oster. (27003-07) 24 Jhesucrist, qui tel pitiet ot de nous que tenir ne se pot que conseil m’envoiast en terre por ses creatures requerre: frere Meneur i sont venu [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] Dex nes vot pas sex envoier pour l’euvangile preechier; chiaus de saint Jaque i envoia; em pluisours liex et ça et la s’en vont pour les ames requerre, outre mer et en Engleterre. Par tout preechent penitance […]. (LII, 23754-58, 23762-68) “Il envoie preescheours, / ciax de saint Jaque et les Menors” (LVIII, 26066-67). Pas plus que celle des prophètes, la parole des Mendiants ne reçoit d’accueil favorable: Et petit sont escouté dont c’est grans diels et grans vieuté [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] mais la mauvaise acoustumance a si le siecle decheü que de verté sont peu creü […]. (LII, 23760-61, 23769-72, textes que l’on confrontera à 2 ch 24, 19; 36, 16; Jr 7,26; 25,4; 37, 1-2; etc.).

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Preecheors” (21871-72):25 celui-ci écoute la pénitente coupable d’avoir tué à leur naissance, “par le conseil a l’ennemi” (21512), les trois enfants qu’elle avait eus avec son oncle; il recueille sa confession, la réconforte (“Vostre ame est a port de salu,” 21901) et avant de l’absoudre, lui enjoint de se convertir à la vie monastique, en lui précisant dans quel ordre elle doit se “rendre”: Or alés tost, ne demourés, / dedenz religion entrés, / en Cistiax, ailleurs ne lo mie” (21902-04). Frère Jourdain tient ici un rôle que 1VP réservait exclusivement aux ermites et aux moines blancs. Se dessine ainsi en 2VP une redistribution partielle des rôles: c’est désormais principalement aux Mendiants–Prêcheurs et Mineurs–que sont confiés le ministère de la parole et la cura animarum, ce qui réduit l’importance des ermites et des moines en tant qu’adjuvants spirituels, sauf dans les contes qu’on pourrait dénommer d’antiquité. En revanche, les moines blancs conservent toute leur place dès qu’il s’agit d’accueillir ceux qui, pécheurs repentis, veulent renoncer au monde pour faire pénitence (XLVI et L). Ainsi, en XLVII, c’est un Prêcheur qui dirige vers l’ordre de Cîteaux la pénitente qui vient s’adresser à lui. Cette complémentarité mérite quelques éclaircissements. Dans un sermon destiné Ad omne genus monachorum, partant d’une étymologie erronée de monachus, Humbert de Romans donne du moine la définition suivante: “On dit moine parce que ‘monachus’ vient de ‘monos’ qui signifie unité, et ‘icos’ qui signifie garde; le moine est le gardien d’une seule chose. Il n’a ni bien, ni famille, ni soin des âmes, ni quoi que ce soit à garder […] il a seulement la garde de lui-même.” On voit dans la Vie des Pères, mais aussi dans la plupart des genres narratifs du Moyen Age, des moines cénobites et ermites s’occuper du soin des âmes, et c’est même dans ce rôle qu’ils sont le plus souvent représentés, alors même que leurs caractérisations les présentent comme des contemplatifs, et non comme des actifs, suivant les modèles distincts qu’incarnent, dans l’Evangile, Marie et Marthe. Mais si, dans leurs retraites, ils se chargent de la cura animarum, c’est habituellement en raison de leur état de perfection, qui attire à eux les gens du siècle; palliant très souvent l’absence d’un prêtre, ils acceptent avec humilité les occasions qui surviennent. Au début du XIIIe siècle, 25

Jourdain de Saxe, premier successeur de saint Dominique et auteur d’un ouvrage sur les origines de l’ordre des Prêcheurs, mourut en 1236.

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au contraire, les Mendiants s’installent parmi les hommes et placent la prédication et l’action apostolique au cœur même de leur vocation, selon la volonté de leurs fondateurs et avec l’approbation du pape. Ils sont des religieux, mais ne sont pas des moines.26 Composée vers 1230, 1VP ne pouvait encore prendre en compte ces religieux d’un type nouveau; 2VP, en revanche, qui date des années 1241-50 intègre ces nouveaux ordres qui, créés dans les années 1218-23, connurent un extraordinaire développement dans la mesure où ils répondaient à de nouvelles aspirations et à des besoins nouveaux. Mais ce second recueil n’ignore ni les ermites, qui continuent à fournir de beaux exemples, ni les moines blancs qui prennent en quelque sorte le relais des Mendiants auprès de ceux que leur parole a convertis et accompagnent jusqu’à la rédemption, dans le silence du cloître, leur itinéraire de retour à Dieu. Cette complémentarité actancielle entre les Cisterciens et les Mendiants, plus particulièrement les Prêcheurs, a des racines historiques. Dès l’apparition des courants hérétiques au XIIe siècle et jusqu’au pontificat d’Innocent III (1198-1216), les Cisterciens ont été envoyés en première ligne, mais ils étaient mal préparés à cette tâche, leur vocation étant ailleurs. Conscient des difficultés, l’évêque Foulques de Toulouse, qui était un Cistercien, demande à Dominique de Guzman de fonder un ordre de prédicateurs pour affronter les hérétiques; Dominique et ses frères vont ainsi travailler avec les Cisterciens ou sous leur autorité, une grande partie des évêchés languedociens étant occupés par des Cisterciens. Les liens entre les deux ordres ne seront jamais rompus, les Cisterciens ayant servi, pour certains aspects de leur observance et de leur organisation, de modèle aux Prêcheurs. Dans le second quart du XIIIe siècle, et malgré quelques dérives que nous avons signalées plus haut, Cîteaux pouvait apparaître comme le sommet de la vie monastique et les Prêcheurs comme le sommet de la vie apostolique. L’orientation spécifique des deux ordres, leur implantation en des lieux différents27 éloignaient le 26 Aussi la formulation de G. Bornäs qui parle des “moines mendiants” (cf. 19) doit-elle être corrigée. Voir aussi J. Morawski, “Les miracles de Notre-Dame en vers français,” Romania, 61 (1935), 145-209, p. 152, où la même erreur se lit: “l’auteur de la 2e Vie des Pères et l’auteur de la 1ère Vie étaient probablement des moines blancs, c’est-à-dire Cisterciens ou Dominicains.” 27 Les mendiants étaient implantés dans les bourgs et les villes. Les moines noirs, installés primitivement à l’écart des hommes avaient été progressivement rattrapés par

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risque de concurrence ou de jalousie, et assurait au contraire leur complémentarité et leur collaboration. C’est bien cette perception que reflète, me semble-t-il, la 2VP, qui associe toutefois aux Prêcheurs les frères Mineurs dans les discours introductifs et conclusifs de plusieurs contes. La 3VP, pour sa part, est moins explicite; (même si le conte LXV raconte une histoire qui “avint a saint François” [27896], assez répandue dans les compilations de miracles, dont notre recueil donne d’ailleurs une version appauvrie).28 La Troisième Vie semble toutefois avoir la même orientation que la seconde et même accentuer l’évolution que celle-ci présentait par rapport à la Première Vie: avec l’augmentation de la part prise par les miracles de la Vierge, les récits puisent de moins en moins dans un fonds d’histoires du temps jadis pour se référer à des événements plus récents, voire contemporains des auteurs. Corrélativement, l’œuvre intègre un nouvel espace, celui de la ville; elle prend en compte les mutations sociologiques et reflète de nouvelles préoccupations; elle est plus sensible aux attentes spirituelles de son temps. En privilégiant les modèles ascétiques fournis par les pères ermites, la Première Vie, qui émane d’un milieu cistercien, véhicule une idéologie à la fois traditionnelle de la littérature monastique et un peu décalée par rapport aux préoccupations du XIIIe siècle. L’auteur de 2VP (et peut-être celui de 3VP) était probablement proche des ordres Mendiants, sans toutefois faire partie de l’un de ces ordres, puisque dans le prologue il justifie en ces termes la traduction en roman qu’il donne des contes latins: “pour chou que il soit entendans / a nos gens laies qui l’orrons” (19271-72). Ainsi l’œuvre s’adresse désormais non plus à un public de moines, mais aux laïques, et probablement aux gens des villes; elle ne met plus l’ascèse au centre de ses préoccupations, mais insiste sur les dangers et les nouveaux vices liés à l’émergence de nouvelles conditions socio-économiques, et, en plaçant la dévotion à la mère de miséricorde au cœur de sa spiritualité, elle délivre un message d’espoir et de salut qu’elle adresse le mouvement d’urbanisation, des bourgs s’étaient développés autour ou à proximité des abbayes. De création plus récente, les Cisterciens s’établissaient dans des déserts dont la solitude ne fut jamais troublée par des mouvements de population. 28 Pendant qu’il est en oraison, François voit dans le ciel un ange qui, le visage embrasé par la colère, lance sur le monde des “brandons” “toz anbrasez conme charbons” (27919), que Notre Dame éteint en les parant. Un ange expliquera à François que la reine du ciel s’oppose ainsi au châtiment de Dieu.

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à tout le peuple chrétien. Elle s’affirme comme complémentaire de la prédication des Mendiants, et en particulier du fondateur des Prêcheurs, saint Dominique, dont on disait “qu’il avait une soif extraordinaire du salut des âmes.”

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“I kan rymes of Robyn Hood, and Randolf Erl of Chestre” or students of the early history of the Robin Hood legend one of the most significant dates is the year 1377 (or shortly thereafter). At this time William Langland completed the B-Text of his Piers Plowman, in which the character named Sloth, a drunken priest, makes the following statement: “I kan noght parfitly my Paternoster as the preest it syngeth, / But I kan rymes of Robyn Hood, and Randolf Erl of Chestre, / Ac neither of Oure Lord ne of Oure Lady the leeste that evere was maked” (Passus V, 395-97).1 This is the first reference in a literary text to the name Robin Hood, and Langland’s statement thus provides indisputable evidence that rhymed tales of Robin Hood were known by the last quarter of the fourteenth century. By that time they were clearly a sufficiently familiar and important element of English culture to be selected by Langland as convincing examples of popular tales, as opposed to strictly Christian material. This allusion to Robin Hood, although both significant and intriguing, is not in itself entirely surprising. Although the earliest extant ballads of Robin Hood date from the fifteenth century, the legend of Robin Hood could by then have been around for some time. But the reference in Piers Plowman to Earl Ranulf of Chester does come as a surprise. Why is he mentioned and why is he associated with Robin Hood? Indeed, but for this reference, it is unlikely that Ranulf would ever have been thought of by modern scholars as a popular hero. Sloth’s pronouncement raises a number of issues. Are we to understand that Robin Hood and the earl of Chester are being placed on an equal footing, as protagonists of popular yarns of a distinctly secular nature? (we do not, of course, know how well Robin Hood was established as a popular hero in Langland’s day). Is Langland alluding 1 William Langland, The Vision of Piers Plowman: A Critical Edition of the B-Text Based on Trinity College Cambridge MS B.15.17 with Selected Variant Readings, an Introduction, Glosses, and a Textual and Literary Commentary, ed. A. V. C. Schmidt (London: Dent, Everyman’s Library, 1978; new ed. 1987). Schmidt dates the B text to the period “between about 1377 and 1379" (p. xvi).

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to two independent traditions, one relating to Robin Hood and the other to Ranulf of Chester, or is the reference to a single tale, or set of tales, in which Robin and Ranulf are both present?2 Did Ranulf become a popular hero in the same way as Robin Hood, because he opposed authority? (we do not in fact know precisely how the medieval Robin Hood became an outlaw). How should we interpret the term rymes? As a reference to ballads (such as the later Robin Hood ballads), or to some other verse form, perhaps even to what we would now call a romance?3 Were the tales referred to by Sloth of entirely oral provenance, or did they also exist in written form? Is the material on Robin and Ranulf purely popular, or were these heroes celebrated in tales also intended for an aristocratic audience? In his edition of Piers Plowman J.A.W. Bennett tells us that Ranulf of Chester was a “popular hero.”4 A.V.C. Schmidt, in his translation of the B-Text in the World’s Classics series, states that Ranulf was “another popular hero,” presumably to indicate that Robin Hood should also be placed in this category.5 Such a view of Ranulf requires us to assume that, although Langland correctly awards him the title of earl, he had in some way acquired heroic status amongst a much wider public than merely his fellow nobles. The question we must ask is: whatever the nature of Ranulf’s popularity, what had he done to 2

Whatever the answer to these questions, we need to be aware that, in choosing the names Robin and Randolf, Langland was probably seeking alliteration with the r of rymes. 3 MS F of Piers Plowman (Oxford, Corpus Christi College 201) has romaunces as a variant for rymes. See G. Kane and E. T. Donaldson, Piers Plowman: The B Version, 2 vols. (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1988; rev. ed. London: Athlone Press), vol. I, p. 331. J. Horace Round suggested that the term rymes could refer to a chanson de geste (Peerage and Pedigree: Studies in Peerage Law and Family History, 2 vols. [London: Nisbet, 1910], vol. II, p. 301). 4 Piers Plowman: The Prologue and Passus I-VII of the B Text as found in Bodleian MS. Laud Misc. 581 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), p. 177. 5 William Langland, Piers Plowman: A New Translation of the B-Text (Oxford and New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1992), p. 318. Schmidt adds that the reference to Ranulf and to Robin Hood “suggests that Sloth was a devotee of minstrels in taverns, where such stories were recited” (p. 275). In his translation Schmidt translates rymes as “ballads”’ (p. 55). It is translated as “poems, ballads” by Tomonori Matsushita, whose concordance shows that this is the only example of the term in this version (A Glossarial Concordance to William Langland’s The Vision of Piers Plowman, the B Text, 2 vols. [New York, etc.: Olms Weidmann, 1998-], vol. I, pt. 2, p. 783). Langland does not use the term roma(u)nce in the B version.

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deserve it? Initially, however, this issue has to be linked to a fundamental question: to which Ranulf of Chester was Langland referring? Bennett, Schmidt and earlier editors inform us that the Ranulf concerned is Ranulf III, one of the most powerful figures of the thirteenth century.6 This identification goes back at least as far as Joseph Ritson’s Ancient Songs and Ballads from the Reign of King Henry the Second to the Revolution.7 What then are the principal facts relating to the life of this particular Ranulf? These are conveniently summarized for us in The Complete Peerage. Ranulf III was born in 1172, became earl in 1181 and lived until 1232. In 1187-88 he was knighted at Caen by King Henry II. From 1189 until his divorce in 1199 he styled himself duke of Richmond through his wife Constance, widow of Geoffrey, earl of Richmond. In 1194 he was commander of the forces of Richard I, Lionheart, and at Richard’s second coronation on 17 April 1194 he carried the “Curtana” (one of the three swords of State). His second marriage took place on 7 October 1200 to Clemence (Clemencia), widow of Alan de Dinan. From 1209 to 1214 he engaged in warfare with the Welsh. He was faithful to King John against the rebellious barons, being one of the few witnesses, ex parte regis, to the charter of 15 June 1215, in which year he held a number of important positions: governor of Newcastle-under-Lyme, governor of the Peak castle and forest, custos of the fief of the great earldom of Leicester, sheriff of the counties of Lancaster, Stafford and Salop and steward of the honour of Lancaster, etc. At John’s death on 19 October 1216 he was one of the executors of his will, and he was one of the most zealous supporters of the young king, Henry III. When joint commander of the royal army in April 1217 he contributed significantly to the defeat of the rebels under 6 Maurice Powicke refers to him as “the greatest baron of the realm” (The Thirteenth Century 1216-1307 [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1953; 2nd ed. 1962], p. 2). Ranulf’s territories were a palatinate and even the king’s writ did not operate within them. 7 (London: Reeves and Turner, 1790; 2nd ed. 1829; 3rd ed., rev. by W.C. Hazlitt, 1877), p. xl. Ritson rejects an earlier identification as Ranulf Higden and he describes Ranulf III as “a generous, martial baron, and a crusader.” For another early comment on the passage from Langland see Thomas Percy, Reliques of Ancient English Poetry Consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and Other Pieces of our Earlier Poets, 3 vols. (New York: Dover Publications, 1966), vol. I, pp. 362-63 (this reprint is based on the 1886 edition [New York: Sonneschein, Lebas and Lowrey]).

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the count of Perche. On 23 May 1217 he was created earl of Lincoln, an earldom to which he probably considered he had some claim. He took the cross on 4 March 1215, but did not leave for the Holy Land until May 1218. During this Crusade he distinguished himself at the siege of Damietta. He returned to England in August 1220, at which time he began the building of Beeston Castle in the county of Chester and also of Chartley Castle and the abbey of Dieulacres, both in the county of Stafford. His rival, Hubert de Burgh, was then Regent of England. At this period of his life Ranulf appears to have “taken the part of the disaffected” and was required to surrender his castles, which after some resistance he did in 1223. In April 1229 he opposed in Parliament the grant of a tenth to the Pope and absolutely forbade its collection in his own domain. From October 1230 to July 1231 he was chief commander of the royal troops in Brittany and in June 1231 was a joint commissioner to treat with France. Between April 1231 and his death he resigned the earldom of Lincoln and it passed to his sister Hawise, to whose son-in-law, John de Lacy, it was confirmed on 22 November 1232. Ranulf died in Wallingford on 28 October 1232. He was buried at St Werberg’s, Chester, but his heart was interred at Dieulacres Abbey. Are the ingredients for popular heroism to be found within these or any other facts relating to the life of Ranulf III? The facts certainly indicate that he was a man of exceptional power and influence, one no doubt known throughout the realm. Such indeed was his importance that he has become the subject an entire book, James W. Alexander’s Ranulf of Chester: A Relic of the Conquest.8 One can surely look to Alexander to provide the missing details which will establish the way in which the known facts of the real Ranulf III of Chester were transformed into a legendary Ranulf, hero of popular tales.

8

(Athens, GA: Univ. of Georgia Press, 1983). For further information on Ranulf III see the entry in The Dictionary of National Biography (art. Blundevill, Randulph de, II, pp. 729-33) and Brian E. Harris, “Ranulf III, Earl of Chester,” Journal of the Chester Archaeological Society, 58 (1975), 99-114. The three Ranulfs are also discussed in George Ormerod, The History of the County Palatine and City of Chester, 3 vols. (London: Lackington, 1819; 2nd ed. London: Routledge, 1875-82), vol. I, pp. 18-19, 20-26, 33-41, and in B. M. C. Husain, Cheshire under the Norman Earls 10661237 (Chester: Cheshire Community Council, 1973), pp. 86-93 et passim.

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It comes therefore as something of a shock to discover that Alexander does not consider that Langland’s “Randolf Erl of Chestre” was Ranulf III: “Perhaps the ballads of which he is generally assumed to have been the hero have their modern semifictional counterparts, but I believe he was not in fact the hero of the ballad to which William Langland refers in Piers Plowman” (p. 1). Alexander concludes his study of Ranulf III by stating that he “did not capture the popular imagination” (p. 101). His overall view of Ranulf is of “a man lacking dash and glamour,” someone who “seems to have had no ideology but a pragmatic conservatism” (ibid.). He rejects the identification of Ranulf III as Langland’s Erl Randolf partly on the grounds that there is no specific evidence that Ranulf III became a popular hero and partly because Langland’s hero in his view was, like Robin Hood, an outlaw (and Ranulf III was decidedly not an outcast from society). Alexander was convinced that there was an alternative identification, and shortly before the appearance of his book on Ranulf III he published an article which, in spite of its title (“Ranulf III of Chester: An Outlaw of Legend?”) makes out the case for Ranulf II, grandfather of Ranulf III.9 Of one thing we can be certain: the Ranulf concerned could not be later than Ranulf III, as there were no further Ranulfs of Chester; on the death of Ranulf III the earldom of Chester passed to his nephew, John le Scot; he died heirless in 1237 and the earldom was annexed by the Crown in 1246 (currently the earl of Chester is Charles, Prince of Wales).10 What, if any, are the credentials of Ranulf I or Ranulf II as possible Erl Randolfs?

9 Neuphilologische Mitteilungen, 83 (1982), 152-57. In his 1856 edition of Piers Plowman Thomas Wright cites Ritson’s identification of Langland’s Randolf as Ranulf III and states: “I am not sure that Ritson is right […] it is quite possible that he was the Ranulf of Chester of the days of Stephen, whose turbulent deeds may have been the subject of popular ballads” (The Vision and Creed of Piers Ploughman, 2 vols. [London: Russell; 2nd rev. ed. 1856], vol. II, p. 521). In his 1886 edition of Piers Plowman W. W. Skeat also suggested that the Ranulf concerned could be Ranulf II, but he adds that “the reference is rather […] to his grandson of the same name” (The Vision of William Concerning Piers the Plowman in Three Parallel Texts, 2 vols. [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1886], vol. II, pp. 94-95; in this edition the lines concerning Robin Hood and Ranulf of Chester are found in vol. 1, p. 167, Passus VIII, ll. 10-12). 10 See R. Stewart-Brown, “The End of the Norman Earldom of Chester,” English Historical Review, 35 (1920), 26-54.

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Ranulf I (known as Ranulf le Meschin or de Briquessart) was earl of Chester between 1121 and 1129. The Complete Peerage offers only a single comment on his activities: in 1124 he was commander of the royal forces in Normandy.11 One can add that through his wife Lucy of Bolingbroke, heir to great estates in Lincolnshire, Ranulf I extended his already considerable land holdings and acquired what A. T. Thacker describes as “a base from which to pursue the domination of that prosperous and well-populated county.”12 But there is clearly nothing in the life of this Ranulf which would suggest that he might have become a popular hero, one who could be mentioned in the same breath as Robin Hood.13 Ranulf II (known as de Gernons) is somewhat more promising. The Complete Peerage tells us that “he distinguished himself as a soldier both on the side of the Empress Maud and on that of King Stephen, with the greatest impartiality.” This Ranulf did enter into conflict with his king, in his case King Stephen. In 1136 he was deprived of his lands in Carlisle by Stephen, who gave them to David of Scotland; on hearing this, Ranulf left the king’s court in a rage. Stephen baulked Ranulf’s ambitions in the Midlands and then in 1139 granted to William d’Aubigny the earldom of Lincoln, which was claimed by Ranulf’s half-brother William de Roumare. The half-brothers revolted in 1140 and captured Lincoln Castle by deceit. Stephen in turn tried to use deceitful means to capture them. But Ranulf escaped and allied himself with Robert of Gloucester, leader of the Angevin cause. In 1141 Robert and Ranulf led the forces which defeated Stephen’s army at Lincoln and they succeeded in capturing the king. Nevertheless, 11 Ranulf I was cousin of the preceding earl, Richard (1101-20). Ranulf married Lucy, daughter of Roger Fitz Gerold, and she became the mother of William of Roumare, later earl of Lincoln. Lincoln was to become an important location in the history of the earls of Chester. 12 A. T. Thacker, “The Earls and their Earldom,” in The Earldom of Chester and its Charters: A Tribute to Geoffrey Barraclough, ed. A. T. Thacker, Journal of the Chester Archaeological Society, 71 (1991), pp. 7-21 (p. 11). 13 One wonders whether J. Horace Round is not a little harsh on Ranulf I when he writes in The Dictionary of National Biography: “He is chiefly remarkable for the confusion that prevailed as to his name, his titles, and his wife” (XVI, p. 727). Round adds that: “His career as earl of Chester seems to have been uneventful, save that in 1123 he was sent over with the earl of Gloucester to secure the safety of Normandy” (p. 728).

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relations between Stephen and Ranulf improved, until in 1146 the king arrested Ranulf treacherously. He was later released, but he rebelled again. He then allied himself with Henry of Anjou (the future Henry II), now leader of the opposition to Stephen; for his support Ranulf received extensive holdings in the Treaty of Devizes. Ranulf II died in 1153, reportedly poisoned by William Peverel of Nottingham, possibly assisted by his own wife (pp. 156-57).14 Unfortunately, there is also absolutely no evidence that Ranulf II ever became a popular hero. Alexander’s case for Ranulf II rests on three main points: (i) like Robin Hood, he died by poisoning, (ii) having patronized Cistercian and Savigniac houses generously, he may have been seen as devoted to the people, (iii) as a victim of injustice and treachery, he rebelled against “arbitrary treatment from his shifty monarch” (p. 157).15 The first of these arguments seems extremely tenuous: it is not clear whether Robin’s death was a feature of the medieval tradition, and he did not die by poisoning but by being bled to death.16 On the second point, it is difficult to see how support for 14

For further information on Ranulf II see H.A. Cronne, “Ranulf de Gernons, Earl of Chester, 1129-1154,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 4th series, 20 (1937), 103-34, R. H. C. Davis, “King Stephen and the Earl of Chester Revised,” English Historical Review, 75 (1960), 645-60, J. H. Round, “King Stephen and the Earl of Chester,” English Historical Review, 10 (1895), 87-91, and the article by James Alexander cited in note 9. On Ranulf II and Lincoln see E. M. Sympson, Lincoln: A Historical and Topographical Account of the City (London: Methuen, 1906), pp. 5764, and P. Dalton, “Aiming at the Impossible: Ranulf II Earl of Chester and Lincolnshire in the Reign of King Stephen,” in The Earldom of Chester and its Charters, pp. 109-34. On the relations between Ranulf II and Stephen see H.A. Cronne, The Reign of King Stephen 1135-54: Anarchy in England (London; Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1970), pp. 42-43, 56-57, 103-08 et passim. 15 Dalton points out that Ranulf II “made a considerable splash in the pages of several contemporary, or near contemporary chronicles” (p. 109). Henry of Huntingdon puts into the mouth of Baldwin Fitz Gilbert at the battle of Lincoln a description of Ranulf’s character which Alexander could perhaps have quoted in support of his argument: “A man of reckless audacity, ready for a plot, not to be depended on in carrying it out, prepared to rush to war, careless of danger, with designs beyond his power, aiming at impossibilities” (Historia Anglorum, ed. T. Arnold [London: Rolls Series, 1879], p. 272). There are elements here which could possibly have turned him into a legendary figure. 16 Reference to the death of Robin is found in A Gest of Robyn Hode, which is first attested in printed form early in the first half of the sixteenth century (see Stephen Knight and Thomas Ohlgren, Robin Hood and Other Outlaw Tales [Kalamazoo, Michigan: TEAMS, 2000], p. 80).

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religious houses would turn Ranulf II into a popular hero about whom exciting tales are told. Moreover, the medieval Robin Hood seems not to have been as devoted to the people as Alexander suggests. The third point demands greater attention, and Ranulf’s rebellious activities from the 1130s and 1140s are certainly of interest. But were they sufficient to create a popular hero who was remembered and admired in the last quarter of the fourteenth century, without any trace of this legendary status having come down to us? Is it likely that memories of the deeds of Ranulf II would have totally superseded in the popular imagination those of his much more powerful grandson Ranulf III? We also have to question whether it is necessary for Langland’s Randolf to be a Robin Hood style outlaw, and also whether the medieval Robin Hood did rebel against arbitrary treatment from his monarch, as Alexander states. But one thing the life of Ranulf II does show is that rebellion against, followed by reconciliation with, royal authority in England has a long tradition. In this article I wish to look again at the evidence, however slender, which might lead us to decide that Ranulf III was indeed the personage intended by Langland. If he is the man intended, it is a fair assumption that texts in which he played an important, or a starring role have been lost. Thus, a convenient starting point is R. M. Wilson’s book The Lost Literature of Medieval England.17 Wilson does indeed comment on the Piers Plowman reference, stating that “some of the rhymes of Robin Hood remain, but those of Randolf, earl of Chester, have been completely lost.” The “rhymes” of Robin Hood only remain, of course, from a period seventy-five years or more after the date of Langland’s text and in the form of ballads. We have no evidence that in Langland’s day there were any written rhymes of either Robin or Ranulf. Wilson cites Round, who some years earlier had mentioned the general belief, based on the Piers Plowman reference, that Ranulf had been “the subject of a ballad-cycle” (II, p. 260). Whether or not any rhymes of Ranulf of Chester were ever set down in written form, there is a certain amount of evidence that Ranulf III of Chester was remembered after his death. There can be little doubt, for example, that the Erl of Chestre mentioned in the Middle English lay 17

London: Methuen, 1952, 2nd ed. 1970, p. 117. In his article cited above Alexander mentions Wilson’s book (p. 152, n. 3), but does not comment on it.

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Sir Launfal is Ranulf III. In this poem Launfal attends a tournament at which he defeats in succession the constable of Caerleon, the earl of Chester and several Welsh knights: The Erl of Chestre therof segh; For wrethe yn herte he was wod negh, And rood to Syr Launfale, And smot hym yn the helm on hegh That the crest adoun flegh– Thus seyd the Frenssch tale; Llaunfal was mochel of myght; Of hys stede he ded yn the dale. Than come there Syr Launfal abowte Of the Walssche knyghtes a greet rowte, The number Y not know how fale. (469-80) 18

The information on the fight between Launfal and the earl is said here to have come from “the Frenssch tale” (474). There is, however, no sign of the earl in the author’s main source, the lay of Lanval by Marie de France, or in other sources such as the anonymous lay of Graelent or the earlier Middle English Lay, Sir Landevale. In fact, neither Lanval nor Graelent contains a tournament scene, so the reference to the earl fighting Launfal on such an occasion must come from a lost, or as yet unidentified French text, or it must be an invention by the English poet. In his edition of Sir Launfal, A. J. Bliss dates the text to the “very end” of the fourteenth century (p. 15), which would indicate that it was composed some fifteen to twenty years after the B-Text of Piers Plowman. Whatever his source, Thomas Chestre must have expected his late fourteenth-century audience to know of a valiant Erl of Chestre, in spite of the fact that the last non-royal holder of this title died in 1237. The intended audience for Sir Launfal seemingly fits in with the one Langland had in mind. Bliss considers it to be a much less elegant and psychologically subtle work than Marie’s Lanval. It was, he states, like other tail-rhyme romances, “meant for simpler, less

18 Ed. Thomas C. Rumble, in The Breton Lays in Middle English (Detroit: Wayne State Univ. Press, 1965), pp. 3-42. See also Thomas Chestre, Sir Launfal, ed. A. J. Bliss (London and Edinburgh: Thomas Nelson, 1960).

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sensitive listeners in market-square or inn-yard.”19 Within the text, the earl of Chester, although defeated, is presumably intended to serve as a good chivalric opponent for Launfal. We can also note that the earl is associated with Welsh knights, as was the real Ranulf III of Chester. As far as I am aware, there is only one extant literary text in French in which Ranulf of Chester appears: the prose romance Fouke le Fitz Waryn.20 In this case the Ranulf concerned has to be Ranulf III, as he associated specifically with King John’s attempt to capture the outlaw Fouke Fitz Waryn III, whose outlawry spanned the period 1200-03. One notices immediately that Ranulf III is here associated with a genuine outlaw, indeed with one whose legend has indisputably an important role to play in the Robin Hood legend. The only complete version of the Fouke romance is an Anglo-Norman prose version dating from the 1330s.21 Ranulf appears in this text when Fouke has broken with King John over the possession of Whittington Castle in Shropshire and become an outlaw. At one point during the fruitless, and often humorous efforts made by King John to capture Fouke, Sir James of Normandy states that most of the nobles sent by King John to capture Fouke are his cousins, and therefore traitors to the king as they are insufficiently committed to catching him. The personage into whose mouth the author places a reply to this accusation is Ranulf of Chester: “Upon my word, lord knight, saving the honour of our lord the king, but not yours, this is a lie” (p. 50, ll. 19-21). But for the presence of the Earl Marshal, Ranulf would have tried to strike Sir James with his fist. Ranulf insists that he and the other pursuers are 19 Bliss also links Sir Launfal to two other popular texts: the lay of Havelok and the tale of Gamelyn. In his view each tale was related “entirely in terms of the experience and desires of its peasant audience” (p. 42). The author names himself in verse 1039, but nothing further is known of him (Bliss, p. 12). 20 Fouke le Fitz Waryn, ed. E. J. Hathaway, P. T. Ricketts, C. A. Robson and A. D. Wilshire, Anglo-Norman Text Society (Oxford: Blackwell, 1975). For a translation of this text and further details concerning the life of the real Fouke Fitz Waryn III and his family see my Two Medieval Outlaws: Eustace the Monk and Fouke Fitz Waryn (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1997). 21 This prose version, preserved in only one manuscript, British Library, Royal 12. C.xii, was composed between 1321 and 1340. The scribe who copied and compiled Royal 12 also compiled the famous Harley 2253 manuscript, containing amongst many other items the famous Harley Lyrics; moreover, this man is now thought to have been the author of the prose version of Fouke le Fitz Waryn. See the AngloNorman Text Society edition, pp. xxxvii-xliv.

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not, and have never been, traitors to the king or his people, but he agrees that the nobles and the king himself were indeed cousins of Fouke. The Earl Marshal responds, saying: “Let us get after Sir Fouke! Then the king will see who will be fainthearted because of kinship” (p. 50, ll. 25-26). In spite of his best efforts, Sir James fails to capture Fouke, so Ranulf himself tries his hand. But, instead of trying to capture or kill Fouke immediately, he takes him aside and urges him to surrender to the king, offering to act as surety for him and to ensure that he is fully reconciled with the king. Addressing him as “my lord cousin” (thus making Ranulf the cousin of a genuine outlaw!), Fouke refuses this, but asks him to take care of his wounded brother William. Ranulf returns to his company in tears. Then he and his men launch an attack on Fouke. Ranulf himself attacks Fouke and loses his horse and a large part of his company. Fouke escapes, but although Ranulf has lost a large number of men he takes Fouke’s brother William to an abbey to be cared for. When King John learns of this, he is furious with Ranulf for concealing William, which he sees as an act of treachery. Ranulf thus plays an important part in a very effective scene, one which involves the major feudal and literary themes of loyalty and treachery. He manages to steer a course between outright loyalty to his cousin and outright loyalty to the king. Loyalty to his king, even when he knew him to be in the wrong, was the real Ranulf of Chester’s guiding principle: “He seems to have had no dominating principle but loyalty to his sovereign, whoever he might be, and no matter how unworthy of Ranulf’s devotion” (Alexander, p. 102). Moreover, as in Sir Launfal, when Ranulf enters into combat with Fouke and his men, he is a doughty opponent for the hero, whose reputation in the eyes of the reader/listener is thus enhanced by the outcome of the fight. Such a view of Ranulf’s prowess tallies with what we know of the real Ranulf III. Alexander describes him as “a man of great physical and mental courage” and as a “great and grave knight” (p. 102). When he comments on the actions of Ranulf in Fouke le Fitz Waryn, Alexander states that they are entirely realistic and plausible (p. 12). But there is a problem: “Chronology makes Ranulf’s supposed role in the affair impossible” (ibid.). For the real Ranulf left England in the early summer of 1199 and did not return until 1204 (except for a brief period in early 1201). So what has happened therefore is that the author of Fouke le Fitz Waryn has invented the actions and attitudes of Ranulf of

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Chester and thus either created or exploited a legendary Ranulf. When the verse text was composed, around 1260, memories of the real Ranulf were no doubt still real to the some members of the author’s public. For the prose author in the 1330s this was not so, but it seems reasonable to assume that Ranulf was now a genuine legendary character who would have been recognized as such by the target audience. Both the verse and the prose texts use elements from the real Ranulf’s life to create a convincing literary character and they have captured the spirit of loyalty and fairness which were the marks of the real Ranulf III. This leads us to ask an important question. Did the sympathy Ranulf shows for a real outlaw figure in the Fouke romance lead in some way to Ranulf’s inclusion in other such tales, even to Ranulf himself becoming the hero of a romance? In other words, is the Fouke romance the link between Ranulf III and the Robin Hood tradition as attested in Piers Plowman? Later in Fouke le Fitz Waryn the king finally agrees to pardon Fouke. When Hubert, Archbishop of Canterbury, hears this, he immediately sends letters to the earl of Gloucester, to Ranulf of Chester and to the Earl Marshal (Hugh Bigot), telling them to come to Canterbury. On their arrival they agree that Fouke should surrender to the king, which duly happens. After his pardon, Fouke immediately joins forces with Ranulf of Chester, who is preparing a large army to go to Ireland. Fouke helps the earl pacify and conquer lands in Ireland and restore order to them. He does so by cutting off the head of a “hideous, black and horrible” giant who almost succeeds in killing him (58, 15-38). Again the author has created an imaginary episode in the life of both Ranulf and Fouke, and once more he has chosen Ranulf to be the companion who assists Fouke in his rehabilitation as a successful warrior, now acting within not outside society. The killing of the giant in Ireland, we should note, provides a link between Ranulf III and a legendary event. We know that in reality the instigators of Fouke’s pardon were Jean de Grey, bishop of Norwich, and William, earl of Salisbury. So why did the author, or those who provided him with his source material, decide to create a role for Ranulf at three stages of Fouke’s outlawry, (i) the attempt to capture him, (ii) the pardon, and (iii) the aftermath of the pardon? There was clearly a desire to provide Fouke, a minor nobleman from Shropshire, with the support of a man of great authority in the country, whom he could even claim as a cousin

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(although there is no evidence for this relationship). At the time the romance was composed, around 1260, Ranulf presumably still had a reputation as a man who had been loyal to the king, but he may also have been remembered as someone who had been concerned with justice and who had not been willing to follow his king’s orders blindly. The author of the Fouke romance might also have been aware of the fact that Ranulf III’s grandfather, Ranulf II, at some stage rebelled against King Stephen and also that Ranulf II, like the Fitz Waryn family, supported the cause of Matilda during the civil war. In the romance Ranulf’s ambivalent attitude towards Fouke’s rebellion and his support for his pardon could be seen as natural extensions of Ranulf III’s character and family history. The extant Fouke le Fitz Waryn is an Anglo-Norman prose romance, but we also know that there was at some stage an English verse romance. This is now lost, but we have a summary of a substantial part of it by the sixteenth-century antiquary John Leland.22 Because of a problem with missing quires in the English version Leland was forced to turn at one point to the French verse romance to complete his account (thereby confirming that this version was still available in England in the sixteenth century). The section dealing with Fouke’s pardon comes from the French verse romance and, interestingly, in Leland’s adaptation of it, he attributes to Ranulf of Chester a more important role than in the Anglo-Norman prose version: “[Fouke] found means to have John’s pardon, good will, and restitution of Whittington, and also pardon for his brethren by the means of Randolf, earl of Chester, the earl of Gloucester, Hugh Bigot, Earl Marshal, and Hubert Archbishop of Canterbury.” In this version Ranulf’s role is enhanced from adviser to instigator. Leland also confirms that after the pardon Fouke accompanied Ranulf to Ireland: “Then went forthe Fulco on warfare with Randol counte of Chestre into Ireland, and there did noble feates.” 22 “The Gestes of Guarine and his Sunnes,” in Johannis Lelandi antiquarii de rebus britannicis collectanea, ed. Thomas Hearne, 6 vols. (Oxford: E Theatro Sheldoniano, 1715; 2nd ed. London: G. and J. Richardson, 1770; 3rd ed. London: Benjamin White, 1774; rpt. of the 1774 ed. Farnborough, Hants: Gregg International, 1970),vol. I, pp. 230-37. Leland’s summary is printed by Francisque Michel in his edition of Fouke le Fitz Waryn (Paris: Silvestre, 1840), pp. 101-12, and by Louis Brandon, “Nouvelles Recherches sur Fouke FitzWaryn,” Romania, 55 (1929), 17-44 (pp. 26-32).

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The date of composition of the English verse romance concerning Fouke Fitz Waryn III is unknown. But if the deeds of a now legendary Fouke had some contemporaneity in the 1320s and 1330s, thus creating a climate in which there was call for the original verse text to be put into prose, it may not be unrealistic to think that the English verse romance was also composed at about this time. Langland, who had West Midlands connections,23 could have taken an interest in the activities of an outlaw from Whittington, Shropshire, and he may have had access either to a French or an English version of the story. But in Langland’s day, whatever Fouke’s contribution to the legend, it may have been the name of Robin Hood which was on people’s lips as the outlaw of popular tales. Langland may have used this name and coupled it with the name of the prestigious Randolf Erl of Chestre, which he retained from the Fouke romance.24 Whatever the truth, it is clear that by the second half of the thirteenth century there was a tradition, however localized, and however lacking in historical basis, linking Ranulf to outlawry in the person of Fouke Fitz Waryn III, just as Ranulf III was linked to rebellion via his own grandfather, Ranulf II. This tradition was still alive in the 1330s, probably by then in two languages, and it was still known in the sixteenth century when Leland thought the story of Fouke’s outlawry worth summarizing. Brian Harris, in his article on Ranulf III cited above (n. 8), states that legends had begun to “accumulate” around Ranulf’s name within two centuries of his death. Hard as they are to track down, Harris mentions an interesting, yet neglected source of information concerning these legends: the annals of Dieulacres Abbey near Leek, where, as we have seen, Ranulf’s heart was buried.25 These annals, 23

Skeat states that of the hamlets named Langley the poet’s name may come either from the Shropshire one or the Oxfordshire one, “since the family seems to have removed from one to the other” (vol. II, p. xxi). 24 Leland uses the form Randol, calling him “Randol Erle of Chester” twice and “Randol Count of Chestre” once. The Anglo-Norman text calls him “Rondulf, le counte de Cestre” (50, 19; 51, 39; 57, 38) or “Rondulf de Cestre” (58, 16). 25 Dieulacres Abbey began life at Poulton, three and a half miles south of Chester, and was transferred to the site neer Leek by Ranulf III in 1214. The abbey became one of the most powerful in England and was no stranger to legends itself, particularly those associated with one of its endowments, Ludchurch, which acquired in R. W. Elliott’s words “grim associations with Lollards, outlaws in hiding, a tall man in Lincoln green, the shooting of a young maiden, and other disconcerting tales” (The

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written in Latin, date in their present form from the early fifteenth century. They remain unpublished in their entirety, but extracts in English with accompanying commentary have been published by Geoffrey Barraclough.26 The Dieulacres annals contain, for example, the earliest known reference to Ranulf’s participation with Richard I on the Third Crusade;27 we are told that on the journey home Ranulf was captured by the duke of Austria along with Richard, but he managed to escape (p. 21). Barraclough does not reject out of hand Ranulf’s historically unattested participation in the Third Crusade, but he states that it is “difficult to reconcile with other information about him at this time.” He suggests that the source of this story could be a lost lay or ballad, of which Ranulf was the hero, which brings us back to the lost rhymes of Wilson and others as the source of Langland’s reference to Randolf Erl of Chestre. The foundation of the abbey of Dieulacres is attributed in the annals to a vision in which Ranulf III is confronted by his grandfather, Ranulf II, who says to him: “Go to Cholpesdale, which is in the territory of Leek, and found an abbey of the order of white monks in that place where once upon a time a certain chapel was erected in honour of the blessed Virgin Mary, and restore it with buildings and enlarge it with possessions. And it will be a joy to you and to many others, who will gain salvation through that place. There a ladder ought to be raised by which angels, descending and ascending, will offer to God the prayers and wishes of men, and will bring back grace. And the name of the lord shall be invoked in that place by assiduous prayer. And this shall be a sign to you of those things which I declare; lo and behold the lord pope will place an interdict on Christianity in England, and you meanwhile will go to the monks of Poulton, whose abbey Robert my butler founded in my name, and here you will receive the holy sacraments; for they have a privilege allowing them to administer these to their founders. And in the seventh year of the interdict you will transfer those same monks to the place I have foretold.” When Earl Ranulf recounted this to Countess Clemencia and indicated that he wished to construct a monastery in the same place, she replied as follows in

Gawain Country [Leeds: School of English, University of Leeds, 1984], pp. 50-51). Elliott explores the link between Dieulacres Abbey and the composition of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. 26 In The Cheshire Sheaf, 3rd series, 52 (1957), 17-27. References will be to page numbers in this publication. 27 Harris actually says it is the only source, but see the discussion of the “Earles off Chester” poem below.

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French: “Deus encres.” And the earl, rejoicing in her words, said: “This shall be the name of the place–Deulencres.” (p. 21)28

The annals emphasize the important role played by Ranulf III in raising the young Henry III to the kingship of England and in the capture of Lincoln in 1217: “For Ranulf Earl of Chester soon took Lincoln (in the war) against Louis (of France), killing many Frenchmen there” (p. 22). Another story concerns the Fifth Crusade. At Damietta Ranulf is said to have “exercised command of the Christians gloriously” (p. 23). On his return in 1220 he was saved from shipwreck, seemingly as a result of the prayers of his monks. One night the ship was endangered by a storm and Ranulf asked the sailors how long it was until midnight; they replied that it was almost two hours. He told them to continue to strive, saying: “I trust in God that you will have help and that the tempest will cease.” As midnight approached, they told him that the storm was worsening and they could labour no more. The earl then started to help them with the rigging and other tasks and the waves soon fell and the storm ceased. The next day, when asked why he would not help until midnight, Ranulf told the pilot that at that time his monks rose and began to chant divine service, which gave him new strength to help and also confidence that God would cause the storm to cease (ibid.).29 The annals also state that on his death Ranulf’s spirit was saved from hell. When he died, a crowd of people hurried past the cell of a hermit near Wallingford and he asked them where they were going. “We are demons,” one of them replied, “and are going to the death of Earl Ranulf to accuse him of his sins.” The story continues: “The demon thereupon swore that he would return within thirty days and would tell the hermit what happened to Earl Ranulf. On his return he said: “We went there because Earl Ranulf had been judged for his ill-deeds. But the hounds (molosi) of Dieulacres and many more dogs with them set up so continuous a barking and filled our habitation with so great a noise, when we were at home, that our prince was annoyed and ordered him to be expelled from our charge. Now he has become our great adversary, because he shared the 28

See William Dugdale, The Baronage of England, 2 vols. in 1 (London: Tho. Newcomb, 1675-76), vol. I, p. 43. 29 This story is found in William Dugdale’s Monasticon Anglicanum, ed. J. Caley, H. Ellis and B. Bandinel, 6 vols. (1846; London: Longman, Hurst etc., 1817-30), vol. V, p. 628 (the Monasticon was published in Latin, 1655-73, and in English, 1693). It is also contained in Dugdale, The Baronage of England, vol. I, pp. 44-45.

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prayers offered up on his behalf with others, and so freed many souls from the infernal regions.” (p. 25)30

It is easy to imagine why the author of the Dieulacres annals would want to glorify the deeds of the abbey’s founder. But are there any events in the life of Ranulf III which might have led to his popularity with the general public, before and after his death, and thus been the catalyst for legendary status? We have seen that The Complete Peerage mentioned that he took the part of the “disaffected,” and in his edition of Piers Plowman J. A. W. Bennett explains Langland’s reference to Ranulf of Chester by stating that he “became a popular hero by (sometimes) resisting unjust taxation” (p. 177). This is indeed the case, and Alexander confirms that Ranulf “led opposition to constituted authority” (p. 95). In the spring of 1229 Ranulf was successful in protecting his Cheshire clergy when the papacy laid a tax of a tenth to help finance the war with the emperor, Frederick II.31 Alexander states that Ranulf, who refused to allow the “papal gleaners” into his home county, seems to have regarded this tax as “depredation” (p. 95). Earlier, in 1227, Ranulf had shown independence of spirit when he led the magnates of England who sided with King Henry III’s younger brother, Earl Richard of Cornwall, in a dispute over a manor; as a result of their intervention, Henry was forced to back down (p. 94). Ranulf illustrated his willingness to oppose authority when in 1232, at a meeting of the great council, he spoke against the fortieth which the king wished to levy from both clergy and laity.32 The issue here is a complex one concerning, on the one hand, the specific question of the payment of scutage or aid 30 Dugdale includes this story in both the Monasticon (vol. V, p. 627) and The Baronage of England (vol. I, p. 43). These last two tales from the Dieulacres annals are reminiscent of the ending of Fouke le Fitz Waryn, in which Fouke founds the New Abbey (where he is later buried) in honour of the Virgin Mary for remission of the grievous sins he had committed against God. Later Fouke sees a great light and hears the voice of God, who grants him penance (p. 59, ll. 5-10, 28-31). 31 See Sydney K. Mitchell, Studies in Taxation under John and Henry III (New Haven, etc.: Oxford Univ. Press, 1914), pp. 176-78 (“The earl of Chester refused to allow his clergy to be taxed and thus they escaped,” p. 177). The issue caused considerably upset amongst the clergy and “prelates who refused to agree to the tenth, or to advance money, were threatened with excommunication” (p. 178). 32 Roger of Wendover states that he spoke “for the magnates” (Flores historiarum, ed. H.R. Luard, 3 vols. [London: Rolls Series, III], p. 21).

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relating to the invasion of France and, on the other hand, the general question of the king’s right to levy aids. When the king asked for aid for the recently completed campaign, Ranulf replied that his lay tenants had served him personally and owed the king no aid.33 What is important in these cases is Ranulf’s opposition to arbitrary taxation and his willingness to speak up on behalf of both his own tenants and the wider aristocratic community. Ranulf III seems to have had a rebellious streak throughout his career. In his younger days he more than once aroused the suspicions of King John, who accused him in 1203 of plotting with the disaffected Bretons. In December 1204 John suddenly denounced him for an alleged alliance with the rebellious Welsh chieftain Gwenwynwyn and sent in his sheriffs to seize his estates.34 But, in spite of John’s suspicions, and the various quarrels between them, Ranulf remained loyal to his king, just as he does in Fouke le Fitz Waryn. Surveying Ranulf’s career, one notes a number of occasions on which he was either rebellious or concerned with the welfare of others. In 1223, along with the earl of Gloucester and Faulkes de Bréauté, he protested against Hubert de Burgh’s “move to take from them control of the great castles and the counties they dominated.”35 In 1199-1202 Ranulf, part owner of Coventry, confirmed to the burgesses of this town “the previous grant, confirmed by Henry II in 1182, of a port moot for the settlement of mercantile disputes and all the liberties enjoyed by the burgesses of Lincoln” (Harding, p. 124). He also showed that he could come to the aid of the clergy when necessary. In 1230 he withdrew his assent to the appointment made by the abbot of Angers of a prior of the Augustinian house of Spalding in Lincolnshire because it did not meet with the approval of the monks (Alexander, p. 50, Harding, p. 227). Alexander writes of his “strenuous intercessions” on behalf of houses of which he was patron (p. 51). 33

See Sydney K. Mitchell, Taxation in Medieval England, ed. Sidney Painter (New Haven, etc.: Yale Univ. Press, 1951), pp. 151-52, 200-01, Studies in Taxation, pp. 18093, and Alexander, p. 95. 34 W. L. Warren, King John (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1961 rpt. 1964), p. 109. 35 Alan Harding, England in the Thirteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1993), p. 275. It is interesting to note how many times in a general work of this kind Harding considers it appropriate to cite the activities of Ranulf of Chester.

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In assessing the way in which the historical Ranulf has been transformed into a legendary Ranulf, we can take note of a story concerning Ranulf found in the first volume of Dugdale’s The Baronage of England, dating from 1675.36 The story is cited by both Round and Wilson. In the latter’s words, it “tells in some detail of the deposition of John and the subsequent French invasion. On the death of John the loyalists are rallied, and the invaders completely defeated at Lincoln; their leader, the earl of Perche,37 is killed by Randolf, and the young Henry crowned king” (p. 117). Wilson states that there is no historical basis for this account of the killing of the count of Perche by Ranulf and he adds that Dugdale has attributed to Ranulf the exploits of the Earl Marshal (i.e., William Marshal the elder). Round considers this story to be “part of a romance” because the earl is the central figure and because the statements in the narrative are at variance with history (p. 302). Wilson is correct that Ranulf does not seem to have killed the count of Perche, and it is true that William Marshal, not Ranulf, was in overall control of events.38 But Wilson does not allow Ranulf the important role he played in this battle which, known as the Fair of Lincoln, took place in May 1217. At that time William Marshal was Regent of England, the other candidate for this position having been Ranulf (William Marshal wanted Ranulf to be appointed in view of his youth, but he lacked William’s administrative experience). The most substantial contemporary account of the battle is found in the Histoire de Guillaume le Maréchal.39 Here we learn that before the battle 36 P. 42. Dugdale in fact devotes a good deal of space to Ranulf’s deeds (vol. I, pp. 42-45, 101). 37 In his war against Philip Augustus Richard I had successfully courted the count of Perche and he had even married one of his nieces to the heir to the county, but early in his reign John squandered these alliances, so the count of Perche was by John’s death in 1216 once more in opposition to the English throne. 38 Round states that “The earl is treated, here and throughout, as the only commander of the royal host” (p. 303). Dugdale states that Ranulf was the “chief and most potent” of the northern peers (vol. I, p. 42). 39 Histoire de Guillaume le Maréchal, ed. P. Meyer, 3 vols. (Paris: Renouard, 18911901), vol. 2, 1894. The following brief account is taken from Sidney Painter, William Marshal, Knight-Errant, Baron and Regent of England (Baltimore: John’s Hopkins Press, 1933; rpt. Toronto-Buffalo-London: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1982), pp. 213-19. The evidence from the Histoire has been analyzed in detail by T. F. Tout, “The Fair of Lincoln and the Histoire de Guillaume le Maréchal,” English Historical Review, 18

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Ranulf refused to participate in the attack unless he was awarded the right to strike the first blow, and William felt he had no option but to accede to this. In the battle itself Ranulf headed one of the four divisions under William Marshal’s command; Ranulf was in the van (the other three divisions were headed by Peter des Roches, William of Salisbury and William Marshal himself; Faulkes de Bréauté seems to have formed an advance guard of crossbowmen and mounted serjeants). The French commander was the count of Perche, who was attempting to capture Lincoln Castle from its defenders and stayed within the city walls instead of engaging the royalist forces outside the city. Peter des Roches succeeded in reinforcing the defenders of the castle by penetrating the city via the postern gate. Ranulf became tired of waiting (Painter, p. 217, describes him as “headstrong”), so he and his men forced their way into Lincoln via the north gate. The battle was fought in the narrow streets of the city and precisely what happened is not known. The Histoire states (16741) that the count of Perche was killed by a knight from the household of Faulkes de Bréauté named Reginald (Reinal) Croc, who ran his lance neatly through the eyehole in his helmet whilst William Marshal held the bridle of the count’s horse (p. 218). The loss of their leader caused the French to retreat down the hill into the lower town, where they tried in vain to recapture the city. They were driven back and forced to take flight. The Histoire is silent on Ranulf’s contribution to the fighting within the walls of Lincoln, but his participation is confirmed by the Welsh chronicle of the princes of Wales, the Brut y Tywysogion: “After long fighting on every side, a detachment made a flank movement from the army that was led by the earl of Caer Loyw [Chester] and Foulke Bruse [Faulkes de Bréauté]; and through an unfrequented door they came in upon the castle, and so attacked the city, and made immense

(1903), 240-65. The battle is also described by Roger of Wendover, Matthew Paris and other chroniclers (for details see Tout, pp. 241-43). See also Kate Norgate, The Minority of Henry the Third (London: MacMillan, 1912), pp. 30-46, F. M. Powicke, King Henry III and the Lord Edward (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1947; 2 vols. in 1, 1966), pp. 11-13, 736-39, Francis Hill, Medieval Lincoln (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1948; rpt. 1965), pp. 201-05, and Alexander, pp. 75-76.

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slaughter of the French and the North men.”40 T. F. Tout concludes that the gate by which Ranulf and his men entered was Clack Gate and he writes: “Having forced an entrance here on the lower level, the earl of Chester was able to deliver the effective flank attack that settled the fortunes of the day” (p. 258). In spite of the evidence from the Histoire, the aim of which is to show William Marshal’s exploits in as favourable a light as possible,41 the identity of the killer of the count of Perche remains something of a mystery, as Roger of Wendover states that Reginald Croc was one of the three men slain in the fighting, and Matthew Paris, who modifies Wendover’s account of the killing, fails to name the count’s killer (see Tout, p. 260).42 Dugdale goes on to say that Ranulf seized Louis and made him swear that he would never again lay claim to the kingdom of England and that, when he became King of France he would restore Normandy to the crown of England. As Round indicates, the problem here is that Louis was not present at the battle of Lincoln; but Dugdale is not alone here, for the later chroniclers also thought that he was present.43 Ranulf, according to Dugdale, then sent for the young Henry, and sitting him down on the altar “delivered him seisin of this kingdom, as his inheritance, by a white wand, instead of a sceptre, doing homage to him, as did all the rest of the nobility then present.” However, the young Henry was also not at the battle, having been left behind with the papal legate Gualo. Three days after the royalist victory, Ranulf was created earl of Lincoln (his grandfather, Ranulf II, had held the 40

Brut y Tywysogion or, The Chronicle of the Princes, ed. J. Williams (London: Rolls Series 17, 1860), pp. 357-58. See Tout, p. 258. The Histoire is, of course, concerned to promote the actions of William Marshal, so one should not look to it for confirmation of the feats of other knights. Clarence Ellis may be nearer the mark in writing that in this conflict: “The Marshal, Peter des Roches, earl Ranulf of Chester and Falkes de Breauté valiantly distinguished themselves” (Hubert de Burgh: A Study in Constancy [London: Phoenix, 1952], p. 39). 41 “Its accuracy regarding specific events is subject to caution, and its assertions cannot be accepted uncritically” (Foreword to History of William Marshal, ed. A. J. Holden, with English translation by S. Gregory and historical notes by D. Crouch, vol. 1, London: Anglo-Norman Text Society, 2002; at the time of writing only vol. 1 of this work is available). 42 Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, ed. H.R. Luard, 7 vols. (London: Rolls Series, 1872-84), vol. III, pp. 21-22. 43 See for example Nicolaus Trivet, Annales, ed. Thomas Hog (London: Sumptibus Societatis, 1845), pp. 200-01.

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earldom after 1129, but the inheritance had been divided between Ranulf II and his half brother William of Roumare). Just before the battle of Lincoln Ranulf had led a royalist force against Mountsorel, the stronghold of Saher de Quincy, the earl of Winchester. At that time the castle was not taken, but three days after the battle of Lincoln, William Longsword was ordered in the king’s name to deliver it to Ranulf. When Ranulf reached Mountsorel, the castle was undefended and he destroyed it (Alexander, p. 76). Why did Dugdale or his source (he tells us that he got the story from an “old monk of Peterborough” by the name of Walter de Wittlesey) state that Ranulf killed the count of Perche, when in all probability he did not do so? Round thought that the facts were deliberately distorted by the romancer in order to glorify the hero (p. 306). 44 If this is correct, the romance of Ranulf of Chester concerned could be the “rymes” to which Langland was referring. But Dugdale’s story by no means proves the existence of a romance of which Ranulf was the hero, or even that Dugdale’s story came from a written narrative (neither Round nor Wilson speculates as to the language in which the lost romance would have been written). Likewise, as we have seen, there is no absolutely precise evidence for what happened when Ranulf entered Lincoln. But what is certain is that a tradition was formed, and was strong enough to be maintained until Dugdale’s time, that it was Ranulf who killed the count of Perche, thereby enhancing his role in the thwarting of Prince Louis’s ambition to take over the throne of England (a point emphasized in the annals of Dieulacres). But, whether or not it is historically accurate, the story of the Fair of Lincoln shows that Ranulf III and his activities were of interest to an author writing in 1675, four hundred and fifty years after Ranulf’s death, and it indicates that information concerning Ranulf’s activities had somehow been kept alive during the intervening years.45 44 Wilson also suggests that the monk of Peterborough had got hold of a romance glorifying the earl of Chester and taken it for “sober history” (p. 118). Such a notion fits in with Wilson’s aim to track down “lost literature.” But the line between history and romance was far too fine for one to make a distinction between sober fact and romance. One thinks of the ancestral romance Fouke le Fitz Waryn and Wace’s Roman de Rou, in which historically documented material is presented by authors well versed in the art of romance. 45 Wilson cites the 1809 edition of The Baronage of England, thus making it appear as if the work dates only from the nineteenth century.

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Any supposition that Ranulf’s deeds might have attracted the praise of contemporary writers is confirmed to an extent in a Latin poem on the taking of Lincoln, in which his efforts during the siege of Mountsorel are specifically commemorated: “But with more caution retires thence [to Mountsorel] the nobility of earls, the flower of the faith, the royal strength, the shield of Chester [Cestrensis clipeus]), until with roaring tumult of the rage of the others had passed the famous castle on the heights [Nottingham], and the bank of Trent, and the pride of long war had flown to the besieged citadel of the noble matron [Lincoln].”46 Alexander (p. 75) calls the reference to Ranulf here a “passing notice,” but no other individual on the king’s side is mentioned by name and there is a further allusion to the men from Chester (“Cestrensian companions of the earls,” p. 24). The poem gives the impression that it was written in part to praise the role played by Ranulf and his men at Mountsorel and Lincoln. Wilson was also able to cite a second story from Dugdale concerning Ranulf of Chester. In the time of Roger [de Lacy, Constable of Chester], Ranulph, earl of Chester, the last of that name, marching with some forces into Wales; for want of more strength, was constrained to betake himself unto a castle in those parts (viz. Rothelan), where being besieged by the Welsh, he sent for this Roger, then at Chester, to come to his relief; who, forthwith gathering together divers minstrels and a multitude of loose people, advanced thitherward; which so alarmed the Welsh, supposing them to have been soldiers, that they soon left the siege. The earl therefore for this good service, by his constable, gave him the patronage of all the minstrels in those parts; which he and his heirs ever after retained, but conferred upon Dutton his Steward, and his heirs, the execution of that authority.47

46

Ed. and trans. Thomas Wright in The Political Songs of England, from the Reign of John to that of Edward II (London: Camden Society, Occasional Publications 6, 1839), pp. 19-27 (p. 24). Wright thought that the poem was written by a churchman “immediately after the pacification which followed the taking of Lincoln” (p. 19). See Wright’s note (pp. 351-52). 47 Wilson, p. 118, Dugdale, I, p. 101. The rights to authority over the minstrels was assigned to Hugh de Dutton by John de Lacy, Roger de Lacy’s son; John de Lacy was Hugh’s father-in-law. The availability of such a large number of minstrels and what Dugdale calls “loose people” was due to the first Earl of Chester, Hugh, who in the charter of foundation of St. Werburg’s abbey in Chester granted exemption from arrest for theft or other misdemeanor to those attending the Chester fair, unless the crime was committed at the fair. Dugdale reports that even in his own day minstrels under the

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Alexander describes this story as “raucous” and “entertaining,” but he accepts it as historical fact, relating it to King John’s campaign against Llywelyn in 1210 (Dugdale dated it to 1212); so the Ranulf concerned is definitely Ranulf III. Ranulf took the king’s side and, indeed, led the campaign. It was a savage conflict, and in it Ranulf’s castle of Degannwy was destroyed by Llywelyn.48 The tale must have been of interest to Dugdale’s contemporaries, for, as Wilson points out, it is substantially repeated by William Camden in his Brittania49 and by R. Holinshed in his Chronicles of England, Scotland and Ireland.50 Holinshed attributes it to “an old record,” which could refer to Dugdale’s work, to the monk of Peterborough or to some other source. Wilson thinks it was Dugdale’s monk and he adds: “Whether either or both of these stories supplied the content of the rhymes known to Langland it is, of course, impossible to say. Certainly one would expect the second of them to have been especially popular with medieval minstrels” (p. 118). On this last point Wilson may well be right. In the nineteenth century this story of Ranulf and the minstrels was recounted in a different context by Thomas Percy, who includes it in his “Essay on the Ancient Minstrels in England,” to be found in his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.51 Percy quotes a further passage from Dugdale, who reports that in his day, at the midsummer fair in Chester:

jurisdiction of the Dutton family were exempted from any parliamentary acts aimed at their suppression. 48 On the savagery of the conflict see Gervase of Canterbury, The Historical Works, ed. W. Stubbs, 2 vols. (London: Rolls Series, 1880), vol. II, p. 106. 49 William Camden, Brittania, or a Chorographic Description of England, Scotland and Ireland from the Earliest Antiquity, 2nd ed., 4 vols. (London: John Stockdale, 1806), vol. III, pp. 58-59, 224. The first edition of this work (in Latin) appeared in 1586 and an English translation in 1610. 50 Wilson cites the edition of 1807 (6 vols., London, II, p. 373), but the original edition dates from 1587. Holinshed prefaces his story with the comment that Ranulf “atchieued manie high enterprises in his time” (ibid.). 51 This story is not found in the first edition of this work, 3 vols. (London: Dodsley, 1764), but it appears in the “very much improved” version of the essay (vol. I, p. 114) in the 6th edition, 4 vols., 1824, vol. I, pp. 32-34.

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All the minstrels of that countrey resorting to Chester, do attend the heir of Dutton, from his lodging to St John’s Church (he being then accompanied by many gentlemen of the countrey) one of the “minstrels” walking before him in a surcoat of his arms depicted on taffeta; the rest of his fellows proceeding (two and two) and playing on their several sorts of musical instruments. And after the divine service ended, give the like attendance on him back to his lodging; where a court being kept by his (Mr Dutton’s) steward, and all the minstrels formally called, certain orders and laws are usually made for the better government of that society, with penalties on those who trangress. (Dugdale, p. 101; Percy, p. 363)

Ranulf’s rescue by the minstrels may well have been kept alive throughout the passing years by being retold on the occasion of the midsummer fairs, but neither of Dugdale’s stories of Ranulf link him to an outlaw, whether Robin Hood or anyone else. They link him to exciting, historically based events; Harris calls such stories “embroideries of real events” (p. 113). Were they able to contribute towards Ranulf’s legendary status? There is no sign of Ranulf of Chester in the thirty-eight ballads of Robin Hood printed by Francis J. Childs in The English and Scottish Popular Ballads.52 But in 1993 a new Robin Hood manuscript was discovered, now known as the Forresters manuscript (British Library, Add. 71158). This manuscript contains twenty-two ballads (including two versions of Robin Hood and the Pinder of Wakefield). The dates of composition of the individual ballads remain unknown, but the collection dates from around 1670. Of significance for our enquiry are the first and last stanzas framing the first ballad in the collection, Robin Hood and the Forresters 1: Randolph kept Robin fifteen winters Dery dery downe Till he was fifteen years old Hey downe dery dery downe Then Robin grew a big fellow A big and eake a bold Hey downe downe a downe. [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ] The hee gott Loxley ore his head And made much merry glee 52

5 vols. (Boston, 1882-98; rpt. New York, 1962).

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And Randolph to express his joy Was drunck for companie.53

The editor of the Forresters manuscript, Stephen Knight, identifies Randolph here as Ranulf III of Chester, and he thinks that Ranulf is being presented as Robin’s patron. For Knight the allusion is likely to stem from literary knowledge of the association of Ranulf and Robin Hood in Piers Plowman, rather than from any “long-submerged” tradition (p. xvii). He adds that: It is highly improbable that Forresters, a relatively late collection, has preserved an otherwise unknown memory of a relationship between the two characters. Nor is it probable that the name comes here directly from Ranulf of Chester who engages with Fulk Fitz Waryn, an early thirteenth-century outlaw whose adventures might have influenced the development of the gentrified Robin Hood tradition. […] It is much more likely that the supervisor of the manuscript, who elsewhere shows a distinctly scholarly skill and interest has here made a specific literary reference to elaborate the broadside text: Piers Plowman was well-known, even celebrated as a proto-reformation text in the sixteenth century, being printed three times in 1550 in Crowley’s edition and once more in 1561. It may be that the addition of the reference to Loxley as Robin’s place of origin (39), not in the broadside versions but known in some of the more literary versions of the legend such as the Sloan Life and Robin Hood and the Stranger, is another elaboration of the same kind. (p. 2)

If memories of Ranulf could survive until 1675, when they were given further stimulus by Dugdale, who states that he owed at least one of his stories to a monk of Peterborough (whose account was presumably in existence at the time), it is possible that the supervisor of the Forresters manuscript also knew of such traditions regarding Ranulf of Chester. One thing is certain: the Forresters manuscript preserves a link between Robin Hood and Ranulf, which could be taken to support the possibility that the Piers Plowman allusion is to one tradition rather than two, i.e. to a tradition such as that found in Fouke le Fitz Waryn in which Ranulf and an outlaw are associated. If, as Knight suggests, the adventures of Fouke Fitz Waryn III did influence the “gentrified” Robin Hood tradition, and indeed if Fouke 53 Robin Hood: The Forresters Manuscript, British Library Additional MS 71158, ed. Stephen Knight (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1998), pp. 2-5. This manuscript contains two ballads not in Child (Robin Hood and the Bride and Robin Hood and Pinder of Wakefield). See also Arthur Freeman, Robin Hood: The Forresters Manuscript (London: Bernard Quaritch, 1993).

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was the prototype of, or even the original, Robin Hood, the maintenance of these various links in popular literature and the popular imagination would be more understandable. Another area of interest in terms of the survival of the legend of Ranulf is that of the various pseudo-historical plays of the sixteenth and early seventeenth century which include him in their list of characters. In fact, in one such play, entitled The Chester Tragedy; or Randal Earl of Chester, the author (Thomas Middleton, 1580-1627), clearly went further than this and made Ranulf the principal character. Disappointingly, this play, composed in 1602, is now lost, but it shows just how much interest Ranulf could generate at the time.54 Of particular significance within these plays, which have been examined by J. W. Ashton in his article “Rymes of … Randolf, Erl of Chestre,”55 is Ranulf’s association with Robin Hood in Anthony Munday’s The Downfall of Robert Earl of Huntingdon and The Death of Robert Earl of Huntingdon, both dating from the last years of the sixteenth century.56 In the Downfall Robin and Ranulf are associated before Robin becomes an outlaw, as they are in the Forresters manuscript. Ranulf cannot be considered as a major character within these plays, but his association with the side of authority is maintained. In the Downfall, in order to “shun commotion,” he takes the side of Richard’s brother John rather than that of Richard’s regent, the Bishop of Ely. But when John persecutes the bishop and Matilda’s father, Lord Fitzwater, Ranulf retains his sympathy for them. When Richard returns from the Holy Land, Ranulf renews his allegiance to him. In the Death 54 See Richard H. Barker, Thomas Middleton (New York: Columbia Univ. Press; London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1958), p. 195. This play was written for the Admiral’s Men, a club owned by Philip Henslowe, which, according to Barker (p. 9), “specialized in crude and dreary popular entertainment, synthetically prepared” (see Henslowe’s Diary, ed. W.W. Greg, 4 vols. [London: Bullen, 1904-08], vol. I, p. 171, II, p. 225). Barker suggests that Middleton’s play was not worth printing and was intended to bring in a few pounds and “hold an audience for a few days” (ibid.). One has the impression that this is the sort of entertainment of which Langland’s Sloth would have approved. Henslowe (vol. II, p. 225) points out that the subject of the play could have been Ranulf II. 55 English Literary History, 5 (1938), 195-206. 56 Both plays were edited by J. Payne Collier (London: Prowett, 1828). The Death was written in collaboration with Henry Chettle. For an edition of the Downfall and excerpts from the Death see Robin Hood and Other Outlaw Tales, ed. Stephen Knight and Thomas Ohlgren (Kalamazoo, Michigan: TEAMS, 2000), pp. 303-440.

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Richard is dead and Ranulf is faithful to King John; he begs Friar John not to allow the play to end with the burial of Robin Hood. In Look about You, a play dating from 1600, the earl of Chester appears alongside Robin Hood, who again is presented as the earl of Huntingdon.57 Ranulf’s role in this play, however, is very minor, as it is limited to an affirmation of loyalty to his king, on this occasion Henry II.58 Somewhat later Ranulf makes a number of interventions in a play entitled Welsh Embassador, dating from 1623.59 But this play is set much earlier in English history, in the times of Aethelstan and Penda, and there is a little or no link to the real, or even the legendary, Ranulf III. Ranulf here has become part of what the editor calls “the usual jumble of historical names” (p. v). But interest in him has clearly survived well into the seventeenth century. In an earlier play by Anthony Munday, John a Kent and John a Cumber (1590), Ranulf of Chester has a more central role.60 Here he plans to marry his daughter Marian to the earl of Pembroke at the same time as Llywelyn Prince of Wales marries his daughter Sidanen to Earl Morton of Scotland. The ladies, however, have already chosen Jeffrey Powesse and Sir Griffin Meriddock, Lord of South Wales, to be their respective husbands, and in order to spirit the ladies away the lovers engage the services of the Welsh magician John a Kent. In turn Morton calls upon the Scottish magician John a Cumber to help both himself and Pembroke. In the ensuing contest of magic, Cumber, although successful at first, is outwitted and overwhelmed by John a Kent and the ladies marry their Welsh suitors. In her book on Anthony Munday, Celeste Turner gives several sources for the Robin Hood material in Munday’s plays: an amalgam of songs, plays and activities relating to the village Maypole.61 She 57 A Pleasant Commodie called Looke about You (London: William Ferbrand, 1600; Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, for The Malone Society Reprints, 1913). The author of this play is unknown, but it could have been by Anthony Wadeson (p. v). 58 This play contains an historical inaccuracy in that Ranulf III, who was born in 1172, is associated with Henry the Young King, who died in 1183. Ranulf II, however, had died much earlier, in 1153. 59 Eds. H. Littledale and W. W. Greg (London: The Malone Society Reprints, 1920). 60 Ed. A. E. Pennell (New York and London: Garland, 1980). 61 Anthony Munday: An Elizabethan Man of Letters (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press; Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1928). The main sources for the Robin

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also suggests that Munday included Ranulf of Chester in his plays because of his interest in British legend (p. 107). The information (pp. 117-19) that Munday and his collaborator Chettle knew and used the work of Holinshed could also be significant.62 Ashton, for his part, states that Munday is unlikely to have invented the role of Ranulf, whose presence must be due to some form of popular tales in which he figured (p. 200). The question remains: how is it that Ranulf and Robin Hood are found together in Munday’s plays? Does this stem from Piers Plowman, Fouke le Fitz Waryn, from some lost material, or from some other source (even coincidence)? We can certainly say that since he rubs shoulders with such figures as King John and Llywelyn, Prince of Wales, the Ranulf concerned must, historically speaking, be Ranulf III. But, as far as John a Kent and John a Cumber is concerned, we know that Ranulf III had no children and therefore could not have been attempting to marry off his daughter Marian (a son, Oswen, also appears in the play). In addition, since John a Kent lived in the fifteenth century, we cannot be dealing in this case with an historically based account. There is certainly no difficulty linking Ranulf to Llywelyn, Prince of Wales. As we saw above, they were in conflict in 1210 and they clashed on numerous other occasions. But in 1218 they made peace. John Lloyd writes that Llywelyn “maintained […] the most cordial relations, amounting to a veritable alliance with Ranulf,” who “had a fellow-feeling for a great territorial lord whose franchises were threatened by the activity of central government, and his warm support of Llewelyn relieved the prince from all fear of hostilities along the

Hood material are: (i) his status as “brave, pious, noble, and merry character” under the village Maypole, (ii) the “broken minstrel songs” of Robin and the Three Squires, Robin and the Widow’s Sons and Robin and the Curtal Friar, (iii) the “crude dramatic form” into which ballads of Robin Hood had been turned a century or so earlier, and (iv) contemporary plays, such as A Pastoral Plesant Comedie of Robin Hood and Little John, dating from 1594 (pp. 116-17). 62 Holinshed’s comments on Ranulf’s activities are not restricted to the two stories already cited (see Ashton, p. 196). Munday certainly got his story of John’s usurpation of Richard’s throne and the flight of the Bishop of Ely in woman’s weeds from Holinshed (Turner, p. 117).

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Cheshire border.”63 Ashton points out justifiably that, if Ranulf of Chester could be found to have been linked historically in some way to the earl of Pembroke, Earl Morton of Scotland and a Prince of South Wales by the name of Sir Griffin Merridock, the survival of a legendary Ranulf III in Munday’s play would be no cause for surprise. He therefore made a study of the historical events at the beginning of the thirteenth century in the hope of finding a time when Ranulf of Chester, the earl of Pembroke, Llywelyn and the earl of Morton were in alliance against the lords of Powys and South Wales. He was also hoping to find a romantic theme linking these figures. Not surprisingly, he fails to find an equivalent for Munday’s scenario, but there is no doubt that there was considerable animosity between Llywelyn and both Gwenwynwyn (lord of Powys), and Griffith ap Rhys ap Griffith (prince of South Wales). On completing his research, Ashton was able to conclude that: It seems probable that out of these historical events of the first quarter of the thirteenth century grew such legends–ballads, household tales, etc.–that evolved through the hands of many a story teller until by the end of the sixteenth century Munday had at hand a body of traditional material that approximated to the story of John a Kent and John a Cumber. (p. 205)

The earl of Pembroke concerned could have been William Marshal the elder, or William Marshal the younger who inherited the earldom on the death of his father in 1219; Ranulf III was on good terms with both of them, but they were both more hostile to Llywelyn than he was. When John died in 1216, Ranulf and William Marshal the elder were the protectors of the young Henry III and leaders of his armies. The earl of Angus, who figures in Munday’s play, was linked to Llywelyn and Ranulf in that in 1222 Helen, one of Llywelyn’s daughters married John le Scot, the son of David, earl of Angus, and nephew of Ranulf of Chester. The earl of Angus was a member of the Douglas family and one of the branches of this family held the earldom of Morton.64 During Munday’s lifetime the two titles, Angus 63 John E. Lloyd, A History of Wales from the Earliest Times to the Middle Ages to the Edwardian Conquest, 2 vols. (London: Longmans, Green and Co, 1911; 3rd ed. 1939), vol. 2, p. 657. 64 David, father of John le Scot, was earl of Huntingdon. In 1190 he married Matilda, one of Ranulf’s four sisters. She died in 1233, a few months after Ranulf,

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and Morton, were held for a time by the same man, Archibald Douglas. Ashton speculates that for Munday Angus and Morton “meant one and the same thing” (p. 203). Sir Griffin Merridock is harder to find (but one of Gwenwynwyn’s sons was called Griffin). There was a lord of lower Powys called Madoc ap Griffith Maelor ap Madoc ap Meredith, and Ashton thinks that Madoc and Meredith could have been combined by storytellers to form Merridock (p. 204). We can conclude our study of the extant material relating to Ranulf with a look at another literary work which shows that Ranulf III and his fellow earls were far from forgotten in the sixteenth century: a poem entitled “Earles off Chester.”65 The poet mentions the three Ranulfs, but he devotes only four lines (157-60) of his 550-line poem to Ranulf I; he merely gives us the information that he was earl for eight years, thus confirming the weakness of Ranulf I’s candidature for the position of Langland’s Randolf. Ranulf II has a much longer section of the poem devoted to him (161-236). His relationship with, and capture of King Stephen are described, as are his defeat of an invasion of Welshmen and his founding of Combermere and Poulton abbeys. It is said of him that “this Randle both in peace & warr / past all the English nobles farr” (163-64) and the poet’s overall judgment of him was of a “religious, valliant, just, & wise / great earle!” (235-36). By far the lengthiest section of the poem (251-496, i.e., over 45% of the total) is the one which deals with Ranulf III. The author begins with the following eulogy of his subject:

leaving her son John le Scot, who had inherited the title of earl of Huntingdon. Is it possible that these connections between Ranulf and the earldom of Huntingdon could be responsible in some way for the association of Ranulf and Robin Hood, earl of Huntingdon, in Munday’s plays? On Robin Hood as the dispossessed earl of Huntingdon see, for example, J. C. Holt, Robin Hood (London: Thames and Hudson, 1982), pp. 42-44, 162, 176. 65 Quoted here from Bishop Percy’s Folio Manuscript: Ballads and Romances, ed. J. W. Hales and F. J. Furnivall, 2 vols. (London: Trübner, 1867), vol. I, pp. 273-90. The poem dates from after 1586. The text is preceded by a lengthy introduction by Hales, who states that he has “very little doubt” that Langland’s Randolf was Ranulf III (p. 260). A shorter version of the poem (London, British Library, Add. 5830) was published by James Orchard Halliwell in his Palatine Anthology: A Collection of Ancient Poems and Ballads, Relating to Lancashire and Cheshire (London: for private circulation, 1850), pp. 189-207.

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The parragon of all that ile, Bold, bewtifull, religious, wise Profoundlye learned, liberall, In all things dealing with advice, Of haughtye mind, yet milde with all. (252-56)

After enumerating Ranulf III’s extensive land holdings, the poet adds: But his great honors altered not His mind nor manners neuer a jot, For full of princlye curteisie Even to the last continued hee. (273-76)

There follows an account of Ranulf III’s participation with Richard in the Third Crusade, which as we have seen, is also mentioned in the Dieulacres annals and is probably unhistorical. In the vanguard of Richard’s army in Cypress, Ranulf is said to have helped to defeat the Turks, and then, on arrival in Palestine, to have been the first to mount the walls of Acre, where he planted Richard’s colours as a sign of victory. Ranulf never failed King Richard, says the poet (358), who goes on to describe “in King John’s raigne what deeds were done / By this great erle, and what he gaue / The crowne and kingdome both to saue” (362-64). There follows an account of Ranulf’s support for the young Henry III: the day after the latter’s coronation Ranulf and William Marshal, earl of Pembroke, marched on Lincoln and “by assault the citye woone, / Where many French to death were done” (427-28). The “force” of the two earls caused Prince Louis to abandon his claim to the English throne and return to France. The final account of Ranulf III’s achievements concern his participation with Quinsay, earl of Winchester, on the Fifth Crusade, where his success in the siege of Damietta was such that: With the great applause of all He chosen was Lord Generall; Nor gaue thé him that name in vaine, For they by his meanes the citye gaine. (457-60)

Ranulf, we are told in this poem, exchanged Damietta for Jerusalem, becoming extremely wealthy in the process. He was the leader of bands of men “renowned and feared in heathen lands” (475). On his return to England he built Beeston and Chortley castles and the abbey

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of Dieulacres, and lived for another twelve years “loden with honour” (486). The poet of the “Earles off Chester”–the name of Richard Bostock has been suggested–seems to have attempted to present as accurate a picture as possible of his subjects, presumably relying on traditions built up over several centuries. The image he presents of Ranulf III, that of a man who possessed a wide range of social virtues, served his kings and covered himself in glory, does not damage his possible status as Langland’s Randolf. This poem, written at about the same time as the plays in which Ranulf appeared, shows that, several centuries after his death, Ranulf III was clearly still a much loved and respected man. The tradition concerning Ranulf which we find in Anthony Munday and his contemporary playwrights, in writers such as Dugdale and Holinshed, in the annals of Dieulacres Abbey and the “Earles off Chester” is in my view more likely to have inspired the author of Robin Hood and the Forresters 1 to associate Ranulf with Robin Hood as a guardian or patron than the isolated reference to Robin and Ranulf by Langland, written several centuries earlier. We can also observe that Ranulf is linked to the outlaw Fouke Fitz Waryn III in Fouke le Fitz Waryn and to the outlaw Robin Hood in several texts: Piers Plowman, the anonymous sixteenth-century play Look about You, two plays by Anthony Munday’s (The Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon and The Death of Robert Earl of Huntingdon) and Robin Hood and the Forresters I. In Fouke and in Munday’s plays he appears in the company of King John, and he is associated with matters relating to the Welsh in Fouke, Sir Launfal and John a Kent and John a Cumber. On the basis of the love interest found in Munday’s plays, Ashton suggested (p. 206) that Sloth’s Erl Randolf was the protagonist of romantic stories, rather than being an outlaw figure himself, as Alexander maintains. This is possible, but there is no need to restrict Ranulf’s activities in this way, as they range quite widely within the extant material concerning him. From an historical point of view, the Ranulf found in the texts we have examined is predominantly a reflection of Ranulf III, although we should not neglect entirely the contribution made to the legend by his grandfather, Ranulf II. Ranulf III is consistently presented as a positive character, a good warrior, a loyal vassal and someone who is concerned with justice and able to act

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according to common sense. There seems no reason to doubt that Langland’s “Randolf Erl of Chestre” was Ranulf III.

KEITH BUSBY

Filling in the Blanks: The Missing Miniatures in BnF, fr. 15101 of Florimont imon de Varennes wrote Florimont at Châtillon d’Azergues in the Forez region (just west of Lyon) in 1188.1 Probably from an aristocratic family of Varennes-lès-Mâcon, Aimon seems to have been recognized as a regional author, despite the fact that his romance of over 13,000 lines deals with universal matter, namely the adventures of Florimont, grandfather of Alexander the Great, relating in part to the founding of Philippopolis. As such, it clearly exploits the popularity of the matière d’Alexandre at the end of the twelfth century and forms a kind of prequel to the various versions of the Roman d’Alexandre. The continuing vogue of this subject over the following centuries ensured a continuing audience for Aimon’s romance, which survives in fourteen manuscripts, various mises en prose from the fifteenth century, and printed versions from the sixteenth.2 The romance’s popularity in the Middle Ages has not been matched by a corresponding amount of critical attention from modern scholars.3 Four manuscripts of Florimont are from eastern France: London, BL, Harley 4487 (dated 1295 on f. 86rob; probably Lotharingian), Paris, BnF, fr. 1376 (s. 13ex.-s. 14inc.; probably Dijon), BnF, fr. 1374 (s. 133/4; possibly Vienne), and the manuscript under consideration here, BnF, fr. 15101 (s. 14inc.) which was almost certainly copied in Metz. The cluster is chronological as well as geographical and seems to correspond to an awareness that Aimon de Varennes was an eastern author whose work was appropriate for inclusion in manuscripts 1

The only edition of Florimont is Aimon von Varennes, Florimont: ein altfranzösischer Abenteuerroman, ed. Alfons Hilka (Göttingen: Gesellschaft für romanische Literatur, 1932), who uses fr. 15101 as his base manuscript. A new edition and study of the Florimont corpus is a real desideratum. 2 For a list of the manuscripts, see Hilka’s introduction, pp. ix-xii. For the prose versions, see Brian Woledge, Bilbliographie des romans et nouvelles en prose française antérieurs à 1500 (Geneva: Droz, 1955), p. 43 (nos. 58-61), and Supplément 1954-1973 (Geneva: Droz, 1975), pp. 38-39. 3 The most important “recent” study is that of Douglas Kelly, “The Composition of Aimon de Varennes’ Florimont,” Romance Philology, 23 (1969-1970), 277-92.

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destined for, or commissioned by, owners in that part of the country. The basis for this view is in fact laid by Aimon himself in passages at the beginning and towards the end of Florimont (ll. 14-16 and 1360742) where he appears to excuse himself for incorrectness of his Lyonnais dialect. Rather than an excuse, however, this is just as likely to be a ploy to ensure himself of a local audience as well to pique the curiosity of the “Fransois” (ll. 13614, 13622, 13631). Fr. 1374 also contains Chrétien’s Erec et Enide, while fr. 1376 is a larger collection, containing in order Parise la Duchesse, Chrétien’s Cligés, Placidas, La prise de Jérusalem, Girart de Vienne, Gerbert de Montreuil’s Roman de la Violette, and Florimont, which closes the manuscript. The Harley manuscript and fr. 15101 are both single-item codices, containing Florimont alone.4 BnF, fr. 15101 is composed of 120 folios comprised primarily of regular gatherings of eight with catchwords and binding signatures; rulings are visible but prickings are not. The text is in two columns of thirty lines on folios measuring 24.5 cm x 15.7 cm, with a written space of 19.8 cm x 12.1 cm. The format is standard for vernacular manuscripts of the period. Two principal scribes were responsible for the manuscript, the second beginning on f. 10ro (the beginning of the second gathering); f. 119 is in the first hand. Ff. 1 and 120 are a bifolium which originally formed ff. 5 and 9 (= 4 and 8) of the first gathering; these folios are copied and inserted as replacements, probably a little later in the fourteenth century.5 The replacements follow the originals down to the line and column and may well have been copied from it, although it is not clear why. It may be that the workshop or a libraire had two copies of Florimont which were misbound at some point. Given the close resemblance between the 4 For descriptions of fr. 1374 and 1376, see Les manuscrits de Chrétien de Troyes/The Manuscripts of Chrétien de Troyes, ed. Keith Busby, Terry Nixon, Alison Stones, and Lori Walters (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993), 2 vols., II, pp. 41-43 and 6769, and on the eastern manuscripts, Keith Busby, Codex and Context: Reading Old French Verse Narrative in Manuscript (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002), 2 vols., esp. II, pp. 555-58, and the Index of Manuscripts. 5 Hilka, basing himself on Risop’s researches, claims that the work of the first scribe (= F2) is later and replaces the mainly lost first gathering and f. 119 of the principal scribe (= F1). That F1 did copy the whole text of Florimont is likely given the survival of the bifolium that is now ff. 1 and 120. I am less convinced that F2 is much later than F1, although the hand of the replacement ff. 5 and 9 (= F3) surely is.

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original and the replacements, this may have something to do with the kind of workshop practices discussed by Maria Careri in her study of facsimile manuscripts of the Lorraine cycle, also—probably not coincidentally—produced in Metz.6 The language of both principal scribes (and the copier of the present ff. 5 and 8) is very markedly eastern in nature, almost disconcertingly so for those accustomed to the false koiné said to be “standard Old French,” the existence of which before the fifteenth century is surely a scholarly myth. Fr. 15101 seems not only to have been written in Metz but also to have remained there until at least the sixteenth century, as witness the ex libris of Amee de Gournaix on f. 119vo: “Cest a amee de gournaix.” This family (also known as Le Gournaix or Le Gronnais and variants) were important patricians in Metz from the fourteenth through the sixteenth centuries, essentially sharing the government of the city with the d’Esch family. The celebrated manuscript Oxford, Bodleian Library, Douce 308 also belonged to them (cf. “Renalt de Gornaix” on f. 106vo [s. 14] and “Fransois le Gournaix” [†1525] on f. 3ro), and there exists a list of books given by François to his son-inlaw, Michel Chaverson (maître-échevin of Metz in 1507 and 1514), which includes a copy of Les vœux du paon, but clearly not Douce 308. There is also a reference to Philippe le Gournaix (fl. s. 141/4) in Les vœux de l’épervier.7 This is a particularly interesting manuscript from many points of view: its provenance and ownership, its punctuation (which I have discussed elsewhere),8 and the aspect which I shall concentrate on here, namely the thirty-eight blank spaces, usually to a depth of six lines, horizontally across both columns of text, which occur throughout the whole manuscript. Many medieval manuscripts are in one way or another unfinished, to the great frustration of the scholar used to the neatness of the modern book: the text may be incomplete, majuscules or decorated capitals may be missing, pen-flourished initials may be without flourishing, rubrics or tituli may be deficient or completely absent, and different forms of illustration (primarily historiated initials and miniatures) may be in varying stages of incompletion, with or 6

Maria Careri, “Codici facsmiliati e tradizione attiva nella Geste des Loherains,” Romania 119 (2001), 323-56. 7 See Codex and Context, II, pp. 722-24. 8 Codex and Context, I, pp. 166-67.

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without preliminary sketches. In many ways, these imperfections and permutations of them, together with loss of text (rendering works acephalous or “acaudal”) and/or illustration through vandalism (attested in the Middle Ages by a frequent warning: “Anathema sit qui litteram abscidit”) are the rule rather than the exception. The reading of medieval texts in neatly produced modern editions runs the risk of rendering the experience anodyne. The blank spaces in fr. 15101 need not necessarily have been intended for miniatures, although I believe they were. It is just possible that the completed manuscript would have contained tituli here (as opposed to rubrics, which term I reserve for words accompanying an illustration), but I know of no other manuscript in which tituli are written without miniatures across two columns. Paris, BnF, fr. 12577 of Chrétien’s Perceval does have an occasional double miniature with the rubric running across both columns,9 but the depth of six-lines in fr. 15101 is surely insufficient to contain both. Nor do I know of manuscripts where a double titulus is written alone in two columns in such a location. It is therefore reasonable to posit that each blank space was meant to contain two frames of a single column’s width, each containing a miniature depicting the text in its vicinity; miniatures in romance manuscripts usually relate to following, rather than preceding, text. In one sense, the question of whether the blanks were intended for miniatures or tituli is moot, as both could have provided some kind of narrative punctuation and rhythm, dividing the text into segments and suggesting by their very location the importance of certain episodes and themes. Although the distribution of illustrations in romance manuscripts is often uneven, with the miniatures frequently petering out after a few folios or gatherings, the blank spaces occur in all parts of fr. 15101. The manuscript therefore either looks to have been planned as a whole or based on an existing model. The distance between the blank spaces (using the left-hand column as the reference) varies between 42 and 828 lines, the average being approximately 360. There are some curious apparent coincidences in the numbers here, although their significance is not quite clear. For example, on four occasions, the 9

See Les manuscrits de Chrétien de Troyes/The Manuscripts of Chrétien de Troyes, II, pp. 75-76 and figs. 319-70.

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distance between blank spaces is 468, on two occasions, 234, and on another two, 408. These and other numbers seem to be factors of 30 (number of lines per column) minus factors of 6 (number of column lines per blank space) and may reflect the activity of a planner at some point in the transmission of the text; it may also be related to the methods of facsimile production noted by Careri and mentioned above. The first section of the romance, dealing with the struggle between Phillip I and Camdiobras is necessary to the rest of the narrative because it prepares the ground for the meeting between Florimont and Romadanaple (Phillip’s daughter), from whose marriage will eventually be born Phillip II, grandfather of Alexander the Great. The genealogical structure of the romance and its place in the Alexander corpus is thus assured, and consolidated by explicit links towards the end of the text. Aimon de Varennes marks thus the transition between the two basic divisions of the narrative: Si lairons des .II. rois a tant, Si vos dirons d’un atre avant Dont li contes est conronpus, Que primes nen fut menteüs: Se fut li muedres des empereors Que en cel tens ierent en terre Por pris et por honor conquerre; Mai on ne le poroit savoir. Qui ne[l] conteroit d’oir en oir, Nen seroit l’istoire seüe; Por ce nen est pas conronpue. ëz signor, et faites paix! De Florimont orois hui mais Et de son peire Mataquas […] (1672-87)

Within this framework Aimon relates numerous campaigns, battles, and the two love affairs of Florimont, one with the Pucelle de l’Isle Selee and the other with Romadanaple. The first of these is more properly a romance relationship as found in other works dominated by the merveilleux, and the other, related to the political and moral foundation of Alexander’s dynasty.10 It is impossible to be absolutely sure in detail what the miniatures would have shown, but the general location of the blanks and the kinds 10

On the structure and composition of the romance, see Kelly, “Composition.”

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of illustration in other romance manuscripts make the necessary guesswork at least informed and plausible. In suggesting what might have been depicted in the miniatures, I have simply looked at what is related by Aimon in the text immediately following the blank, and in the case of longer gaps between spaces, at events separated by as much as a two or three hundred lines. The miniature in column b would have depicted an event somewhat further on in the narrative than that in column a, and in the case of a longer hiatus, its subject is admittedly often more difficult to determine. The miniatures would not only have indicated to a reader what to look out for as they read, but in the case of repeated readings, the miniatures would have reminded the reader of significant, perhaps even emblematic, events of the narrative, those episodes by which the romance was anchored in the medieval imagination. My argument in this article is dependent on fr. 15101 having been intended as a book for individual reading, and even though I have argued that its punctuation was meant to support oral delivery, I should like to underline that these modes of reception were not mutually exclusive. If miniatures cannot be read aloud to listening audiences, individual readers can (and probably did) read aloud to themselves, and nor can the rhythms and cadences of the inner voice be discounted. Moreover, it is quite likely that manuscripts were used both as performance texts and for individual reading. Everything we know about medieval reading confirms that communal and individual reading existed alongside one another for centuries until reading became a largely private affair. A first glance at the locations chosen for the missing miniatures reveals some significant and familiar features. Most striking perhaps is the incidence of the supernatural and the merveilleux: Philipp fights the lion, probably two scenes f. 7voa-b); Philipp kills the lion (f. 8roa); Philipp’s dream (f. 13rob); Florimont fights the monster (f. 20 rob), which he decapitates (f. 22voa), and whose defeat is celebrated (f. 25roa); Florimont defeats the giant, Garganeüs (f. 32roa); Soliman, Florimont, and the lions (f. 111ro); Soliman, Florimont, and the ointment (f. 114voa); the lions again (f. 114vob), etc. Such scenes are commonly selected for illustration in manuscripts of other texts, such as Chrétien’s Perceval, the Crusade cycle epics, and various versions

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of the Roman d’Alexandre, to name but a few examples I have considered elsewhere.11 These are, I would argue, among the scenes which fix the romance in the medieval imagination, and which would be called to mind when Aimon de Varennes’ work was discussed by its admirers. The predilection for the merveilleux is also discernible in the portrayal of Florimont’s love for the Pucelle de l’Isle Celee, a supernatural creature much in the mold of Lanval’s fairy-mistress. Three of the missing miniatures probably dealt directly with this aspect of the romance: one on f. 20rob may have shown the first appearance of the Pucelle, another on f. 23voa may have shown in some way Florimont torn between his family and the fairy, and a third on f. 34vo, probably showed a distraught Florimont losing the latter’s love. The centrality to the text of Florimont’s love for Romadanaple was likely reflected in a series of miniatures distributed throughout the course of the romance. Romadanaple is introduced in the pre-Florimont section as the daughter of Philipp I and a miniature on f. 11roa would have likely been a first depiction of her; she may also have featured on ff. 48rob and 52rob. The blank space on f. 55voa would have contained a miniature depicting the first encounter between Florimont and Romadanaple, while both of those on f. 64ro would have depicted their relationship in one way or another. A further dozen or seem to deal with their love, including key ones in which Romadanaple considers whether she loves Florimont, the pair are shown in bed (f. 78rob), Romadanaple mocks Florimont disguised as a tailor (f. 80roa), and gives Florimont the ring (f. 84rob). I will refrain in the interests of time from describing all the locations in the manuscript where the relationship of Florimont and Romadanaple might have been illustrated, but for the present, it will suffice to say the emphasis placed on it seems to correspond fairly well with Aimon’s interests in contrasting Florimont’s love for the Pucelle (characterized by folie) and that for Romadanaple (not so characterized). Whether the planner of fr. 15101 in general had read the text well enough to be familiar with all of Aimon’s concerns is difficult to say, but other themes do seem to have been the object of intended illustrations. Douglas Kelly has argued the case for Aimon’s views on 11

See esp. Codex and Context, I, Ch. 4, pp. 225-365.

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fin’amors mentioned above in an article which also makes clear his interest in matters of Fortune and Destiny.12 There may have been at least three scenes representing Fortune: f. 11rob (Philipp); f. 77vob (Florimont and Romadanaple); and f. 99rob (Florimont and Romadanaple). The latter two also suggest that human happiness occurs when Fortune smiles upon lovers. Another basic concern of Aimon de Varennes is that of the education and growth of the hero. The entire sequence of miniatures illustrates this, of course, insofar as it reflects the narrative generally, but a number of individual scenes must have illustrated key moments in Florimont’s ascent and formation. A miniature on f. 20ro, for example, might have shown the first arming of Florimont immediately before his departure to engage the monster, while another on f. 25rob probably depicted Floquart’s long lessons on courtesy, chivalry, and love to him. The blank space on f. 27voa would almost certainly have shown the dubbing of Florimont by his great-uncle, Medon, prior to his departure for Albania. Thematically, the growth of Florimont is closely linked to the political concerns leading up to his becoming King of Macedonia in succession to Philipp I. Early on in the text, a miniature on f. 8rob almost certainly depicted the founding by Philipp I of Philippopolis, marking the importance of the theme of empire. The miniature on f. 99roa would have depicted Florimont’s formal acquisition of Romadanaple and the succession to her father’s kingdom, while the last miniature in the manuscript (f. 117vob) was in all likelihood a representation of Florimont’s actual coronation, looking forward to the succession of his own son, Philipp II, father of Alexander the Great. But if Florimont is a romance of chivalric development, it is also one of identity, as the eponymous hero discards his name in favour of the epithet, “le Povre Perdu,” before becoming Florimont once more. This restoration, synchronous with Aimon’s marking a major division in the narrative, would probably have been represented by a miniature on f. 80rob. The planner of fr. 15101 was apparently familiar enough with the nature of romance manuscripts to have made provision for the kind of standard depiction of the commonplace scenes found in almost every long narrative of adventure. There is nothing more conventional than 12

Kelly, art. cit., esp. pp. 283-84.

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the representation of feasting and celebration, although it becomes much more elaborate visually in manuscripts of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The representation of feasting seems, appropriately enough, to be more frequent towards the end of this manuscript, consolidating the overall movement towards social, political, and personal stability and well-being. An early miniature on f. 48roa may have shown a feast at Philipp’s court, as may another on f. 84roa; the arrival of the messengers Elemenos and Cleomatans from Adrianopolis at this second celebration was probably shown shortly thereafter on f. 85voa. The final feast to be depicted was probably that marking Florimont’s reunion with his father on f. 116vob. The arrival of Elemenos and Cleomatans, as ambassadors of the Duke of Adrianopolis, also constitutes an embassy, and such scenes are likewise commonplace in the text and image of romance. Other examples in the text of Florimont in fr. 15101 are the arrival of a messenger from Camdiobras of Hungary (f. 13roa), and the deputation to the court of Philipp, which enables Florimont to catch his first glimpse of Romadanaple (f. 52roa). The episodic structure of much romance narrative is determined as much by departure as arrival, and is much more emotive, as it tends to signify separation of loved ones (either from family or a beloved or both). Moments of conjuncture and disjuncture are precisely those marked by pen-flourished initials in the vast majority of vernacular narrative manuscripts, and the miniatures planned for fr. 15101 may in some ways have been a substitute for them in a codex from which they were absent.13 The arrival of the Pucelle de l’Isle Selee (f. 22vob), for example, is balanced by the depiction of her departure (f. 23vob). On f. 41rob, the Povre Perdu, Floquart, and company were probably shown leaving for Philippopolis (whither their arrival may have been depicted on f. 43rob) while towards the end of the romance, Florimont takes his leave of Romadanaple and sets out for Carthage (f. 103voa). In romances where domains change hands and where kingdoms and empires are founded and fall, descriptions of warfare occupy what is to the modern mind an excessive and tedious proportion of the narrative. The planner of fr. 15101 seems to have allotted several miniatures to the battles and sieges which define the political and territorial map of 13

See Codex and Context, I, p. 183ff., esp. p. 187.

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the romance. Both miniatures on f. 55vo were probably intended to depict Camdiobras’ siege of Philippopolis and the subsequent battle before the city, and those on f. 59vo may have been reserved for the rescue of Philipp’s seneschal, Damiain, from the clutches of Gelfus. The missing miniature on f. 85vob would have shown a scene from the struggle for Adrianopolis (possibly the camp of the Hungarians in flames) and that on f. 92roa the battle for the city itself. Both scenes on f. 101ro, finally, would likely have depicted the siege of Clavegris and the liberation of Florimont’s father, Mataquas, from the clutches of the Emir of Carthage. While there are numerous adventures, a good deal of action of different kinds, and a liberal use of the merveilleux in Florimont, it is also marked by a considerable amount of dialogue, interior monologue, and narrator’s meditations (the latter particularly on the nature of love). At first sight, it would seem difficult to represent this visually, but romance manuscripts are in fact full of miniatures of characters just talking to one another or simply sitting still, reflecting on their situation. “On parle, on pense beaucoup dans les romans médiévaux,” one might say. In such instances, the relationship between text and image acquires a particularly interesting dimension. Not only does the miniature represent what the text describes, but the text actually puts words in the mouths and minds of the characters represented in the miniature, as might a caption or a balloon for a drawing in a modern strip cartoon. These kinds of scenes may seem static and dull to modern readers of manuscripts, but for medieval users they were probably as exciting as the statutory battles with monsters and suchlike, since they not only evoke the wondrous workings of love but also an author’s skill in employing the rhetorical devices for representing dialogue. Just to quote a few examples (from a dozen or so): Thecier mocks Floquart and Florimont (f. 43roa), Florimont laments (f. 69vob), Delfin talks to the queen (f. 78roa), while several other blank spaces occur in locations where they might have depicted parleys, councils, and discussions in general (ff. 48roa, 84rob, 105vob, etc.). And the evocation by images of dialogue or monologue reminds us of the oral nature of romance narrative, whether the words spoken or thought by characters within the text or of the sounds of the text as pronounced by a performer or by the inner voice of an individual reader.

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If there have been too many speculations and caveats in the course of this study and too many doubts as to the precise subjects of the missing miniatures, I do not think I have been far off the mark very often. I repeat what has become my mantra over the past decade for the reading of medieval literature in manuscript, and hope to have made a minor virtue of necessity by attempting to fill in the blanks of one copy of Aimon de Varennes’ Florimont.

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WILLIAM CALIN

The Occitan Baroque in Provence: The Example of Michel Tronc ccitan (or, as it used to be called, Provençal) is best known as the language of the troubadours, who made a major impact on the world cultural scene in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The subsequent evolution of the language and its literature never enjoyed the same favor in France or abroad. Even Mistral and the Felibrige have receded from the consciousness of cultured, educated people. However, Occitanist scholars are now working to unveil the secrets of the centuries. In addition to the vital, exciting, modern, and modernist writing of today–specifically, since World War II–they have also renewed interest in an earlier renascence, one that precedes Mistral and Aubanel by three centuries: a revival in the Occitan dialects that has been called the Southern Renaissance, the Renaissance of Toulouse, and the Occitan Baroque.1 One source for the Southern Renaissance was the little Protestant court of Navarre at Pau and Nérac. Another was in Provence, centered on and emanating from circles, semi-urban and very urbane, in Aix, Marseille, and Salon, and to some extent associated with Henri d’Angoulême. The two major poets of this school are Louis Bellaud de la Bellaudière and Pierre Paul. Further down the list, so to speak, we find Michel Tronc (1562/63-1596).

1

See Robert Lafont, Renaissance du Sud: Essai sur la littérature occitane au temps de Henri IV (Paris: Gallimard, 1970), Baroques occitans: Anthologie de la poésie en langue d’oc, 1560-1660 (Avignon: Aubanel, 1974); Robert Lafont and Christian Anatole, Nouvelle Histoire de la littérature occitane (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1970), vol. 1, pp. 265-406; and Philippe Gardy, ed., Pèire Godolin, Le Ramelet Mondin et autres oeuvres (Aix-en-Provence: Edisud, 1984), L’Ecriture occitane aux XVIe, XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles; Origine et développement d’un théâtre occitan à Aix-enProvence (1580-1730); L’œuvre de Jean de Cabanes, 2 vols. (Béziers: Centre International de Documentation Occitane, 1985), Histoire et anthologie de la littérature occitane, vol. 2: L’Age du baroque (1520-1789) (Montpellier: Presses du Languedoc, 1997), and La Leçon de Nérac: Du Bartas et les poètes occitans (15501650) (Bordeaux: Presses Universitaires de Bordeaux, 1998).

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Tronc’s poetic corpus is entitled Las Humours a la lorgino.2 In an introductory sonnet, “Ou ligeire” (To the Reader), he states that he was born in Lançon, lived in Salon-de-Provence, and, while in France, learned to write “l’umour a la lorgino” (I, p. 5). Refuting earlier speculation, Jasperse determined that “lorgino” does not refer to another person or entity that would have inspired Tronc, but to himself (I, pp. xxvi-xxix). It is his name, not someone else’s. We can imagine the name to have been Sieur Michel Tronc de Lorges or Michel Tronc dit Lorges. An English translation of the title “Las Humours a la lorgino” could be “Fancies/Caprices/Humors in the Tronkish Style” or “in the Tronkite Manner.” By Michel Tronc. This witty title, and the witty last line of “Ou ligeire,” intimate that Tronc, a proud, patriotic Provençal, went to France where he learned how to write French poetry, to define his poetic stance, and to become himself, and that he does so, but in Provençal! Las Humours a la lorgino is contained in an autograph manuscript, ca. 1595, with corrections by Pierre Paul. Gardy observes that the manuscript was probably handed over by Tronc’s family to Paul for publication (Histoire, p. 40). Paul had arranged for the publication of Bellaud’s works but did not or could not do the same for Tronc. The corpus can be divided into two parts or categories. Part 1: three brief farces, “trois pochades dramatiques” as Lafont calls them (Nouvelle Histoire, p. 314), in the tradition of the popular theater. Part 2: a variety of lyric poetry–elegies, stanzas, cartels, little pieces, sonnets, and songs–much of this treating of love, and some 113 sonnets being the most important single genre. Michel Tronc has not received particularly high marks from the scholars. Jean Rouquette devotes one sentence to Tronc in his “Que sais-je?” survey.3 The playlets are appreciated as the first manifestation, in Provençal, of theater that can be attributed to a specific writer, and for their “verve populacière,” as “une création […] qui nous plonge dans une sève populaire du meilleur aloi” (Lafont, Nouvelle Histoire, p. 314, and Renaissance, p. 171). The poetry, on the other hand, is condemned for its conventionality, literariness, and 2

Michel Tronc, Las Humours a la lorgino, ed. Catharina C. Jasperse, 2 vols. (Toulon: L’Astrado, 1978). 3 Jean Rouquette, La Littérature d’Oc (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1963), p. 53.

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absence of originality or for being not very good: “[…] l’œuvre de Tronc est très inégale et on y trouve de nombreuses pièces qui n’ont aucune valeur littéraire […].” (Jasperse, I, p. xvi).4 In my opinion, some of these judgments are misplaced, grounded as they are in an aesthetic of nineteenth-century provenance to which critics today no longer adhere. Of the “pochades dramatiques,” by general agreement the best is the first, the one entitled (by the modern editor) Enfance de Darnaneu. Barquet et Traquet (Jasperse, I, pp. 11-97). The title reflects the duality of the text, the fact that the play is made up of two seemingly distinct subplaylets, artificially juxtaposed and embedded. I. Enfance de Darnaneu recounts, in dramatic terms, Darnaneu’s growing up; we see him as a baby in the arms of his wetnurse, how he is weaned, how he learns to speak, and his experiences at school with Flascon lou mestre. II. Barquet and Traquet, good friends from childhood, love/desire Calhetto. Working in concert, they manoeuvre her into declaring her love for each of them (and, in each case, her dislike of the other), upon which they give her a good thrashing. The play as a whole is structured such that the two increments are mutually embedded or inserted, so that the five scenes of Enfance de Darnaneu and the five scenes of Barquet et Traquet are presented in a crisscross: BT1, ED1, BT2, ED2, etc. According to Jasperse, Enfance de Darnaneu offers us a genuine historical document concerning childhood, education, and the life of the family, and is striking for its realism and charming naiveté, whereas Barquet et Traquet is a worthless bedroom farce (pp. xxxvxxxvii, 14). According to Lafont, “la pièce est faite de deux sujets entrelacés qui ne se rejoignent jamais” (Nouvelle Histoire, p. 314). We find also a “contrepoint savoureux que celui de ce document ethnographique sur l’éducation populaire à une comédie légère et conventionnelle” (Renaissance, p. 170). He also prizes the charm, realism, and truth of a child’s speech. Ultimately more fruitful, in my opinion, is the theme of language proposed insightfully by Gardy (L’Ecriture, pp. 89-107). As Gardy 4

Also, the well-informed book by Fausta Garavini, La letteratura occitanica moderna (Firenze: Sansoni, and Milano: Accademia, 1970), pp. 35-36. An exception, Charles Camproux, Histoire de la littérature occitane, rev. ed. (Paris: Payot, 1971), p. 102, who claims Tronc is superior to Pierre Paul and to Bellaud.

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sees it, Barquet et Traquet shows the Provençal dialect employed creatively for purposes of ruse, dispute, and seduction. Enfance de Darnaneu, on the other hand, is centered on a child’s education in language, his creative linguistic evolution. First he mimics the cry of animals, then utters his first words, then the quiproquos of a child’s discourse subject to phonological and morphological distortion. Then comes a veritable creative delirium in speech, when Flascon sends the boy to fetch a candle. Darnaneu repeatedly forgets all but the last two syllables of candello, thus permitting him to “try out” twenty-five other terms: cabussello, feissello, garbello, marrello, escabello, vanello, gounello, lamello, guindello, escarcello, rondello, taravello, cello, callamello, irondello, canello, canadello, grello, gavello, barriello, vello, anguiello, vedello, vrello, and padello (pp. 75-81). In the final scene Occitan is employed and confronted with French in a mock–disputatio in which the pupil and the master argue over whether, in Provence, people express the affirmative by “Oc” or by “Oy.” I should like to explore this thematic further, delving into questions of sexuality and the obscene. Jasperse observes, quite accurately, that the role of Darnaneu would have been played by an adult (p. 15). I believe that the situation of an adult actor playing the child or even the baby would give rise to sexual innuendo. One example: Nurse’s eagerness to have her breast sucked by this baby who appears to be twenty years old: Regardas-ly en pau sa quaro, Ressenbl’un enffant de vingt ans […] You li vau dounar lou mameu, A, tenes, tetas don, mon beu, Et prenes aquello poussetto […] Vous aures don l’autro mamello […] Ves aquy la drecho mamello, Que vous fara tan, tan de ben. (Regardez un peu sa figure, Il ressemble à un enfant de vingt ans […] Je vais lui donner le sein, Ah, tenez, tétez donc, mon beau petit, Et prenez ce sein […] Vous aurez alors l’autre mamelle […] Voici le sein droit, Qui vous fera tant, tant de bien.) (148-49, 184-86, 191, 315-16)

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Such a reading will help us explain Darnaneu’s complaint that Nurse has hurt him: Vede aquy a mau, a mau; A, baillo a tan fa de boubo. […]A! a! baillo qu’ a fa mau A l’enfan de sa bouno maire. (Voilà que j’ai mal, j’ai mal; Ah! la nourrice a fait tant de mal. […]Ah! Ah! la nourrice qui a fait mal A l’enfant de sa bonne mère.) (361-62, 367-68)

Upon which, the mother says: “A, a, baillo, anas a l’oustau, / Non pas fa mau a la quiquetto” (Ah, nourrice, rentrez, / Ne fais pas mal à la vergette) (371-72), and we are reminded of so many scenes in the old contes and fabliaux where nursemaids play with a baby’s “thing.” Then, in the final scene, the mock-disputatio, Darnaneu has the last word. His closing argument is: If you kiss my ass, your nose and my ass-hole will figure the letters YO. Now, the Flemings say Yes! by “yo,” and we in Provence say Yes! by “oy.” Sy vostre nas ero un y Et que mon cuou fousso un o, Et boutas-my lou nas ou cuou, Regardas sy li oura yo; Yo en flamen, sensso menty, En prouvenssau vou dire oy […]. (Si votre nez était un y Et que mon derrière fût un o, Et que vous mettiez le nez contre mon derrière, Regardez s’il n’y aura yo; Yo en flamand, sans mentir, Veut dire oui en provençal […].) (858-63)5

QED. The farce ends in a climax of the obscene and the absurd. In Barquet et Traquet, in contrast, we find no verbal obscenity at all; likewise, no overt sexual activity apart from one scene which mirrors a 5

On more than one occasion, Jasperse’s academic French translation waters down the pungency of the original.

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situation discussed in the medieval jeu-parti, one where the two rascals are courting Calhetto, and she caresses the first lad with her hand and the other with her foot, at the same time. I propose a structural bond between Part I and Part II derived from the contrast. For example, we can recognize the antithesis between Darnaneu, joying in life, joying in the Bakhtinian “material bodily lower stratum”6 and the explosive, Rabelaisian, earthy creativity of his socially harmless Occitan vernacular, and Barquet and Traquet who utter a most chaste, even Petrarchan Frenchified Occitan employed for the purposes of trickery, seduction, and battery. Or, may the implied reader-audience not speculate that, just as Darnaneu, in growing up, has to face the dominant tongue–he chooses “oy” over “oc”–so also the delightfully, greedily sensual child will learn French, he will practice all the registers of Occitan, he will grow up, he will become a Barquet or Traquet, and, therefore, the baby who sucked the Nurse’s breast will learn to trick, manipulate, seduce, and thrash the Calhettos in his life. Much of the lyric poetry also treats aspects of sexuality; love is the dominant subject of the 113 sonnets, the elegies, stanzas, and songs.7 Some of this material partakes of the five-centuries-old tradition of fin’ amor as found in the medieval canso and grand chant courtois, what seiziémistes like to call amour pétrarquiste. In these renditions of the grand Ronsardian style we find the more typical themes and motifs of fin’ amor: I adore you, you are my sun and moon, your beauty is incredible, I am ill because of you, I languish in your prison, I am dying, I’ll love you forever. More numerous and more interesting, in my opinion, are a number of sonnets that correspond to a second erotic manner of the Pléiade, the “thèmes mignards” illustrated in Ronsard’s Amours de Marie, Baïf’s Amours de Francine, and much of the erotic verse by Rémy Belleau. Tronc’s Provençal Madon, sung in Provençal, would inevitably bring 6

See Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, trans. Helene Iswolsky (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1968). 7 On the importance of the Occitan sonnet at this time, Philippe Gardy, “Le sonnet occitan de l’époque baroque: Entre identité linguistique et production esthétique,” Revue des Langues Romanes, 94 (1990), 210-17. See also Robert Lafont, “En passant par la Touraine, de l’Italie à l’Occitanie,” ibid., 237-62, and Pierre Bec, Pour un autre soleil […] Le sonnet occitan, des origines à nos jours: Une anthologie (Orléans: Paradigme, 1994).

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to mind a simple country girl such as Marie or Francine and not the likes of a Cassandre or Hélène not to speak of Délie and Olive.8 Tronc’s Speaker proclaims his deep, true love for a vachiero. Developing the motif of the kiss–derived from the Greek Anthology and Johannes Secundus and filtered through Ronsard, Baïf, and Belleau–the Speaker demands a kiss and threatens the girl that, if she refuses, he will kiss her whether she wants it or not. He exploits the belle matineuse motif, offering his hands as a gift to dress her: Bon iour cent fes, la bello Madaleno! Aquest matin ty vene revelhar, Et siou vengut espres per ty balhar Un gran bon iour tout de mon amour pleno. You ty balle enca per ton estreno Aquestey mans propis per t’abilhar […]. (Cent fois bonjour, la belle Madeleine! Je viens te réveiller ce matin, Et je suis venu exprès pour te donner Un grand bonjour tout plein de mon amour. Je te fais cadeau encore De ces mains empressées à t’habiller […].) (I, pp. 180-81).

He plays with the puce motif, decrying how cheeky the flea was to remain on the girl’s body; elsewhere he recounts his feat in squashing a mosquito in that same position and is proud of the fact none has come since to threaten her. He curses the needle that “wounded” her and wants it broken into fifty pieces and tossed into the sea. In a charming, jocular style the Speaker praises Madon’s body, deducing that the hidden part must be exceptionally rare, and praise be to God who made her; and he promises the girl that he will keep her honor:

8 On the Arcadian theme in the literature of Provence, consult the very persuasive article by Jean-Yves Casanova, “Le thème d’Arcadie dans la littérature occitane du XVIe siècle: Exils géographiques et linguistiques,” in Contacts de langues, de civilisations et intertextualité, ed. Gérard Gouiran, 3 vols. (Montpellier: Centre d’Etudes Occitanes de l’Université de Montpellier, 1992), vol. 2, pp. 429-35. For French, consult Gisèle Mathieu-Castellani, Les Thèmes amoureux dans la poésie française (1570-1600) (Paris: Klincksieck, 1975), pp. 115-202.

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nobody will know of their doings except herself, himself, and de Lorges: Et you, tant que viouray, vous pourtaray respet Iusqu’ a tant que tendray dins la fouosso lou pet Et res non va soubra que vous, you et de Lorge. (Et moi, tant que je vivrai, je vous honorerai Jusqu’à ce que je tienne le pied dans la fosse Et personne ne le saura que vous, moi et de Lorges.) (II, pp. 440-41)

The lady who holds the Speaker in her prison is exalted in genus grande. Genus medium tells of the girl and her mosquito. With genus humile we enter the realm of insult and obscenity, cultivated with such brio in the three farces. A less ethereal love can be hinted at by implication: in one sonnet the Speaker, after the girl fell off her horse, “kisses” her three times, then helps her up each time, and she falls back; in another he urges carpe diem: “Culhen aros lou fruc de l’aubre que sabes” (Cueillons maintenant le fruit de l’arbre que vous connaissez) (II, pp. 408-09). Then we have the witty sonnet in which the Speaker touches the purse yet cannot deposit therein his gold; the girl is afraid of him swelling her boat with his salt water. Two sizains are acrostics, one being “MARIDA” and the other “FOUTES.” Another poem puns on the term “fons” (fond). Finally, the speaker can indulge in rather powerful invective against his ladies, when the vein so inspires him. Thus, he followed the crowd and got some small pleasures from her; or, her ass is too hot? keep her away from gunpowder and the fuse; or, beware the old bitch, she’ll give you VD: “[…] et puis ty facharas / D’aver gagnat poullins, ley chancres, la veirollo” ([…] et ensuite tu regretteras / D’avoir gagné des bubons, le chancre, la vérole) (I, pp. 218-19), or, she did give him VD, the whore; now, his little brother (the penis?) weeps over the small joy that he had: “Car mon pichot freiron toutos las houros plouro, / Per un pauquet de gau qu’eu un ren a agut” (Car mon petit frère pleure toutes les heures, / A cause d’un peu de joie qu’il a eu un instant) (I, pp. 210-11). This last sonnet alludes to one of the classic symptoms of gonorrhea. By cultivating this level of discourse, Michel Tronc shows himself to be modern and up-to-date, partaking of a mode of facétie illustrated by

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the satyristes in Les Muses folâtres of 1600 and Les Muses gaillardes of 1609.9 Although we find a few such texts in Ronsard and Jodelle, they are more prevalent in the Baroque, with Papillon de Lasphrise, Régnier, Sigogne, Théophile, and even Malherbe and Maynard. Another typically baroque motif, widespread in Tronc’s sonnets, is the notion of inconstancy. Tronc’s Speaker adopts the stance of the inconstant, unfaithful lover, the Hylas-figure that Honoré d’Urfé was to make famous a generation later. In “Estanssos” the Speaker claims to adore Madon but does so only after naming all the other girls he has loved. In one sonnet he admits he can love for only two or three days at a time. In a song, he observes that old people remain faithful to their beloveds, not the young and not the Speaker; his refrain is, “You ay coumo la flour dey chans / Que renouvello tous lous ans” (Je ressemble à la fleur des champs / Qui se renouvelle tous les ans) (II, pp. 484-89). Masculine self-proclaimed fickleness can flourish in a mood or temperament of misogyny just as the obscene does. The Speaker comments that the girl makes him warm promises but, in the end, proves to be cold. No more! he cries. I want to be like the ass [donkey], enjoying fifty she-asses per day. According to one poem, You say I love you; no, I sweet-talk everyone and I enjoy. In another, the Speaker accuses the girl of being fino and shining with finesso: You won’t trap me! (II, pp. 332-35). Finally, given that love is defined as passion, suffering, and fidelity–this is the orthodoxy of fin’ amor– the Speaker admits that he does not know how to love. Amor? Cupid? I don’t know him; please introduce me, he says: Fes-m’uno courtezie, fazes-lou my counoisse; Car vous iure per eu que despuis que nat siou, Iamais un paure cap you non l’ay vist pareisse. (Ayez l’obligeance de me le faire connaître; Car je vous jure par lui que depuis que je suis né,

9

Treating this general topic, Yvonne Bellenger, “L’obscénité facétieuse dans la poésie française après 1550 (jusque vers 1630),” in her Dix Etudes sur le XVIe et le XVIIe siècles (Paris: Nizet, 1982), pp. 191-213, and Jean-Yves Casanova, “Les sources littéraires au XVIe siècle: l’exemple de l’œuvre de Pierre Paul,” in Atti del Secondo Congresso della “Association Internationale d’Etudes Occitanes,” ed. Giuliano Gasca-Queirazza (Torino: Università di Torino, 1993), vol. 1, pp. 433-39.

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Je ne l’ai jamais vu paraître une pauvre petite fois.) (II, pp. 424-25)

Elsewhere he proclaims, the girl paid court to me; I am not faithful, love has no lodging in my heart. An explanation and a justification for the inconstancy is provided by the Speaker’s situation: he is a soldier and often separated from his women by long sojourns in France.10 He reproaches the god of love in military imagery: Amor, although you are my officer and I have served you well, others are promoted ahead of me. He is a soldier, he has an erotic dream, and he awakes only to be ordered by his superior to pack up and move out. Good-by! Good-by! he cries; I have to go to France. Or, sorry I haven’t returned; I have been away, in France, in the army. And, in one charming song, I have been away fifteen months in France, and now she is married! A masculine-oriented stance toward Eros will be reflected in the poems Michel Tronc devotes to other topics. He writes about the unhappy life of the soldier and of the misery of Provence. He writes of suffering in wartime and he praises war. He praises his own status as a man of war over that of the courtier, and attacks the peasant who dares to put on airs, who has become a courtier. In “Lou meinagy d’Izabeu” he recounts in detail a day in the life of the archetypal rural family, a day illustrated by Izabeu’s domestic accomplishments and ending with her accomplishments that night in bed with her husband. Women aren’t like that nowadays, observes the Speaker. In addition, and as a counterpoint to the poems of love, we find a small quantity of poems of masculine friendship, what is called nowadays, in advanced critical circles, the homosocial bond.11 Included in the Sonnets divers are five poems devoted to the members of “la manado,” the five friends (one of whom is Michel Tronc 10

On the motif of the soldier, Jean-Yves Casanova, “L’homme de guerre dans la littérature occitane au XVIe siècle: Satire et contre-texte,” in L’Homme de guerre au XVIe siècle, ed. Gabriel-André Pérouse et al. (Saint-Etienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Etienne, 1992), pp. 301-12. Camproux includes Tronc in a military grouping: “De nombreux condottieri qui vendaient leur épée au plus offrant: c’est parmi ces condottieri que les lettres d’oc ont recruté de nombreux rimeurs et quelques poètes dont la guerre, le jeu, l’amour et le vin étaient les uniques et attachantes préoccupations” (p. 92). 11 The seminal book is by Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1985).

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himself) portrayed as the fingers of a hand. Scholars have posited this “manado” as a poetic circle in Salon, different from and perhaps in competition with Bellaud’s “Arquins” in Aix. Nothing, however, indicates textually that Tronc’s friends had artistic talent or were given to the writing of verse. The “manado” comes across as young men who got together to eat, drink, wench, and roust about town, closer to the Three Musketeers than to the Pléiade. Michel Tronc de Lorges is a very good poet, who authored a rich and varied opus. Working within the conventions of his time, the conventions of the French Renaissance, he establishes his own stance as a lover and warrior, reasonably successful at militia et amor. He undermines the topos by having militia serve to encourage fickleness and inconstancy, to negotiate an anti-courtly take on amor. Inconstancy implies variety and change. Variety is, indeed, the hallmark of so disparate an œuvre. I would suggest, also, that variety and change structure the collection. Whereas other Renaissance and Baroque poets endow their sequences with a narrative or doctrinal progression–this is true for Peletier, Du Bellay, Ronsard, Sponde, and La Ceppède, to cite a few eminent examples12–such is not the case with Tronc. No story is told. Poems of fin’ amor juxtapose poems of mignardise, which juxtapose poems of insult and the obscene. Poetic inconstancy reflects erotic inconstancy; change in love is expressed in and by change in theme and register. Hence, perhaps, the title: Las Humours, which can be translated as “caprices” or “fancies” but also, I propose, as “humors,” referring to the medieval-Renaissance conception of the four elements in nature and the four humors or tempers in the body. The Speaker is generally sanguine, joying in sensuality and life. Choler takes over when he attacks women or courtiers and when he praises war. He yields to melancholia in those poems subject to the tradition of high courtly love. Phlegm will dominate when he wallows in food and drink or finds excuses not to return home and/or not to commit to any one female.

12 See the illuminating essay by Jean Rousset in L’Intérieur et l’extérieur: Essais sur la poésie et sur le théâtre au XVIIe siècle (Paris: Corti, 1968), pp. 13-43.

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Much of this can be categorized as Baroque.13 Yet, in other respects, Michel Tronc resembles Baïf and Belleau, even Ronsard, more than he does d’Aubigné, La Ceppède, or Saint-Amant. Similar to other poets of his time, in France and in the Occitan lands, Tronc manifests traits that we ascribe to the Renaissance and to Mannerism and to the Baroque. Although periodization in the early modern period is a topic that has been debated for decades, it can still be revisited. The Occitan poets will provide new and quite distinct evidence for this as for so many other aspects of the history of literatures and cultures.14

13

Inconstancy is a defining trait of the Baroque, according to Jean Rousset, in his classic study, La Littérature de l’âge baroque en France: Circé et le paon (Paris: Corti, 1953). 14 I explore modern and postmodern periodization in Occitan and other minority literatures, in William Calin, Minority Literatures and Modernism: Scots, Breton, and Occitan, 1920-1990 (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 2000).

CARLETON W. CARROLL

One Text, Two Scribes: Manuscript P of Erec et Enide (Paris, BnF, fr. 375)1 anuscript 375 of the fonds français of the Bibliothèque nationale de France is a large codex consisting of two originally separate manuscripts, “bound together probably in the late fourteenth or fifteenth century,” according to Terry Nixon.2 The first portion, 33 folios, “contains part of an illustrated Latin Apocalypse, followed by a French vernacular translation and commentary on the Apocalypse and other French vernacular didactic works” (Nixon, p. 64 in note 2).3 The second, much larger, portion– 313 folios–contains romans d’antiquité, Arthurian romances, and various shorter texts (see Table 1 for details). It was probably produced in Arras near the end of the thirteenth or the beginning of the fourteenth century and is the work of multiple scribes. The copying of Le Roman de Thèbes, Athis et Prophilias, Le Roman d’Alexandre, and Erec et Enide was shared, in all cases quite unequally, between two scribes. Curiously, it is always the same scribe who takes over and finishes each of these works.4 The splendid two-volume compilation entitled Les Manuscrits de Chrétien de Troyes, edited by Keith Busby et al. (see note 2), contains

1

An earlier version of this paper was presented at the annual meeting of the Medieval Association of the Pacific, Arizona State University, Tempe, March 2001. 2 Terry Nixon, “Catalogue of Manuscripts,” in Les Manuscrits de Chrétien de Troyes / The Manuscripts of Chrétien de Troyes, ed. Keith Busby, Alison Stones, Terry Nixon, and Lori Walters, 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993), vol. II, pp. 1-85, specifically p. 64. (Manuscrits) 3 For further details concerning the first portion of the manuscript, see Stewart Gregory and Claude Luttrell, “The Manuscripts of Cligés,” in Manuscrits, vol. I, pp. 67-95 (ms. P: pp. 83-90, especially p. 84; hereafter “G-L”) and Roger Middleton, “Additional Notes on the History of Selected Manuscripts,” in Manuscrits, vol. II, pp. 177-243, especially pp. 183-84. 4 Charles François, “Perrot de Neele, Jehan Madot et le ms. B.n. fr. 375,” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire, 41 (1963), 761-79, p. 767; Gregory and Luttrell, p. 89; Nixon, p. 65.

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three extensive analyses of the manuscript.5 These analyses agree for the most part as to which hand was responsible for which texts. They agree completely that the scribe responsible for the first portion of Erec et Enide also penned the preceding five texts–the Roman de Rou, Guillaume d’Angleterre, Floire et Blancheflor, Le Roman de Blancandrin, and Cligés (the only other romance by Chrétien de Troyes in this compendium), a total of 72 folios, a bit less than one fourth of the second portion of the manuscript. They also attribute to this same scribe the four short texts that conclude the compilation, another 12 folios. Further, they concur that the scribe responsible for the second portion of Erec et Enide went on to copy La Vielle Truande, Ille et Galeron, and le Miracle de Théophile, folios 291-314.6 Two Scribes The scribe who began the text of Erec et Enide–henceforth “Scribe A”–completed the first 4,488 lines, after which “Scribe B” took over for the remaining 2,191 lines. These figures are based on a count of the actual manuscript; Scribe B’s work begins at line 4663 of Foerster’s 1890 edition. (For the corresponding line numbers of subsequent editions, see Table 2.) The transition occurs in the midst of Enide’s lamentations for Erec, whom she believes to be dead, and some 20 lines before the appearance of the count of Limors. It should be noted that folio 290 verso, where Scribe A’s portion ends, and 291 recto, where Scribe B’s begins, form an opening: the contrast of hands is immediately visible.7 The difference between the two hands–the actual style of lettering– is apparent at a glance. I shall not discuss the hands themselves, since that has already been done by the authors mentioned. Terry Nixon, who describes the manuscript as “six hands working as an ensemble,” calls five of them “round book hands,” whereas “Hand 2”–our Scribe B–is “a fast, stabbing hand characterized by the jointed formation of 5

Those mentioned in notes 2 and 3 and Françoise Gasparri, Geneviève Hasenohr, and Christine Ruby, “De l’écriture à la lecture: réflexion sur les manuscrits d’Erec et Enide,” in Manuscrits, vol. I, pp. 97-148 (ms. P: pp. 119-25; hereafter “G-H-R”). 6 To a large extent these analyses, especially those of G-L and Nixon, follow that of Charles François, for whom these were scribes 4 and 2, respectively (p. 765). 7 Scribe B’s work begins a new quire (François, p. 765; G-L, p. 88; G-H-R, p. 120).

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letters and separation between letters” (p. 66).8 But there are various other differences between these two scribes, including the distribution of letter-forms, the use and form of abbreviations, punctuation, and spelling. Since both scribes were presumably working from the same model, at very nearly the same time and in the same workshop, a systematic comparison of the two portions of the text of this one romance may afford an insight into medieval scribal practices. Letter-forms In manuscripts of this type and period one finds two distinct forms for the letter s: “round s,” similar to our modern printed s, and “tall s,” ſ. Speaking of Scribe B, G-H-R observe “s final le plus souvent minuscule” (p. 121). They say nothing of this letter in Scribe A. My own examination finds that Scribe A almost always writes round s at the end of the line. On folio 290rb, for example, lines F4247-54,9 there are eight line-final s’s in a row, seven of them round. I find only 11 exceptions to this, i.e., ſ in final position, in the entire 4,488 lines penned by Scribe A. In Scribe B’s portion, however, ſ in final position seems to be the rule: in F5973-80 (293vb) we have the reverse situation: eight consecutive lines ending in s, all but one of them tall. One finds 38 occurrences of ſ on folio 291r, compared to just five cases of final round s (F4707, F4716, F4730, F4787, F4892). Further, these passages show that neither scribe was averse to using the two forms in successive lines, i.e., in the two rhyme-words of a couplet. In F4249-50 (290rb) Scribe A pens ſages : damageſ; in F5975-76 (293vb) 8 Charles François described the two hands in these terms: “L’écriture du copiste 2 [Scribe B] est plus anguleuse et un peu plus grande que celle des autres. Le signe abréviatif dont il use pour la conjonction et est caractéristique : un long trait horizontal et deux courts, superposés. […] L’écriture du copiste 4 [Scribe A] est ronde et menue, soignée et très lisible. Ce scribe forme consciencieusement ses u, ses n, ses m, et il fait, pour les i, un emploi avisé du signe diacritique. S’il abrège toujours la conjonction et à l’intérieur du vers, il est le seul à prendre la peine de l’écrire en toutes lettres quand elle commence la ligne. L’initiale du vers est majuscule, sauf de rares exceptions.” (p. 766) For further details of the two hands, see G-L, pp. 86-87 and G-H-R, pp. 121-22. 9 Line-number references are to Foerster’s 1890 edition. For the corresponding line numbers in subsequent editions, see Table 3. It should be noted that Foerster’s variants to P are particularly unreliable.

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Scribe B pens naſes : enfleſ.10 Indeed, in all of the 11 exceptions mentioned above–ſ used by Scribe A in final position–the other rhymeword of the couplet ends with round s. (In eight cases out of the 11 it is the first line of the couplet that gets ſ) In Scribe B’s portion, where ſ is the rule, we frequently find two successive lines ending in ſ but I have found only one case of two round s’s in a row (F5689-90, 293ra) in the entire 2,191 lines penned by Scribe B. The letter r also has two distinct forms, and again the distribution is different between the two scribes. Both systematically use round r, shaped something like the numeral 2, after the letter o.11 Examples are legion; in the passages mentioned one finds forest and mores in F4251 (290rb) and the word lor twice in F5975 (293vb).12 In the combinations br, dr, and pr, Scribe A always writes round r–an example of br can be seen in F2986 (287va)–but Scribe B is less systematic. He always uses a normal r following b, and all but once after p, but in the combination dr he uses both: in the first 1000 lines penned by Scribe B, we find 13 occurrences of normal r and 17 of round r following d. In three cases where the rhymes of a couplet end in –dre, one finds normal r used for one rhyme word and round r for the other. The one exception for r after p is curious: in the word propre, F6880 (295rd), the first pr uses normal r and the second uses round r. Small capitals internal to the line A different type of variation in letter-forms involves the use of small capital letters within a line. All but four of these occur in proper names or the titles Roi / Rois and Roine. The exceptions are the common nouns Rubin (“ruby,” F1613, 284vc), Gaians (“giants,” F6491, 294vb), and Maniere (F6715, 295rb), and the verb Maine in F6002 (293vb). Although such small capitals appear in both portions of the text, their distribution is quite uneven between the two scribes, with 18 in Scribe A’s text and 31 in Scribe B’s. In other terms, they 10 P’s 5976 reads “Que puins et bras en ont enfles,” whereas Foerster and all subsequent editions read “Et poinz et braz et plus assez.” 11 The one exception to this occurs when O begins the line and is therefore set off from the following r. 12 Foerster’s line 5975 has les rather than lor, as do all subsequent editions.

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occur on average every 249 lines in part A and every 71 lines in part B, or 3.5 times as frequently in Scribe B’s portion of the text as in Scribe A’s. The name Guivret accounts for 21 of these small capitals, nearly 43% of the total, and all but two of these are found in Scribe B’s portion of the manuscript. Only once is his name written with lower-case g (F4940, 291va). Erec’s name, by way of contrast, gets a small capital only once (1163, 283vd), and Enide’s never does. The letter G seems to have been particularly favored in this way, for several other proper names are similarly marked, including Genieure, capitalized three times, lines 125, 149 (both 281vd), F1524 (284vb); lower-case once, F1015 (283va). The words Roi, Rois, and Roine account for eight small capitals, all of them in Scribe B’s text. These same words are much more frequently written with lower-case r, however: at least 75 times over the same span of text. The difference, small-capital vs. lower-case, does not seem to depend on which king is mentioned nor on whether the word appears in rhyme position or internal to the line. The two forms may be observed in folio 295rd: King Arthur orders bishops, priors, and abbots to come forward “Por enoindre le novel Roi,” capital R, but just four lines below we are told that the bishop of Nantes “Fist le sacre du roi novel,” lower-case r.13 Abbreviations When Scribe A begins a line with Que, he regularly abbreviates it, using a sort of apostrophe after the capital Q, common in manuscripts of this type and period. Examples abound, beginning with line 2.14 Scribe B, on the other hand, uses a different form, where the capital Q is followed by a short horizontal stroke attached to a descending oblique stroke which crosses the tail of the Q, forming something like the numeral 7, as seen in F4679 (291ra).15 This occurs not only in the word Que, but also in combinations where we would write Qu’ before

13

P omits four lines in this passage, so the line containing roi novel comes eight lines after novel Roi in the various editions (F6859, 6867). 14 Further examples of Q’ for Que , f. 281v: lines 10, 16, 20, 55, 57, 110. 15 Further examples of “Q7” for Que, f. 291r (Foerster’s text, where different, is given in parentheses): F4681 (Qui), F4707, F4710 (Ne), F4795, F4802 (Qu’or), F4823 (Qui), F4843, F4847, F4871 (Car), F4883, F4889 (Car), F4901.

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a vowel, as in Quencor, F4695 (291ra); Quentre, F4736 (291rb),16 and Quen, F4756 (291rb), as well as in words like Quels, F4747 (291rb). All these words, similarly abbreviated, are frequent in Scribe B’s portion of the text. He extends the “Q7” abbreviation to the word Quant, F4789, F4808, F4857 (291rc-d) and frequently elsewhere, which would ordinarily be expanded with ua rather than ue.17 In contrast, Scribe A abbreviates Quant by writing Qnt, with a rather stylized superscript a, present in lines 193 and 199 and very frequent elsewhere in his portion of the text. In discussing our Scribe A, G-H-R categorically affirm “pas de signe tironien et à l’initiale des vers” (p. 122). This is not strictly true, for one finds nine occurrences of this symbol–a sort of z with a crossbar–in line-initial position, but in every case it begins the line immediately following a two-line colored capital letter and is, consequently, indented and aligned with the second letter of other lines.18 This contrasts with Scribe A’s usual practice of spelling out the word Et in line-initial position (cf. note 9). Scribe B’s practice is exactly the opposite: he never spells out Et in line-initial position, preferring instead to use the abbreviation, as seen in F5842-43, 584546, 5848-4919 (293rd), six times in a span of eight lines. Both scribes make abundant use of the abbreviation when it is internal to the line. The abbreviation for est, consisting of a short horizontal segment with a short, thick, slightly inclined diagonal segment above and a longer, thinner diagonal segment below, as in F4699 (291ra), is used exclusively by Scribe B, but just seven times in his 2,191 lines.20 Far more frequently, he spells out the word, 11 times on folio 291r alone. He even uses both forms in the same line, F4803 (291rc). The word puis is also treated differently by the two scribes. In lineinitial position, Scribe A almost always abbreviates, writing a capital P 16

The editions, based on other manuscripts, read differently in this line: Qui antre in Foerster; Antre in Roques, Carroll, and Dembowski; Entre in Fritz. 17 Scribe B also uses the “Q7” followed by nd for Quand, as in F4819 (291rc). 18 Line-initial abbreviated et, Scribe A: 670 (282vd), F1234 (284ra), F1294 (284rb), F1374 (284rc), F1924 (285rd), F2356 (286rb), F3494 (288va), F3572 (288vc), and F4474 (290vb). 19 F5848 begins Qu’il, as does Fritz 5840; Foerster’s variants do not indicate P’s reading. The corresponding line in Roques, Carroll and Dembowski begins with Ainz. 20 Abbreviated est, Scribe B: F4699 (291ra), F4803 (291rc), F5479 (292vb), F5581 (292vd; fu in all editions), F6031 (293vc), F6221 (294rb), and F6614 (294vd).

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with a sort of superscript “9,” the first of 36 occurring in line 498 (282va). Only once does he spell the word out in full in this position, 289vc (F4071, but Des in all editions). Scribe B, on the other hand, abbreviates line-initial puis just twice (F5199, 292ra; F5478, 292vb– again Des in all editions) but spells it out 15 times. When puis occurs within the line, Scribe A uses the “p9” abbreviation 12 times and spells the word out six times, whereas Scribe B never uses the abbreviation and spells the word out 26 times. Punctuation In their discussion of punctuation in ms. P, G-H-R speak of “l’originalité du système de ponctuation de P” (p. 122), but hasten to point out the considerable discrepancy in the use of punctuation between the two scribes. According to their count, Scribe A uses a total of 170 punctuation marks, whereas Scribe B uses just 8; this works out to an average of one such mark for every 27 lines in A and one per 280 lines in B–in other words, punctuation marks occur roughly ten times as frequently in A as in B. The most striking feature of Scribe A’s punctuation is the careful distinction between exclamatory intonation, marked by the punctus elevatus, a sort of upside-down semi-colon, and interrogative intonation, marked by an early form of question mark, a dot surmounted by something resembling an elongated letter c. We see examples of each in F2980-85, 287va. In the following transcription, I have tried to approximate the form of the punctus elevatus as well as a raised dot in the second-last line. The modern question mark stands for the corresponding mark in the manuscript; the comma, period, and apostrophes are my additions. (This is a portion of Enide’s third monologue; she has just seen the five robber-knights. The pronouns li, il, and l’ in the first four lines refer to Erec.) Ha .$ diex comment li dirai gié ? Il m’ocirra .$ asses m’ocie, Ne lairai pas que ne li die. Dont l’apele doucement .$ sire .$ Coi ? fait il · que voles vos dire ? Sire merci .$ dire vos voel […].

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Scribe A is not completely systematic about the use of the question mark, however: when Erec prepares to leave accompanied by no one but his wife, his father the king asks his son: “Biaus fix fait il que veus tu faire” and there is no punctuation (F2697, 286vd). Scribe B is extremely sparing of punctuation in general, using the punctus elevatus just seven times and the period only once, according to G-H-R; he makes no use of the question mark. Spelling differences between the two scribes This is potentially dangerous ground, since any one scribe’s practice usually varies within a text, frequently over a span of just a few lines. Further, it is a vast area, and there are always other words one can investigate. A few examples must suffice. – mais/mes As conjunction or adverb (coupled with ne or onques), the spelling mes does not occur in Scribe A’s text, mais being his standard form. Scribe B, on the other hand, uses both spellings, but with occurrences of mais far outnumbering those of mes: I count just 12 occurrences of the latter, versus 87 occurrences of the former. – ml’t/mout Both scribes normally abbreviate the adverb mout in the customary way, ml’t. Scribe A spells it out in full just twice (F4035, 289vb, and F4179, 290ra), and in both cases the word occurs in rhyme position. Scribe A always abbreviates the word when it is line-initial or internal to the line. In contrast, Scribe B writes mout seven times in internal position–the word does not occur at the rhyme in his portion of the text–but these occurrences are far outweighed by the abbreviated form ml’t, which occurs 12 times on the first folio he copied and 11 times on another folio chosen at random. – maintenant Whereas Scribe A always writes maintenant, either including all letters or using a horizontal bar to indicate the first n (19 occurrences, six with the letter n and 13 with the horizontal bar), Scribe B is more likely to omit the first n (seven occurrences), although he also writes mainte- twice and uses the horizontal bar on four occasions.

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There is general agreement that the language of the manuscript is Picard.21 Picard features include replacement of ch with c and vice versa. This trait is evident in vocabulary relating to hunting, the verb chacier and similar words. Scribe A begins all such words with caand in 13 out of the 15 occurrences in his portion of the text he writes a medial -ch-, so that chacier becomes cachier, chaceor becomes cacheor, etc. Scribe B, on the other hand, uses ka- for all such words in his portion: kacier and kace. In general, however, the use of the letter k is similar between the two scribes.22 Another Picard feature is the use of le instead of la as feminine singular definite article and direct-object pronoun, and both scribes vary between these two forms.23 In the first 1000 lines Scribe A uses le instead of la 15 times, whereas that usage occurs 43 times in the first 1000 lines of Scribe B’s portion of the manuscript. Similarly, one finds the possessive adjectives me for ma and se for sa, but these are much less frequent and seem to be part of Scribe B’s usage but not Scribe A’s.24 Colored capitals

21 Foerster, p. ii; G-L, p. 83; Nixon, p. 67; Alexandre Micha, La Tradition manuscrite des romans de Chrétien de Troyes (Paris, 1939; rpt. Geneva: Droz, 1966), pp. 31-32. Roques affirms that the manuscript was written in Arras (p. xxviii); Dembowski calls the language “fortement picardisée” (p. 1069). 22 The figures are as follows for some other relatively uncommon letters: Scribe A Scribe B w 12 1 y 23 (16 of the 23 are in proper names) 2 z 1 0 (Spellings with z, common in mss. B and C, are realized as s in P.) 23 Keith Busby also mentions this feature in “The Scribe of MSS T and V of Chrétien’s Perceval and its Continuations,” in Manuscrits, vol. I, pp. 49-65: “One of the characteristics of the Picard or Franco-Picard dialect is the use of le for la as the feminine singular definite article” (p. 58). 24 I have found just one example of the former, me fame (F6614, 294vd), and five of the latter: se lance (F5951, 293vb), se gent (F6428, 294va), se cort (F5543, 292vc and F6433, 294va), and se propre ymage (F6880, 295rd).

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Roger Middleton’s table of colored capitals25 (pp. 174-86) lists 108 for ms. P, to which we may add one case where space has been left for a capital but the letter has not been executed. Of this total of 109, 76 are in Scribe A’s portion of the text and 33 in Scribe B’s. The distribution is thus quite close between the two sections, an average of one colored capital per 59 lines in A and one per 66 lines in B. Since the decision concerning placement of colored capitals may have been independent of the individual scribe, I do not feel we can draw any useful conclusions from this. Middleton’s table reveals one other fact, however, which may be significant. Each manuscript has colored capitals which are unique to that manuscript, i.e., the six other manuscripts do not place a colored capital in those lines. There are 14 such unique capitals in Scribe A’s portion of the text, and ten in Scribe B’s, a disproportionate concentration, unique capitals being nearly 1.5 times as frequent in Scribe B’s portion as in Scribe A’s. A further difference may be observed with respect to the use of guide-letters. Scribe A places an inked guide-letter for almost every colored capital in his portion of the text. These are still readily visible in 72 cases out of 76, and one is at least guessable in three of the four remaining cases. There is only one case, 282rd, where there is absolutely no trace of a guide-letter (which would normally be in the right-hand margin). On the other hand, there are no inked guide-letters in Scribe B's portion, and only a few cases where any mark at all has been made outside the text to indicate the planned colored capital. P’s “abridged” text Table 2 shows how short manuscript P is compared to the various published editions of the romance–just 6,679 lines compared to an average of 6,929.6 lines for the five editions. P is thus 250 lines shorter than the average, a difference of 3.6%.26 Yet with the exception of one 60-line omission, clearly erroneous, P generally presents a satisfactory text, and if one had no basis for comparison, one would not notice that anything was missing. The text reads smoothly and one 25

“Coloured Capitals in the Manuscripts of Erec et Enide,” in Manuscripts, vol. I, pp. 149-93. 26 By way of comparison, manuscript B, BnF, fr. 1376, with 6,896 lines, 217 lines longer than P, comes much closer to the average.

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must conclude that the deletions were deliberate. Such omissions or deletions are considerably more numerous in Scribe B’s portion of the text. I have discussed this elsewhere27 and will not pursue the matter further here. Conclusion Though the differences between the work of the two scribes are obvious to us, they apparently were not considered significant by those responsible for producing the manuscript. They must have assumed that the abrupt change of hand and the different scribal practices, involving, as we have seen, letter-forms, abbreviations, punctuation, and spelling, would pose no problem to those who would subsequently use the manuscript.28 As I mentioned early on, in each case where there is a change of hands within a work in manuscript P, it is always the same scribe who pens the second portion. Could it be that Scribe B was called in because the work was going too slowly, and either was instructed to delete some material, or took it upon himself to do so, in order to finish the job more speedily?29 It would be interesting to compare Scribe B’s portion of the other “split” texts–Le Roman de Thèbes, Athis et Prophilias, and Le Roman d’Alexandre–with the work of the scribe who began each, to see whether similar differences appear between the two. That would be a much more ambitious project than

27 Carleton W. Carroll, “A Reappraisal of the Relationship Between Two Manuscripts of Erec et Enide,” in Nottingham French Studies, 30.2 (1991), 34-42 (especially pp. 36-37). 28 Cf. G-H-R: “Outre ces caractéristiques matérielles concordantes [common to manuscripts H and P], plusieurs indices laissent penser que ces volumineux spécimens, confectionnés par des professionnels (de l’écriture), étaient également destinés à des professionnels (de la littérature) bien plutôt qu’à de riches amateurs” (p. 143). 29 Gregory and Luttrell point out that the function of our Scribe B (their Hand 2) is “noteworthy”: he is the only scribe to complete a text begun by another hand; he alone “partakes in all three fascicles” (divisions of the manuscript, based on the number of columns to the page); and it is he who adds the only text not listed in Perrot de Nesle’s “summaries” (the prose genealogy of the counts of Boulogne). They conclude that this suggests that Scribe B was the organizer of the volume (p. 89). The absence of guideletters in the second portion of the text lends further support to this theory.

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what I have undertaken so far, and I invite others to continue the investigation.30

30 It is hoped that the manuscripts of Erec et Enide will one day be available in an on-line archive similar to that of the “Charrette Project” created by Karl Uitti and his team at Princeton University (http://www.princeton.edu/~lancelot). I wish to acknowledge the assistance rendered by Lois Hawley Wilson, who transcribed manuscript P for this project.

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Table 1. Manuscript P (second portion) and the various hands Folios and texts

Hands (Nixon)

34-35 Perrot de Nesle, summary 36-67v Le Roman de Thèbes 68-119v Le Roman de Troie 119v-162 Athis et Prophilias 162-163 Les Congés (Jean Bodel) 164-216 Le Roman d'Alexandre 216-216v genealogy of the counts of Boulogne 219-240v Le Roman de Rou 240v-247v Guillaume d'Angleterre 247v-254v Floire et Blancheflor 254v-267 Le Roman de Blancandrin 267v-281v Cligés 281v-295v Erec et Enide 295v-296 La Vielle Truande 296-309v Ille et Galeron 310-314 Le Miracle de Théophile 315-331v Amadas et Ydoine 331v-333v La Chastelaine de Vergi 333v-334v L’Epître farcie de saint Etienne 335-342v Les Vers de la Mort 342v-344 La Louange de Notre-Dame 344-344v La Vielle Truande 344v-346v Miracles de Notre-Dame

“a separate hand” 1, 36-43v; 2, 44-67v 3, 68-123v 3, 119v-123v; 2, 124-163 2 3, 164-182; 2, 182-216v 2 4, 219-290v 4 4 4 4 4, 281v-290v; 2, 291-314 2 2 2 5, 315-333v 5 6 4, 335-346 4 4 4

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Table 2. Division of text between scribes, Erec et Enide, ms. P (Paris, BnF, fr. 375)

A. Manuscript P

Scribe A

Scribe B

f. 281v-290v 4,488 lines 67.2%

f. 291r-295v 2,191 lines 32.8%

1-4662 1-4626 1-4616 1-4658 1-4664

4663-6958 4627-6878* 4617-6912 4659-6950 4665-6950

B. Editions Foerster (1890) Roques (1952) Carroll (1987) Fritz (1992) Dembowski (1994)

Column a of f. 281v contains the final 18 lines and the explicit of Cligés and the incipit of Erec et Enide, the text of which begins with a 12-line decorated initial at the top of column b. Columns b, c, and d contain a total of 168 lines of text. Each recto and verso of f. 282r-290v contains 240 lines of text, as do the complete folios of Scribe B's portion, 291r-295r. Column a of f. 295v contains 31 lines (Foerster 6922 and 692958). * Ms. P contains 16 lines beyond the end of Roques' text. Editions of Erec et Enide: Foerster, Wendelin, ed. Christian von Troyes. Sämtliche Werke nach allen bekannten Handschriften. 4 vols. III. Erec und Enide. Halle: Niemeyer, 1890; rpt. Amsterdam, Rodopi, 1965. Roques, Mario, ed. Chrétien de Troyes. Erec et Enide. Les romans de Chrétien de Troyes édités d'après la copie de Guiot (Bibliothèque nationale, fr. 794). Paris: Champion, 1952. Carroll, Carleton W., ed. Chrétien de Troyes. Erec and Enide. With an introduction by William W. Kibler. New York: Garland, 1987. Fritz, Jean-Marie, ed. Chrétien de Troyes. Erec et Enide. Paris: Librairie Générale Française, 1992. Dembowski, Peter, ed. Erec et Enide in Chrétien de Troyes, Œuvres complètes, édition publiée sous la direction de Daniel Poirion. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade. Paris: Gallimard, 1994.

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Table 3. Cited line numbers: corresponding numbers in later editions of Erec et Enide Foerster 1890

Roques 1952

Carroll 1987

Fritz 1992

Dembowski 1994

Ms. P

Line numbers below 903 are identical in all five editions. 1015 1163 1234 1294 1374 1524 1613 1924 2356 2697 2980-85 2986 3494 3572 4035 4071 4179 4247-54 4474

1011 1159 1228 1288 1354 1504 1593 1874 2300 2693 2976-81 2982 3488 3562 4013 4049 4157 4223-30 4448

1015 1163 1232 1292 1362 1512 1601 1888 2318 2659 2942-47 2948 3458 3536 3991 4027 4135 4201-08 4428

1015 1163 1232 1290 1370 1520 1609 1920 2352 2693 2976-81 2982 3490 3568 4031 4067 4175 4243-50 4470

1015 1163 1232 1292 1362 1512 1601 1888 2316 2709 2992-97 2998 3506 3584 4039 4075 4183 4249-56 4476

283va 283vd 284ra 284rb 284rc 284vb 284vc 285rd 286rb 286vd 287va 287va 288va 288vc 289vb 289vc 290ra 290rb 290vb

4643 4645 4659 4663 4671 4674 4680 4694 4700 4711 4720 4751 4753 4759 4766 4767 4772 4783 4787

4633 4635 4649 4653 4661 4664 4670 4684 4690 4701 4710 4741 4743 4749 4756 4757 4762 4773 4777

4675 4677 4691 4695 4703 4706 4712 4726 4732 4743 4752 4783 4785 4791 4798 4799 4804 4815 4819

4681 4683 4697 4701 4709 4712 4718 4732 4738 4749 4758 4789 4791 4797 4804 4805 4810 4821 4825

291ra 291ra 291ra 291ra 291ra 291ra 291ra 291rb 291rb 291rb 291rb 291rc 291rc 291rc 291rc 291rc 291rc 291rc 291rc

Scribe B 4679 4681 4695 4699 4707 4710 4716 4730 4736 4747 4756 4787 4789 4795 4802 4803 4808 4819 4823

CARLETON W. CARROLL

124 Table 3 (cont.) Foerster

Roques

Carroll

Fritz

Dembowski

Ms.

4843 4847 4857 4871 4883 4889 4892 4901 4940 5199 5478 5479 5543 5581 5689-90 5842-49 5951 5973-80 6002 6031 6221 6428 6433 6491 6614 6715 6859 6867 6880

4807 4811 4821 4835 4847 4853 4856 4865 4904 5159 5430 5431 5495 5533 5641-42 5792-99 5901 5923-30 5952 5981 6169 6376 6381 6433 6554 6653 6797 6805 6818

4797 4801 4811 4825 4837 4843 4846 4855 4894 5153 5432 5433 5497 5535 5643-44 5796-5803 5905 5927-34 5956 5985 6175 6382 6387 6445 6568 6669 6813 6821 6834

4839 4843 4853 4867 4879 4885 4888 4897 4936 5191 5470 5471 5535 5573 5681-82 5834-41 5943 5965-72 5994 6023 6213 6420 6425 6483 6606 6707 6851 6859 6872

4845 4849 4859 4873 4885 4891 4894 4903 4942 5197 5476 5477 5541 5579 5687-88 5838-45 5947 5969-76 5998 6027 6217 6424 6429 6487 6608 6707 6851 6859 6872

291rd 291rd 291rd 291rd 291rd 291rd 291rd 291rd 291va 292ra 292vb 292vb 292vc 292vd 293ra 293rd 293vb 293vb 293vb 293vc 294rb 294va 294va 294vb 294vd 295rb 295rd 295rd 295rd

CAROL J. CHASE

Christ, the Hermit and the Book: Text and Figuration in the Prologue to the Estoire del Saint Graal he most frequent subject for the opening illumination of the 13th-century Estoire del Saint Graal is that of Christ giving a little book to a hermit.1 This miniature illustrates a key moment in the extraordinary prologue to this text, which is in and of itself a sort of giant preface to the Lancelot-Grail cycle. The scene takes place in a long narrative section of the prologue relating how the hermit obtained the book he will copy. The prologue is divided in two unequal parts—a short introduction and an extended narrative. The entire text takes up three to four folios in most manuscripts. At the beginning of the introductory section the hermit-scriptor invokes “the Great Master”—that is, Christ, who might be considered his “patron,” since it is He who ordered that this history be written. The hermit also greets his public—those who believe in the Trinity.2 This vernacular romance is thus presented as a sacred text set squarely in the Christian tradition. The hermit, who speaks of himself in the third person in this part, refuses to provide his name, giving three reasons. But he reveals the title of the work and the author— Christ Himself. The narrative section of the prologue, which is related in the first person singular, further divides in two parts. In the first Christ appears to the hermit, presenting the little book, which the hermit begins to read. He interrupts this act to celebrate Mass. At the moment when 1 Alison Stones devotes several pages to the opening illumination in manuscripts of the Estoire in “Seeing the Grail. Prolegomena to a Study of Grail Imagery in Arthurian Manuscripts,” in The Grail. A Casebook, ed., Dhira B. Mahoney (NY/London: Garland, 2000), pp. 303-06. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the meetings of the Modern Language Association in December, 2001. 2 “Chil ki la hauteche et la signourie de si haute estoire com est chele du Graal met en escrit par le commandement du grant Maistre mande tout premierement salus a tous cheus et a toutes cheles ki ont lor creanche en la sainte, glorieuse Trinité […].” JeanPaul Ponceau, ed., L’Estoire del Saint Graal, 2 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1997), vol. I, p. 1. All references are to this edition, which presents the long version of the romance. The short version begins in a slightly different way.

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Communion would normally be celebrated, an angel intervenes in order to clarify one of the mysteries of the Christian religion: the hermit’s soul is transported to the third heaven, and higher, where he has a vision of the Trinity. In the second part of the narrative the hermit departs on a quest for the book, which disappeared from the casket where he had placed it.3 A strange animal leads him to his destination, then accompanies him on his return, after which it disappears. At the end the hermit returns to his home, where Christ directs him to copy the book, stating that the original will disappear from earth on the date of His Ascension. The opening illumination depicting the gift of the book is thus related to a specific moment in the narrative section of the prologue. This miniature is often expanded to include other scenes related to the hermit’s task—or to the narrative that follows in the Estoire or even in the rest of the cycle. But the first folio can also include religious iconography connected to elements in the prologue or the text, such as the Trinity or the Crucifixion. In this study I propose to examine the interrelationship between text and image in the prologue. While the prologue to the Estoire and its illuminations have provoked some critical attention,4 no one has considered the connections between the two. My focus will be on the opening folio. The manuscripts of the Estoire found in Paris—in the Bibliothèque Nationale and the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal—are the basis of this work, but I refer as well to a few manuscripts that I have

3 It is noteworthy that this casket also holds the corpus domini; the book is thus associated with Christ’s body. Critics have noted that the book’s disappearance is a metaphor for that of Christ from the tomb. See, for example, Alexandre Leupin, Le Graal et la littérature (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1982), p. 28. 4 On the prologue, see Leupin, Le Graal, pp. 23-35; E. Jane Burns, Arthurian Fictions. Rereading the Vulgate Cycle (Columbus, Ohio: Ohio State Univ. Press, 1985), Ch. 2; Michelle Szkilnik, l’Archipel du Graal: Etude de L’Estoire del Saint Graal (Geneva: Droz, 1991), pp. 60-64; Francis Dubost, “Procédures d’initialité dans la littérature du Graal,” in Vers un thésaurus informatisé: topique des ouvertures narratives avant 1800. Actes du 4e colloque international SATOR, Montpellier 25-26 octobre 1990 (Montpellier: Centre d’étude du 18e siècle, 1991), pp. 18-21; Rupert T. Pickens, “Autobiography and History in the Vulgate Estoire and in the Prose Merlin,” in The Lancelot-Grail Cycle. Text and Transformations, ed., William W. Kibler (Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1994), pp. 98-116. On the illuminations, see Stones, “Seeing the Grail,” pp. 303-06.

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been able to consult elsewhere or that have been the subject of study by others. The choice of the gift of the book for the opening miniature highlights what was clearly one of the most important pieces of information in the prologue: the source of the book. It seems intended to underscore the authority accorded to the narrative, which is presented somewhat scandalously as written by Christ Himself.5 The prologue, however, is the work of the hermit (Leupin, p. 32), who is depicted as receiving the little book and who is directed by Christ to copy it. Although the hermit refers to himself in the third person in the introductory section, throughout the narrative part of the prologue, he writes in the first person. This authorial presence contrasts with the rest of the romance and the cycle, in which a series of formulas referring to “li contes” (but where “je” and “nous” also appear) divides the text into “chapters.”6 Though the hermit speaks of himself in humble terms, calling himself “la plus povre persone […] et la plus despite ki onkes fust formée” (I, 1) and “li plus pechieres des autres pechours” (I, 2), this conventional modesty topos7 is undercut, for at the same time he establishes his own saintliness in several ways: through Christ’s visit; his vision of the Trinity; his lineage—which is presented in the little book—and the reactions of others to his presence. During his quest for the book, the hermit is offered hospitality by several people. In these episodes, pride and self-effacement coexist. The first night, for example, the hermit stops at the hut of another hermit, who asks his benediction. The hermit modestly refuses, “car j’estoie uns hom pechieres” but finally cedes to the request, stating that it “mout durement me pesa, car Diex le seit ke je n’en fuisse mie dignes” (I, 14). The hermit also sets forth his fear that the envious and disloyal might turn his statements into boasts (I, 1 and 10), which in fact suggests his self-esteem. Other signs of the hermit’s saintliness include the fact that only he and one other person can see the strange animal. 5

Burns suggests that this authority is undercut by the plurality of the narrative voices in the Estoire (p. 13). 6 On the narrative voice, see Burns, Ch. 2, and Pickens, pp. 98-101. 7 On the topos of affected modesty, consult Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. Willard R. Trask (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1973), pp. 83-85.

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Furthermore, a voice from the heavens speaks to him on several occasions. The hermit is thus the central character in this autobiographical narrative. But Christ is also a personage in this récit (Pickens, p. 103). The choice of Christ’s presentation of the little book to the hermit as the opening illumination thus makes evident the importance of the hermit’s role and his saintliness as well as Christ’s multiple functions (patron, author, and character). This subject, or a variant thereof—sometimes it is an angel who presents the book; sometimes Christ simply appears to the hermit— appears in 11 of the 16 manuscripts of the Estoire in Parisian libraries that have opening miniatures (see Table 1).8 There are 7 other manuscripts in these libraries, all of which lack illuminations on the first folio: two are incomplete at the beginning (BnF, fr. 110 and Ars. 2997); several have no illuminations at all (BnF, fr. 2455, Ars. 3349 and 3350); and two have only decorated initials (BnF, fr. 98 and 1426).9 This scene is present even in multi-compartmented illuminations. It is particularly prevalent in 13th- and 14th-century manuscripts but also appears in one 15th-century manuscript (BnF, fr. 96). In nearly all, the hermit is depicted lying in bed, while Christ either leans out of a cloud or stands over him. He extends the book to the hermit, who reaches to take it. Some of the earlier manuscripts present this scene in a historiated initial (BnF, fr. 344 and 747; Ars. 3348). The earliest illustrated manuscript, Rennes, BM 255, which Alison Stones has studied and dates ca. 1220,10 presents the gift of the book in this way. Stones points out that in this miniature there is an altar on the right on which stands a chalice. She suggests that this is probably the Eucharistic chalice the hermit uses to celebrate Mass, but that it “could also be read as a visual 8

Five openings represent other scenes. One depicts the Trinity; three show scenes from Lancelot’s life and one presents the hermit writing, while Christ appears above, holding a scroll (BnF, fr. 12582). Berkeley, UCB 106 presents a similar opening scene: the hermit writes, while an angel appears above holding a scroll. See below, pp. 9-10. 9 Of the 44 manuscripts identified by Ponceau (I, xxv-xxvii), 23 are held by the Bibliothèque Nationale and the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal; the corpus is thus well represented. 10 “The Earliest Illustrated Prose Lancelot Manuscript,” Reading Medieval Studies, 3 (1977), pp. 3-44. There is a reproduction in Stones, “Seeing the Grail,” p. 304.

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anticipation of the Grail, whose story will follow” (“Seeing the Grail,” p. 304). This scene or its variant becomes quite elaborate in 15thcentury manuscripts, as in BnF, fr. 96 (ca. 1450-60), which opens with a large illumination taking up two thirds of the first folio (see plate 1). It depicts the hermit’s hut in a sophisticated landscape with a city in the background. Christ stands over the sleeping hermit, while two angels hover above, to the right. Brussels, KBR 9246 (dated 1480) also presents a rather fantastic version of the gift, but it is more faithful to the landscape described in the text. This too is a very large illumination. The sleeping hermit, wearing a turban(!), is stretched out on the ground across the bottom of the miniature, in a wilderness. In the sky above appears the Trinity: the Dove flies down to deliver the open book, while God the Father and Christ are depicted in an aureola, holding an object that looks like a small ciborium.11 Presumably this is the Grail, which is often represented in this way in 14th- and 15thcentury manuscripts.12 A rubric underneath sets forth the titles and the intended contents of the manuscript: “Cy commence Joseph d’Arismathie quy e/s/t le commencement de toute la Table Ronde […].”

11 There is a black and white reproduction in Roger Sherman Loomis, Arthurian Legends in Medieval Art (London: Oxford Univ. Press and NY: MLA, 1938), Fig. 299, and a color photo in John Matthews, The Grail. Quest for the Eternal (London: Thames and Hudson, NY: Crossroad, 1981), p. 37. On this manuscript see Loomis, pp. 111-12. A preface has been added, which gives the date, the name of the patron (Jean Louis of Savoie, bishop of Geneva) and that of the scribe (Guillaume de la Pierre), the title and the intended contents (“toute l’istoire de la Table Ronde”), part of which is cited by Loomis, p. 111. The Merlin has also survived; it is held by the Bibliothèque Nationale de France (BnF, fr. 91); see Bibliothèque Nationale: les manuscrits à peintures du XIIIe au XVIe siècle (Paris: 1955), p. 142. The very first miniature at the top of the preface has been cut out; Loomis suggests that it “was probably a dedication scene” (p. 112). The illuminations in the rest of the manuscript were painted after the death of Jean Louis de Savoie, by Jean Colombe. See Frédéric Lyna, Les Principaux Manuscrits à peinture de la Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique, 3 vols. (Brussels: Bibliothèque Royale Albert Ier, 1989), vol. III, first part, pp. 37-48. The gift of the book is repeated on f. 2v, in a miniature painted by Jean Colombe: here, an angel gives the book to the hermit, who kneels on one knee before a chapel. 12 On the shape given the Grail in the Estoire, see Stones, “Seeing the Grail,” pp. 304-21; Carol J. Chase, “The Vision of the Grail,” in Philologies Old and New: Essays in Honor of Peter Florian Dembowski, ed. Joan Tasker Grimbert and Carol J. Chase (Princeton: The Edward C. Armstrong Monographs, 2001), pp. 291-300.

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Several late 13th- and early 14th-century manuscripts break the scene of the gift of the book into a sequence with two or more stages. In BnF, fr. 19162 (ca. 1285), for example, there are four: first, an angel appears to the sleeping hermit; second, Christ appears before the seated hermit; third, He gives the book to the hermit. Finally, Christ addresses the standing hermit from the heavens (see plate 2). Frequently scenes from the hermit’s quest for the book are also depicted: in BnF, fr. 770 (ca. 1285) the gift of the book is portrayed in the left compartment, while on the right, the hermit follows the strange animal (see plate 3). Occasionally the image of the actual gift is postponed to the reverse side of the first folio. BnF, fr. 105 (ca. 131535), which opens with a 6-part iconographic sequence featuring Christ’s appearance to the hermit and his travels with the strange animal, depicts an angel giving the book to the hermit on f. 2v (see plate 4). The five scenes chosen from the hermit’s quest include the hermit’s arrival at the hut of the first hermit, accompanied by the strange animal, and his arrival at the chapel where he finds the book again and exorcises the devil from a sinner through its power.13 The miniatures are very closely modeled on the text. The depiction of the space near the chapel, for example, reflects the description in the prologue: there is a hill with a spring, where the hermit is given food every day. The exorcism is exactly as described in the text: on the right is the chapel where the hermit finds the little book again. The hermit leans out, holding the book. On the left, a man kneels; a devil emerges from his derrière. The choice of the exorcism, unusual for the opening, might be contrasted with Bonn, UB 526, dated 1286, which also opens with a 6part iconographic sequence (reproduced by Loomis, Fig. 217). Each miniature is identified by a rubric: 1. Christ appears to the hermit and blows in his face; 2. Christ gives the book to the hermit; 3. The hermit and the strange animal arrive at the hut of another hermit; 4. The hermit copies the book; 5. The Crucifixion/Joseph of Arimathea asks Pilate for Christ’s body; 6. Joseph of Arimathea lays Christ in his tomb. In this iconographic sequence Christ dominates: He is in four of the six scenes, on the left and right, thus forming a sort of frame for the 13

The book thus has qualities similar to those of the Bible, an unorthodox view! See Dubost, “Procédures d’initialité,” p. 21.

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central images, where the hermit is featured. The Crucifixion and Entombment insist on the sacred nature of the text. But the hermit also has an important role: he too is present in four of the images. And a new figure appears—Joseph of Arimathea, who will fulfill a significant function in the story the hermit will copy. By placing the two men together, the illumination associates the hermit with Joseph, who is depicted in scenes taken directly from the New Testament of the Bible. The two are in turn linked with Christ, creating a trio of holy figures. The association complements a textual linking that is accomplished through repetition: Christ appears after His Resurrection in extra-Biblical scenes to both the hermit and Joseph of Arimathea. The only manuscript in the Bibliothèque Nationale or the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal to combine scenes from the actual text with a scene from the prologue, as does Bonn, is BnF, fr. 9123 (ca. 131535). This manuscript has a particularly interesting opening, as it begins with a table of rubrics (ff. 1-3v), which are repeated in the text, dividing it into “chapters” and identifying the illuminations, which appear at the chapter breaks. At the top of the left and middle columns of the very first folio is a large illumination presenting a fascinating variant of a conventional presentation miniature (see plate 5). On the left a clerk or a monk in brown robes is seated before a lectern on which lies an open book. To the right kneels a king; four monks kneel behind him. The clerk extends two objects: in his left hand, he holds a book; in his right a shallow bowl. The king’s hands are also extended, his right hand touching the book. Is the book the one the hermit is to copy or is it the one he has copied? Is the dish the Grail? The Grail, which is referred to as an “escuelle” in the first part of the Estoire, is frequently figured in this way in Estoire manuscripts (Stones, “Seeing the Grail,” p. 308; Chase, “Vision,” pp. 299-300). Is the king receiving these objects from the clerk/monk or vice versa? While it appears that the clerk is handing the objects to the king, whose attitude is one of veneration, the image is ambiguous and difficult to interpret.14 Who is the clerk? Is it the hermit? Who is the king? Is it King Henry, who is mentioned as the patron in two other texts in the Lancelot-Grail cycle—the epilogue to the Queste del Saint Graal and the prologue to 14 The position of the hands and of the characters do not allow for a clear interpretation. See François Garnier, Le Langage de l’image au Moyen Age: signification et symbolique (Paris: Le Léopard d’Or, 1982), pp. 240-41.

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the Mort Artu? This image, which corresponds to nothing in the text of the Estoire, reverses the usual presentation illumination, where the king sits on a throne and the author kneels. In addition, the setting is not that of a secular court but rather suggests a religious context—the heavens are represented above the personages, who are depicted in a nebulous space—perhaps a monastery? How might we interpret this scene? The clerk’s, or hermit’s, position suggests a hierarchy in which he holds the more important situation: the image implies his power over the king. Is this power attributable to the fact that he holds the sacred text and the sacred object, the Grail? Is the image meant to suggest that the hermit somehow came into possession of the Grail and gave it, along with the book he copied, to a king? Or that the objects are being held in a religious space, where they are venerated? After the table this manuscript presents the prologue, which opens with a large quadripartite illumination on f. 4 (see plate 6). It combines a scene from the prologue—the gift of the book—with scenes from the text of the story that follows: a knight displays the Veronica to the emperor and two scenes that may represent Lancelot’s ancestor, Celidoine. The depictions in these two miniatures are too generic, making identification difficult. Under the miniatures a rubric announces the contents of the text to come, repeating nearly word for word the first rubric in the table. It places the Estoire in the LancelotGrail cycle, calling it the “fondement de la Table Reonde que on dit de Lancelot du Lac et du roy Artus et des autres chevaliers de la Table Reonde.” It then lists the subject matter, which is identified by the names of the main characters in the Estoire: Joseph of Arimathea, his son Josephus, Mordrain—or King Evalac (who is listed as two separate characters), and Nascien. This rubric therefore sketches a tendency that will become important in the 15th century: the placement of the entire cycle under the aegis of Lancelot or of the Round Table. In this manuscript, the gift of the book by Christ is “doubled” by the baffling presentation miniature depicting a clerk or hermit presenting the finished(?) book and the Grail(?) to a king. The Estoire is also presented as the foundation of the Round Table and the Lancelot, thus pointing the way to three important 15th-century manuscripts. For it is in the 15th century that several manuscripts break with the “tradition” of presenting the gift of the book and scenes from the

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prologue or the rest of the Estoire in the opening illumination. BnF, fr. 117-120 (ca. 1404; overpainting ca. 1465), a manuscript containing the entire cycle—inherited by Jacques d’Armagnac from his greatgrandfather—and Ars. 3479-80 (ca. 1405) open with four scenes from Lancelot’s life: 1. Lancelot’s birth; 2. His education by the Lady of the Lake; 3. His combat with Meleagant in Gorre; 4. The appearance of the Grail to the sleeping Lancelot (see plate 7).15 It is noteworthy that the first three depict scenes from the Lancelot, while the last represents a scene from the Queste del Saint Graal. These miniatures “ignore” the Estoire and focus on Lancelot, constituting a pictorial biography of the hero (Baumgartner, “Espace,” p. 106). A rubric under the illumination orients the reading in this sense, as do the title on the first folio and the running titles throughout. These manuscripts, which represent “a turning point and a model” (Baumgartner, “Espace,” p. 107), thus realign this text away from the sacred to the secular. The opening illuminations focus on chivalric life rather than on Christ and the hermit. BnF, fr. 113-116 (ca. 1475), which also contains the entire cycle and which was ordered by Jacques d’Armagnac, opens with a similar quadripartite illumination. However, it depicts only three scenes from Lancelot’s life and, apart from Lancelot’s birth, chooses different images: Lancelot’s dubbing and his combat before the Dolorous Guard. All three are from the Lancelot. In addition, it includes in the upper left a conventional presentation miniature of an author presenting a book to a king. This image might be seen as replacing and/or displacing that of the gift of the book to the hermit, which is postponed to the reverse of this folio, thus orienting the text more firmly in the secular tradition. Here again we might ask who is depicted? The hermit and King Henry? This could be a displacement of an illumination that appears in some manuscripts at the beginning of the Mort Artu.16

15

On these manuscripts, see Loomis, Arthurian Legends, pp. 105-06, and Emmanuèle Baumgartner, “Espace du texte, espace du manuscrit: les manuscrits du Lancelot-Graal,” in Ecritures II, ed. Anne-Marie Christin (Paris: Le Sycomore, 1985), pp. 105-07. The miniatures in the two manuscripts are very similar. 16 For example, Rylands 2 and Royal 14EIII, reproduced in Loomis, Figs. 240 and 241.

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Only three illuminated manuscripts in our corpus contain no depiction whatsoever of the gift of the book or a related image (the hermit writing): BnF, fr. 117-120 and Ars. 3479-80, studied above, and BnF, fr. 95 (ca. 1290), which opens with a portrayal of the Trinity (see plate 8). This Trinity, which is presented in a large historiated initial, is of the Throne of Mercy type: “God the Father holds the Crucified Christ on the cross, with the Dove between” (Stones, “Seeing the Grail,” p. 305). The Trinity is also depicted in two other mss: BnF, fr. 749, which presents it with two other scenes—Christ’s appearance to the hermit and the hermit placing the book in the casket—and Brussels, KBR 9246, mentioned earlier.17 Given the importance of the Trinity in the prologue, it is surprising that it is not portrayed more often. The hermit, who addresses his public as those who believe in the Trinity, detailing the power of each one, paradoxically has doubts about this point of Christian doctrine. That is why his soul is transported to the heavens, where he has a vision of the Trinity, thus confirming his faith. In the text that follows the prologue it also plays an important role: it is a point of doctrine to be accepted by the series of pagans who convert to Christianity. The image of the Trinity, which orients the reading towards that of a sacred text, is present in only three of all the extant manuscripts. 18 Two are 13th-century (BnF, fr. 95 and BnF, fr. 749); there are none in the 14th century, and only one in the 15th century (Brussels, KBR 9246). Since this 15th-century manuscript was prepared for the Bishop of Geneva, the mystical orientation of the opening illumination would perhaps have justified his interest in Arthurian texts. In conclusion, the opening illumination of the Estoire most often serves to orient the reading towards the sacred. The gift of the book, the most common scene, emphasizes an uncommon exchange—one between the resurrected Christ in Heaven and the hermit on earth. This opening suggests that the text belongs to the hagiographical or religious tradition. The image is important in manuscripts from the 13th century through the 15th century. Some 13th- and 14th-century manuscripts depict scenes from the narrative part of the prologue; a few choose moments from the story that follows. In the 15th century 17

There is a reproduction of BnF, fr. 749, f. 1, in Stones, “Seeing the Grail,” p. 306. Stones mentions a fourth, but it presents the Joseph of Arimathea rather than the Estoire (BnF, fr. 748), “Seeing the Grail,” p. 305. 18

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there is a turning point: several manuscripts show scenes from Lancelot’s life, thus moving towards the secularization and the idealization of chivalry. It is rare to find the Grail depicted on the first folio. This is not surprising, since there are few illustrations of the Grail in the entire corpus of manuscripts of the Lancelot-Grail cycle.19 Of the manuscripts presented here, only 3 have representations of the Grail—BnF, fr. 9123, in the baffling presentation miniature; BnF, fr. 117, in a scene from Lancelot’s life; and Brussels, KBR 9246, where it is held by God the Father.

19

Emmanuèle Baumgartner, “Les Scènes du Graal et leur illustration dans les manuscrits du Conte du Graal et des Continuations,” in The Manuscripts of Chrétien de Troyes, ed. Keith Busby, Terry Nixon, Alison Stones and Lori Walters, 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993), vol. I, pp. 489-503; Stones, “Seeing the Grail,” p. 301.

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Table 1. Manuscripts of the Estoire del Saint Graal in Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale and Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal MS

Approx. Date*

Contents of MS** E

M

L

Q

Opening Illumination

MA

13th century BnF, fr. 95

ca. 1290

X

X

110

ca. 1295-1300

X

X

X

X

X

Beg. folios missing

344

ca. 1295-1300

X

X

X

X

X

Christ gives book to hermit (historiated initial)

X

X

Christ gives book to hermit (historiated initial)

747

Trinity (historiated initial)

749

ca. 1285

X

X

3: Trinity / hermit puts book in casket / Christ gives book to hermit

770

ca. 1285

X

X

2: Angel gives book to hermit / hermit follows beast

12582

X

Hermit writes; Christ holds scroll (in margin)

19162

ca. 1285

X

X

4: An angel appears / Christ appears to the hermit / Christ gives book to hermit / Christ tells hermit to copy book

24394

ca. 1285

X

X

Christ gives book to hermit

1301?

X

X

Beg. folios missing

14th century Ars. 2997

CHRIST, THE HERMIT AND THE BOOK MS

Approx. Date*

Contents of MS** E

Ars. 3348

BnF, fr. 105

M

L

Q

X

Opening Illumination

MA

X

ca. 1315-35

137

Christ gives book to hermit (historiated initial) X

6: Christ visits hermit / 5 stages in hermit’s quest

769

X

2455

X

X

No illuminations

ca. 1315-35

X

X

4: Christ gives book to hermit / the Veronica is displayed to the emperor / a hermit and a young man stand before a tower / two men embrace

ca. 1467

X

9123

4: (2 have been cut out), Christ gives book to hermit (2 stages) + historiated initial: a monk writes

15th century Ars. 3349 Ars. 3350

No illuminations

X

X

X

X

X

No illuminations***

X

X

4: 4 scenes from Lancelot’s life

Ars. 3479-80

ca. 1405

X

X

X

BnF, fr. 96

ca. 1450-60

X

X

X

98

1450

X

X

X

X

X

Decorated initial

113-116

ca. 1475

X

X

X

X

X

4: The author presents book to King / 3 scenes from Lancelot’s life

Christ visits hermit

CAROL J. CHASE

138 MS

Approx. Date*

Contents of MS** E

M

L

Q

MA

X

X

X

X

117-120

ca. 1404

X

1426

ca. 1465

X

Opening Illumination

4: 4 scenes from Lancelot’s life Decorated initial

Other manuscripts cited: Rennes, BM 255

ca. 1220

X

X

Berkeley, UCB 106

ca. 1250

X

X

Bonn, UB 526

1286

X

X

Brussels, KBR 9246

1480

X

X

Christ gives book to hermit (historiated initial) Hermit writes; an angel holds scroll (historiated initial)

X

X

X

6: Christ appears to hermit / Christ gives book to hermit / hermit and strange animal at hut of another hermit / hermit copies book / Crucifixion; Joseph of Arimathea and Pilate / Entombment Trinity in sky; dove delivers book to hermit

NOTES * The dates are those provided by Alison Stones in several articles: “The Earliest Illustrated Prose Lancelot Manuscript,” Reading Medieval Studies, 3 (1997), 42-44; “Aspects of Arthur’s Death in Medieval Illumination,” in The Passing of Arthur. New Essays in Arthurian Tradition, ed. Christopher Baswell and William Sharpe (New York and London: Garland, 1988), pp. 91-95; “Seeing the Grail. Prolegomena to a Study of Grail Imagery in Arthurian Manuscripts” in The Grail. A Casebook, ed. Dhira B. Mahoney (NY and London: Garland, 2000), pp. 364-66. ** BnF, fr. 95 also contains the Roman des Sept Sages and La Penitence Adam. BnF, fr. 770 also contains the Histoire d’Outre-mer et du roi Saladin, as well as La fille du Comte de Ponthieu and the Ordre de chevalerie in prose, both of which are interpolated into the Histoire. Berkeley, UCB 106 also contains the Vie des Pères and other short verse narratives.

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***Ars. 3350, listed by Stones as containing the Estoire, in fact contains a résumé of the entire cycle. See Brian Woledge, Bibliographie des romans et nouvelles en prose française antérieures à 1500. Supplément 1954-1973 (Geneva: Droz, 1975), p. 53, and Fanni Bogdanow, “An Arthurian Manuscript: Arsenal 3350,” BBSIA, 7 (1995), 10508.

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Plate 1. BnF, fr. 96, f. 1 Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

CHRIST, THE HERMIT AND THE BOOK

Plate 2. BnF, fr. 19162, f. 1v Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

141

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CAROL J. CHASE

Plate 3. BnF, fr. 770, f. 1 Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

CHRIST, THE HERMIT AND THE BOOK

Plate 4. BnF, fr. 105, f. 2v Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

143

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CAROL J. CHASE

Plate 5. BnF, fr. 9123, f. 1 Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

CHRIST, THE HERMIT AND THE BOOK

Plate 6. BnF, fr. 9123, f. 4 Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

145

146

CAROL J. CHASE

Plate 7. BnF, fr. 117, f. 1 Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

CHRIST, THE HERMIT AND THE BOOK

Plate 8. BnF, fr. 95, f. 1 Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

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ROBERT FRANCIS COOK

Notes sur le texte du Bâtard de Bouillon: le rôti et les fleurs; le nom de Bohémond es contributions de notre ami Rupert Pickens à la critique textuelle, qui marient avec bonheur sens théorique et sens du détail, me font espérer qu’il acceptera volontiers l’hommage que représentent les deux notes qui suivent. La recontextualisation de deux aspects problématiques d’une édition vieille maintenant de trente ans permet notamment de constater que nous n’avons pas perdu le droit d’apprendre, et que les résultats de la philologie de naguère ne sont pas fixés dans l’ambre d’une certitude aveugle et têtue. J’ose croire que la démonstration qui suit ne déplaira pas à l’éditeur de Jaufré Rudel […]. Le rôti et les fleurs Je crois être aujourd’hui en mesure de proposer une correction au texte de la chanson de geste Le Bâtard de Bouillon que j’ai fait imprimer en 1972.1 Le manuscrit de ce poème (BnF, fr. 12552) est unique et de ce fait il est souvent impossible d’élucider ou de corriger ses (rares) passages problématiques. Cependant, le texte étroitement apparenté de Baudouin de Sebourc,2 dans le même manuscrit, et copié pour la majeure partie par le même scribe, offre de temps en temps des formules et des situations parallèles à celles que présente le Bâtard. J’en avais profité pour donner un certain nombre d’éclaircissements (telle l’identification de l’arme appelée espoi, qui n’est pas un épieu mais une épée d’estoc; voir la note au vers 1984). Mais le travail qui a mené à une nouvelle édition de Baudouin de Sebourc (en collaboration avec le professeur Larry Crist) donne lieu à une remarque dont la portée m’avait échappé tant que mon attention était occupée par le poème voisin.

1

Le Bâtard de Bouillon, chanson de geste (Genève: Droz, 1972). Li Romans de Bauduin de Sebourc, éd. Louis-Napoléon Boca, 2 vols. (Valenciennes: Henry, 1841); voir aussi Edmond-René Labande, Etude sur Baudouin de Sebourc (Paris: Droz, 1940). 2

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J’imprime ci-dessous le lieu problématique, sur lequel, d’ailleurs, je n’ai pas été le seul à achopper. En voici le contexte. L’amulainne sarrasin d’Orbrie, père de la belle Ludie, attire le Bâtard dans sa ville assiégée en lui promettant la main de sa fille. Le héros entre donc dans la ville d’Orbrie, ayant caché des armes sous ses riches vêtements, à la demande de son ami Huon de Tabarie-Dodequin, qui a flairé la trahison. La précaution est en effet utile, car une fois assis au banquet, en la présence de la belle jeune fille, le héros est sommé d’abandonner sa religion, sous peine de perdre la tête. Irrité, le Bâtard répond par un défi, et avec son énergie habituelle, saute sur la table: “Vassaus,” dist la mulainnne, je n’i voi autre tour. Se vous ne renoiés le vostre creatour, Morir vous convenra, a painne et a dolour. Chi estes atrapés en ma chité majour; De chaiens ne poés eschaper par nul tour. 5260 Se Mahon n’aourés, le nostre sauveour, Je vous taurrai le chef a mon branc de colour.” “Sire,” dist li Bastars, s’aroie du pïour. Or voi bien que le coer avés de traïtour.” Lors saut dessus le table, par itelle vigour 5265 Qu’il i a respandut et le rost et le flour, Et le vin c’on avoit aporté du meillour; Puis a traite Murglaie, si va vers l’amachour.

D’un seul coup, le Bâtard tranche la tête à un neveu de l’amulainne, puis il se fraye un chemin à travers les habitants de la ville. Ses quinze compagnons sont tous tués, mais le Bâtard de Bouillon est sauvé par le sage Huon, accouru avec son armée. La difficulté du passage vient, évidemment, de la combinaison insolite de choses que nous trouvons sur la table, et qui sont éparpillées au passage par le Bâtard lorsqu’il y monte. Selon le texte du manuscrit, il y aurait eu, d’abord le vin et la viande rôtie (vin et viande sont souvent associés dans les formules épiques de la période, par exemple Baudouin de Sebourc 11788, 24502, 24720) et ensuite un élément désigné par le mot flour (singulier selon la rime et l’article) dont on s’explique mal la nature et la présence. Le mot rost ‘rôti’ est bien attesté, et rien n’est plus naturel sur une table de noble, bien garnie, qu’une viande bien cuite; mais quel serait le mets qui l’accompagne? Suivant en ceci la suggestion de Tobler et Lommatzsch (et étant anglophone, j’ai pu y croire d’autant plus facilement), j’ai émis l’hypothèse d’une métonymie. Le mot flour désignait en ancien picard

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comme en anglais la fleur de farine (FEW 3, p. 632); n’y a-t-il pas lieu de croire qu’entre le rôti et le vin, le rédacteur du poème a dû penser à l’ensemble des plats, tous de bonne qualité évidemment, dont la table est chargée, et qui volent comiquement partout, envoyés dans tous les sens par le saut intempestif de notre héros? Tobler s’est demandé s’il ne fallait pas traduire “Speisen aus feinem Mehl” (3, p. 1939), et à mon tour j’ai abondé dans ce sens (Bâtard de Bouillon, p. 258). Or nous nous sommes très probablement trompés tous les deux, et il faut rendre hommage ici aux instincts de mon prédécesseur Auguste Scheler, qui sans s’expliquer a suggéré pour le mot flour la glose ‘fleurs’.3 En effet, quoique Scheler ne l’ait pas indiqué ouvertement, il s’agit d’une idée toute faite qui se rencontre dans le texte du Baudouin de Sebourc, et dans un contexte qui n’est pas sans rappeler celui que nous venons de voir. Poliban de Falise est en train de décrire, aux vers 10551 et ss. de la nouvelle édition (Chant XI, 498ss de l’édition Boca), le palais du Vieux de la Montagne, roi des Assassins: Or vous dirai comment il a ses gens nouris: 10556 je vous di que chius roys a fait un paradis tant noble et gratïeus et plain de tels deliis qu’il n’a coer en che monde, tant fu grans ne marchis, et il fuist en che lieu, dont ichi vous devis, qu’il ne fuist maintenant de joie rasousis [...............................] Li saille et li pressins, roses et floir de lis, gingembres et canele et chucre et asur bis, 10568 toutes coses flairans pour estre resjoïs i poroit on trouveir, [de] che soiés tous fis.

Nous voilà sollicités par un autre ordre d’idées. Le plaisir courtois n’est pas fait uniquement de choses bonnes à manger; la table peut très bien être décorée d’épices et de fleurs de diverses sortes, dont l’odeur chasse celles qui risquent de plaire moins. C’est ce qui permet de suggérer que le mot faisant obstacle à la compréhension du vers 5266 du Bâtard n’est pas flour, même au singulier, mais plutôt rost. Un scribe, emporté peut-être par l’association banquet-bonne cuisine, aurait mal copié un mot primitif rose et le vers 5266 doit se lire:

3

Li Bastars de Buillon (Bruxelles: Closson, 1877), p. 304, son vers 5269.

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*Qu’il i a respandut et le rose et le flour

Le vers 10567 du Baudouin n’est pas sans présenter des problèmes qui lui sont propres; ni saille ni pressins ne s’explique très facilement. Il doit s’agir d’épices, témoin un vers du Ms. B (BnF, fr. 12553) que Boca a imprimé (“chant” XX, 494, à la suite de notre vers 20125): “Li erbe des courtis, soit ou salle ou presin.” Dans le Tobler-Lommatzsch nous trouvons, par conséquent, la glose ‘sauge’ pour saille (9, p. 62, seul exemple) et ‘persil’ pour pressin (7, p. 771, deux exemples tirés de l’édition Boca), et nous avons adopté cette interprétation dans le glossaire de la nouvelle édition. Le mot asur n’est pas clair non plus. Le FEW traduit “espèce d’épice” ( 9, p. 107; la date donnée, “ca. 1330,” laisse penser que c’est notre texte qui est en jeu). S’agit-il encore et toujours du sucre (arabe as-sukkar)? Y a-t-il eu influence de l’adjectif de couleur? Encore une fois, l’exemple du TL est unique (1, p. 614). Par ailleurs, les singuliers du vers 5266 du Bâtard pourraient être des collectifs. C’était peut-être l’idée de Scheler, qui n’a pourtant pas fait la correction, laissant ainsi intacte une progression saugrenue, du rôti aux fleurs, qui disparaît lorsque les roses sont introduites. C’est dire, d’une part, que le hapax flour, ‘mets délicats,’ doit être considéré comme suspect. D’autre part, l’utilisation par le rédacteur du Bâtard d’un syntagme incomplet rose et flour, sans autre qualificatif, comme des collectifs en apparence naturels, représentant très probablement une allusion courante aux roses et aux fleurs de lys (?) qui décorent une table de noble lors d’un festin, tend à souligner la nature toute conventionnelle de l’invention verbale dans ces poèmes tardifs. Il n’a même pas semblé nécessaire de préciser de quelles fleurs il s’agit. Pourtant, le scribe qui a tenté de copier le vers n’y a pas compris grand-chose–pas plus, je le crains, que Tobler ni moi-même, au moins dans un premier temps. Le nom de Bohémond sous la plume du scribe B du ms. BnF, fr. 12552 Le nom de Bohémond, héros de la Première Croisade, paraît avec une grande fréquence dans tous les manuscrits du Cycle de la Croisade, qui lui donnent habituellement la forme buiemons/-mont.4 4

Il s’agit, bien sûr, de Bohémond Ier, fils de Robert Guiscard, prince d’Antioche de 1098 à sa mort en 1104. Moisan relève les formes suivantes: Buiemons/t, Bu(a)mont,

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Les éditeurs ont, d’un commun accord, transcrit la troisième lettre, un seul jambage, comme je viens de le faire, c’est-à-dire par i. Dans l’édition du Bâtard de Bouillon, j’ai néanmoins transcrit ce nom avec j là où le manuscrit porte un seul jambage (imprimant donc Bujemons, mont, etc; voir p. ci). Malgré le raisonnement, en soi banal, qui m’a amené à adopter cette transcription (elle-même peu banale), je ne pense plus, aujourd’hui, que celle-ci soit justifiée. Qu’il me soit permis d’évoquer d’abord la situation qui a motivé mon choix. Une fois (au vers 211), le scribe B du ms. BnF, fr. 12552 a écrit clairement bugemons, ce qui indiquerait, à première vue, une prononciation avec affriquée: /bu ®e mõ(s)/ ou (plus probablement vu la date) fricative: /bu ¥e mõ (s)/. Bien sûr, rien n’interdit de penser qu’un i manuscrit est en fait un j de notre point de vue, et l’emploi de la lettre g, dont la forme n’est pas ambiguë, permet à première vue de déceler un usage que le système graphique du scribe aurait occulté si la forme du vers 211 ne l’avait pas révélé. Il a subsisté dans mon esprit, cependant, une certaine gêne, la graphie bugemons du vers 211 étant apparemment unique. S’agit-il en fait d’une variante graphique légitime représentant une prononciation réelle? Le scribe aurait-il reconnu, derrière les jambages en question, une consonne? Ou bien faut-il n’y voir qu’une inadvertance? Ce scribe picardisant connaît parfaitement bien la convention qui fait écrire la lettre g avant /a/ à des endroits où le francien écrit i figurant /¥/ ou /®/ (par exemple, à l’initiale de mot gardin, Baudouin de Sebourc 11436 etc., ganne ‘jaune’ 18368, gavrelot 11817, gambe[s] 16724, 18712, Bâtard de Bouillon 351, et au début d’une syllabe intérieure dans juga, jugant, Baudouin 24854, 16821). Il écrit cependant ce g de temps en temps avant d’autres voyelles aussi (p. ex. genvier, Baudouin de Sebourc 21468, vergus 11050). Gossen nous dit que cette confusion est assez répandue dans la région.5 Quoi de plus

Buemon, Boemond, Boumon, Buinémont (l’accent aigu n’est sans doute pas de mise), en plus de celle qui va nous occuper, mais les dernières sont soit des exemples uniques, soit rares. Voir André Moisan, Répertoire des noms propres […] dans les chansons de geste, 1 (Genève: Droz, 1986), p. 271. Bien entendu, le nom a pu avoir plus d’une prononciation; mais ici l’éditeur se voit obligé de trancher. 5 Charles-Théodore Gossen, Petite grammaire de l’ancien picard, 2e éd. (Paris: Klincksieck, 1970), p. 101.

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naturel, alors, que la graphie inverse, g pour j, ce dernier représenté par i? Le cas est plus épineux, cependant, que ce raisonnement simple ne le laisse penser. La dérivation du nom en question est inconnue en tout cas; le latin donne d’ordinaire Boamundus; l’anglais et le français modernes semblent dériver leurs formes d’un nom de géant imaginaire.6 Aucune de ces formes ne comporte de signe correspondant au g ou au j de l’ancien français. Le u de la forme épique courante Buiemon a pu devoir son origine à une dissimilation, mais la nature du i qu’on imprime d’habitude se précise difficilement. Faut-il le considérer comme le deuxième élément d’une diphtongue /ui/, /ri/ ou comme une semi-consonne démarquant une nouvelle syllabe, /je/? La forme Buinemont, constaté par Moisan, ferait pencher pour la première hypothèse; la variante Buyamon(t), relevée dans un des manuscrits de la Chanson d’Antioche par Suzanne Duparc-Quioc, semble appuyer la seconde.7 Or le g de la graphie bugemons (figurant en principe une fricative ou affriquée sonore) est également difficile à justifier du point de vue phonétique. Le yod se serait-il fermé pour devenir une consonne fricative? L’on n’oserait invoquer un tel phénomène, dont aucun exemple n’est apparemment connu en ancien français, pour justifier une forme unique. Mais par ailleurs: notre scribe était-il donc capable d’écrire une lettre complexe, g, pour i, ou yod, suite à une confusion purement visuelle, autrement dit, par simple inattention? Le comportement du scribe dans d’autres endroits est intéressant à cet égard. Dans le Batard de Bouillon je n’ai remarqué qu’un seul emploi problématique de cette innovation graphique, celle du vers 211; mais le Baudouin de Sebourc offre, parmi ses 25778 vers, au moins deux autres exemples du phénomène. Le nom de la ville de Nimègue, 6

Son biographe, Yewdale, a enquêté sur les origines du nom, mais sans grand succès. Voir Ralph B. Yewdale, Bohemond I, Prince of Antioch (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1924), pp. 5-6. Il s’agissait à l’origine, selon toute évidence, d’un sobriquet que le grand croisé a été le premier à recevoir, et qui est devenu nom de baptême ensuite grâce au prestige de ce héros. C’était, selon Orderic Vital, le nom d’un géant mythique (Buamundus Gigas) donné à Bohémond par son père à cause de sa taille gigantesque, qu’a remarquée aussi Anne Comnène; voir Steven Runciman, A History of the Crusades, 1 (Cambridge Univ. Press, 1951), p. 157. 7 La Chanson d’Antioche, éd. Suzanne Duparc-Quioc, 1 (Paris: Geuthner, 1976), p. 551.

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normalement Nimaye/Nimaie, est écrit une fois (15967) avec g: Nymage. A première vue, la graphie incite à accepter une prononciation avec fricative, et il faudrait songer à écrire aussi Nimaje dans une édition de Baudouin de Sebourc. Mais il n’y a ici rien de probant, car à la différence du nom de Bohémond, l’étymon de Nijmegen NUMAGU comporte une occlusive et le scribe, qui ne dédaigne pas les formes flamandes, a pu être influencé soit par la graphie soit par la prononciation flamande. Une deuxième fois, cependant, ayant écrit la lettre g toute seule comme début de mot, le scribe (qui se ravise souvent) a fait une correction parlante: il a rayé son g et a écrit, à sa place, le pronom je avec un simple jambage (20670). Il ne saurait être question de prononcer une consonne occlusive ici, bien sûr, mais le fait que le scribe lui-même s’est cru obligé de corriger ici un lapsus, en apparence purement visuelle, est intéressant pour l’hypothèse de la fricative. Car cette correction, qui remplace g par i à valeur de /¥/, a en effet les plus grandes chances d’être visuelle dans l’esprit du scribe, et par conséquent, de ne rien nous apprendre sur la prononciation du mot. Malgré la correction du vers 20670, il y a certainement lieu d’hésiter, car d’abondantes graphies nous prouvent que le scribe, comme les autres scribes de la région picarde, écrivait souvent g pour la fricative normalement notée par i. Dans ce contexte, rien n’interdit de penser que le scribe mélangeait au petit bonheur les deux lettres. Il n’a en fait aucune raison strictement phonétique de se corriger en voulant écrire, au vers 20670, le pronom ge, qu’il écrit deux fois par ailleurs sans se corriger (16353, 18519). Seulement le Baudouin, dont plus de 16000 vers sont écrits de la main de notre scribe, offre un champ d’enquête beaucoup plus large que le Bâtard; et cette variation y est loin d’être habituelle, comme le concordancier complet du texte permet de le constater.8 En dehors des trois cas cités, dont un corrigé, le scribe B écrit 1080 fois environ je et non ge, quelque 360 fois j’ plus voyelle palatale ou neutre. L’hypothèse première, malgré ses attraits, ne semble pas satisfaisante pour une autre raison. Elle n’explique pas en fait la forme Nymage, pour laquelle un troisième signe graphique, la lettre y, est à la 8 Cet instrument très utile a été réalisé par L.S. Crist avec le concours de J. Plummer. Il ressort de l’examen des formes jaserant, jesir, jeu que le scribe avait des préférences; il ne lui arrive jamais de mettre un g au début d’un de ces mots.

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disposition du scribe. En effet, ce nom de ville paraît six fois sous la plume de notre scribe sous la forme Nimaye (15958, 15961, 15974, 17852, 17911, 22840)–le y ne peut guère noter qu’un yod ici–et une fois Nymaye (23144). La préférence pour la lettre y suggère que le g qui paraît dans la même position ne peut pas être considéré comme ayant normalement la valeur de /¥/. Deviner la motivation du geste scribal qui fait écrire g pour yod n’est pas, nous venons de le voir, chose facile, et j’ose espérer que ma réaction de naguère, et la forme Bujemons qui en a résulté, seront considérées comme logique. Ceci dit, la préférence que révèle la correction faite par le scribe lui-même au vers 20670 du Baudouin (que je n’ai connue avant d’examiner le manuscrit de ce texte), la prépondérance des formes buiemon(t), etc., ainsi que les variantes cohérentes Buyamon(t), Nimaye, m’incitent à n’y voir qu’une inadvertance, et à abandonner (un peu à regret) mon ancienne hypothèse. C’est Buiemon(s) qu’il faut écrire, et c’est cette forme qui paraîtra partout dans l’édition du Baudouin de Sebourc, où notre scribe l’écrit quatorze fois, et toujours avec i.

ALAIN CORBELLARI

Les jeux de l’anneau: fonctions et trajets d’un objet emblématique de la littérature narrative médiévale e double intérêt porté par Rupert Pickens aux chansons de geste et aux romans arthuriens nous a suggéré, en espérant qu’il prendra plaisir aux quelques variations concentriques qui lui sont ici offertes, d’ouvrir un dossier que nous envisagions depuis quelque temps d’explorer, tout en sachant qu’il ne saurait guère être ici question que de quelques propositions programmatiques et non encore parfaitement abouties. Tout au plus espère-t-on proposer quelques pistes dans la direction d’une discipline sans doute encore riche de promesses, que l’on pourrait appeler une manière de sémiologie de la textualité médiévale. Si l’on se demande à brûle-pourpoint ce que les chansons de geste et les romans médiévaux ont en commun, on se trouve bien en peine d’articuler des faits ou de citer des éléments indubitables. La structure de pouvoir qui fait qu’un roi tutélaire subsume en général le chronotope de ces récits a été bien mis en valeur, notamment par Dominique Boutet,1 mais il faut reconnaître que si la chanson de geste ne saurait sans doute guère être envisagée sans qu’y intervienne un représentant de la dynastie carolingienne, les romans échappent bien plus volontiers à ce type d’emprise, et l’on sait qu’il est même des récits “arthuriens” d’où le grand roi breton est totalement absent. D’ailleurs, pour s’ancrer tous deux dans un passé idéalisé, les deux genres ne présentent guère d’homogénéité temporelle, et l’on aurait beau jeu de rappeler que la société évoquée dans les textes est souvent bien moins “idéale” qu’on pourrait le croire à première vue. Évidemment, la présence de certains sentiments, tels l’amour, peut également jeter des ponts entre les deux genres, et il ne manque pas d’études récentes qui ont tenté de dégager les éléments “romanesques” contenus dans les chansons de geste, surtout tardives, mais, outre que l’on aplatit ainsi ce que d’aucuns aimeraient appeler une différence

1

Dominique Boutet, Charlemagne et Arthur ou le roi imaginaire (Paris: Champion, 1992).

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essentielle entre l’épique et le romanesque,2 nous sommes menacés de voir les spécificités des divisions génériques attestées par les auteurs du temps (pensons à Jean Bodel) se diluer dans une définition beaucoup trop vague et large du récit d’imagination en général. On aimerait croire ici que la narration médiévale n’est ni un ersatz du conte populaire ni un pur premier temps–infantile–du roman occidental, mais qu’elle possède des lois qui, à défaut d’en créer la matière, en conditionnent néanmoins l’ordonnance. Nous abandonnerons d’ailleurs d’autant plus volontiers la piste de la soidisant “influence du roman sur la chanson de geste” que Dominique Boutet a fort élégamment proposé, dans un livre récent, de déplacer le problème en constatant que la chanson de geste était tout simplement “travaillée par cette même évolution de la sensibilité esthétique, c’està-dire en dernière analyse du rapport au monde qui a donné naissance à la forme romanesque.”3 Notre propos n’emboîtera pas pour autant le pas à cette vision historique, et la piste que nous allons suivre pourra de prime abord sembler extrêmement fragile. On aurait en effet beau jeu de nous rétorquer que les divers types d’objets susceptibles de jouer un rôle dans la narration médiévale ne sont pas plus nécessaires à l’action que la présence d’un souverain tutélaire ou de certaines thématiques privilégiées, et que, s’il peut effectivement être commun aux deux genres principaux–épique et romanesque–sur lesquels nous nous penchons, tel emblème peut tout aussi bien en être absent. Que Durandal soit aussi essentielle à La Chanson de Roland qu’Excalibur à La Mort Artu n’est a priori pas une preuve que les épées doivent être prises, à l’exclusion de tout autre objet, comme les signes distinctifs des genres dans lesquels elles apparaissent. En choisissant de nous intéresser aux anneaux qui foisonnent dans la littérature narrative du Moyen Âge, nous n’entendons donc ni faire une étude statistique ni, encore moins, décrire par le menu leurs places respectives au sein des narrations où ils apparaissent. Ce n’est d’ailleurs rien de plus qu’une évaluation provisoire qui se dégagera des quelques considérations que nous proposerons, même si l’on peut 2

Dans la foulée de La Théorie du roman de Lukács, tr. de l’allemand par Jean Clairevoye (Paris: Denoël, 1968). 3 D. Boutet, Formes littéraires et conscience historique. Aux origines de la littérature française 1100-1250 (Paris: PUF, 1999), p. 251.

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espérer que l’angle d’approche choisi possède quelque chance de ne pas être considéré comme trop impertinent. Mais, beaucoup d’objets ou d’éléments pouvant prétendre au rôle symbolique unifiant que nous avons choisi d’attribuer aux anneaux, il convient avant toute chose de cerner, en empruntant des chemins divers, les raisons d’un choix. La spécificité occidentale de l’anneau, tout d’abord, nous est garantie par le témoignage d’une médiéviste japonaise qui avoue ellemême que sa fascination pour les bagues échangées par Tristan et Iseut vient de ce qui est à ses yeux une marque d’exotisme. Shigemi Sasaki conclut en effet son article sur les anneaux et les sceaux dans la tradition arthurienne par ces mots: L’image de l’anneau–symbole des contrats liés et rompus–se projette donc sur la culture occidentale, alors qu’elle n’était pas encore parvenue au XVIe siècle dans l’Extrême-Orient qu’atteignit le missionnaire portugais Luis Frois, qui en constata l’absence et considéra cela comme une divergence de coutume entre l’Orient et l’Occident.4

La définition symbolique que donne Sh. Sasaki de l’anneau nous offre de surcroît une raison supplémentaire d’en souligner l’importance et de le rattacher à un cadre de civilisation spécifique: non seulement l’anneau est l’instrument par excellence de la liaison et de la déliaison, et ici déjà nous entrevoyons le lien que son évocation peut entretenir avec la production textuelle, mais on admettra qu’il ne peut jouer ce rôle que dans une société non encore soumise à la tyrannie bureaucratique de l’écrit. Eugene Vance a écrit voici une quinzaine d’années une pénétrante étude sur l’idéologie de l’échange dans Le Chevalier au Lion,5 et il n’y a nul hasard à ce qu’il en ait vu le symbole achevé dans l’anneau magique de Lunete. Ainsi se verrait confirmée la place de Chrétien de Troyes à la fois à l’aube de la littérature romanesque occidentale et dans ce mouvement “clérical” qui place la production littéraire au sein

4 Shigemi Sasaki, “Anel et Seel: de Béroul et du Lancelot au roman de Tristan en prose,” dans Miscellanea Mediaevalia, Mélanges offerts à Philippe Ménard, ed J.-C. Fauchet, A. Labbé, et al., 2 tomes (Paris: Champion, 1998), t. II, pp. 1203-12. 5 Eugene Vance, “Chrétien’s Yvain and the Ideologie of Change and Exchange,” Yale French Studies, 70 (1986), pp. 42-62.

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d’un espace discursif nouveau, celui, comme dit Marie-Louise Ollier, de la “ville”, entendue au sens abstrait du terme.6 On peut s’étonner qu’un livre aussi fouillé que la récente étude de Jacques Merceron sur les messagers dans la littérature en ancien français7 n’évoque pour ainsi dire pas ce gage de la communication par excellence qu’est l’anneau; mais précisément, dans la mesure où l’anneau se passe volontiers de tout intermédiaire et qu’il symbolise, pour ainsi dire, à la seule intention de celui à qui il a été confié, il double (et abolit) davantage qu’il n’accompagne le travail du messager. On se doute qu’il nous faudra revenir sur cette thématique de l’échange, mais il convient pour l’heure de poursuivre la revue des approches possibles de cet objet dont l’apparente “insignifiance”8 est décidément trompeuse. Les contextes où apparaissent les anneaux ont évidemment leur importance; ils nous mettront sur la piste d’une interprétation anthropologique qui ne pourra que renforcer les connotations déjà dégagées. Ainsi, dans deux scènes célèbres de la littérature du XIIe siècle, l’anneau est associé à deux autres objets de manière à former une structure que l’on est fortement tenté d’interpréter selon la grille trifonctionnelle de Georges Dumézil: dans l’Yonec de Marie de France, l’homme-oiseau donne à l’héroïne un anneau, une épée et un bliaut; dans le Tristan de Béroul, Marc dépose un anneau, une épée et un gant auprès des amants endormis. Dans les deux cas, la caractérisation de l’anneau comme objet de première fonction, c’est-àdire occupant le rang le plus haut, celui correspondant à la souveraineté, ne fait aucun doute.9 D’ailleurs, outre qu’il connote les Voir Marie-Louise Ollier, La Forme du sens. Textes narratifs des XIIe et XIIe siècles. Études littéraires et linguistiques (Orléans: Paradigme, 2000), p. 51: “Ainsi la ville est-elle le lieu de naissance de l’intellectuel, aussi différent du clerc monastique que la ville l’est de la campagne, que la pratique des livres l’est du culte du Livre.” 7 Jacques Merceron, Le Message et sa fiction. La communication par messager dans la littérature française des XIIe et XIIIe siècles (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1998). 8 L’expression est de Régine Colliot, “Messages d’amour et de mort dans la légende de Tristan: anneaux et lais,” PRIS-MA, VII, 1 (1991), 43-65, qui l’utilise bien sûr dans un sens antiphrastique: “c’est l’anneau, dans son insignifiance, qui fournit la preuve ultime” (p. 49). 9 L’hésitation dont témoignait encore notre article sur “La Mythologie indo– européenne et le mythe tristanien,” Vox Romanica, 52 (1993), 133-46, où nous proposions pour la première fois le parallèle, n’est plus de mise: pour une étude 6

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liens du mariage, l’anneau est, souvent associé à un sceau servant de signature, l’une des marques de la puissance royale. Est-ce d’ailleurs vraiment un hasard si les deux plus fameuses réécritures modernes de la mythologie médiévale–nous voulons parler bien sûr de Der Ring des Nibelungen de Wagner et de The Lord of the Rings de J. R. R. Tolkien–mettent précisément au centre de leurs intrigues (et de leurs titres) cet objet dont ils exaltent la puissance symbolique? On ajoutera à cela ce qu’aucun glossateur du Moyen Âge n’a manqué de signaler lorsqu’il en avait l’occasion, à savoir que par sa forme même (ronde, c’est-à-dire parfaite; en boucle, c’est-à-dire infinie), l’anneau est l’emblème par excellence du pouvoir et de la puissance temporelle. Que cette symbolique soit particulièrement présente dans la mythologie et les croyances celtiques n’est d’ailleurs pas douteux,10 et il y aurait peu de risque à affirmer que, bien plus qu’à des souvenirs antiques, le succès de l’objet dans la littérature médiévale doit être massivement mis au compte des apports de la “matière de Bretagne”; son absence dans les plus anciennes chansons de geste ne peut d’ailleurs que confirmer cette constatation. Ainsi, de quelque côté qu’on les regarde, la mythologie, l’anthropologie et l’histoire se conjuguent pour nous dire l’importance déterminante de l’anneau dans la culture littéraire du Moyen Âge classique. Contre-épreuve: si l’objet n’est pas inconnu de la culture antique, il ne s’y rencontre que dans les contextes mythologiques les plus archaïques, telle l’histoire de l’anneau de Gygès (dont la symbolique est tout autre, n’ayant par exemple rien d’unificateur ni de spécifiquement lié à la mémoire), et son rôle dans la littérature grécolatine classique est fort réduit, ce qui confirme l’observation que nous faisions plus haut sur la nécessité de se situer, pour voir se dégager l’efficace de l’objet, dans une société de type encore massivement orale et contractuelle.

convergente qui analyse plus spécialement le lai d’Yonec et qui a définitivement assis l’inscription de l’anneau dans le cadre de la première fonction, voir Joël Grisward, “Les trois dons de l’oiseau-prophète: esquisse sur Yonec,” dans L’Hostellerie de Pensée. Études sur l’art littéraire au Moyen Âge offertes à Daniel Poirion par ses anciens élèves, éd. Michel Zink et Danielle Bohler (Paris: Presses de l’Univ. de ParisSorbonne, 1995), pp. 187-94. 10 Voir Thomas F. O’Rahilly, Early Irish History and Mythology (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1964), pp. 302-07.

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À ce stade de notre réflexion se pose la question du plus ou moins de conscience des narrateurs dans l’usage de l’objet qui nous intéresse: étant donnée leur banalité, ou plutôt leur banalisation, doit-on obligatoirement faire un sort à tous les anneaux qui s’échangent dans les textes médiévaux ? Ne doit-on pas au contraire considérer leur présence comme de simples effets de réels, et considérer leur étude comme tout aussi incongrue que le serait celle des emplois du téléphone dans la littérature du XXe siècle? À cela il faut répondre (outre qu’une étude de l’usage du téléphone dans le roman moderne n’est certainement pas aussi stupide qu’elle peut en avoir l’air) que la façon dont une société se voit ou se pense ne peut manquer d’influer sur ses codes littéraires et que les écrivains ne sont jamais si démunis qu’ils ne puissent pas tirer le parti le plus remarquable, et parfois le plus inattendu, de ce qui pourrait nous apparaître comme des contingences contraignantes. Nous n’utiliserons pas les considérations rappelées plus haut sur le stade “pré-écrit” de la société d’avant Gutenberg pour faire des anneaux de la littérature médiévale un signe de l’oralité foncière de celle-ci; au contraire: nous postulerons bien plus volontiers que les multiples trajets, parcours, échanges, oublis et recouvrements d’anneaux qui s’y font jour sont la marque indubitable de son écriture, de la volonté affirmée de ses scripteurs de laisser et de produire des traces, et cela précisément parce qu’ils sont hantés par le sentiment de la fragilité de cette écriture que rien, ou si peu de chose, dans leur société, ne vient relayer pour donner consistance et légitimité à leur pratique. La légende tristanienne s’impose d’emblée comme l’expression la plus fameuse, sinon la plus achevée, de la dialectique médiévale de l’anneau, et l’on a déjà eu ailleurs l’occasion de signaler que Bédier, en unifiant les apparitions de l’anneau dans son adaptation de la légende, était parvenu à conférer à ce motif une puissance égale à celle des leitmotive les plus prégnants dans le drame wagnérien.11 Au demeurant, Bédier ne faisait là que systématiser une tendance profonde de la narration médiévale, et les rencontres d’une poétique moderne et d’une poétique archaïque, sous l’égide du “symbolisme,” ne doivent, 11

Voir A. Corbellari, Joseph Bédier, écrivain et philologue (Genève: Droz, 1997), pp. 271-72. Nous en concluions que (chez Bédier en tout cas) “en l’anneau se rejoignent, dans toute leur plénitude respective, l’objet, l’indice et le symbole peircien” (p. 272).

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certes, rien au hasard. Chez Béroul, dans la déchirante scène de séparation des amants peu avant l’entrevue du Gué aventureux, le mot anel revient, avec une insistance obsédante, non moins de cinq fois en quinze vers. Plus significatif encore, sa première mention dans ce passage le présente à la rime pour reconduire une rime anel / seel que l’on avait déjà pu lire trois cents vers plus haut: Qant il out fait, prist un anel, La pierre passot el seel. (2431-32) Amis Tristran, j’ai un anel, Un jaspe vert a u seel. (2707-08)12

Or, comme on le voit, les objets évoqués n’ont aucun rapport entre eux: dans un cas, Ogrin cachette sa lettre au roi Marc; dans l’autre, Iseut décrit la bague qu’elle donne à Tristan.13 Il se passe ici un phénomène courant dans l’écriture de Béroul, à savoir que le lien symbolique entre les signifiants et les signifiés est suggéré en dehors de toute explicitation claire du narrateur; le cas le plus fameux est celui, que l’on évoquait déjà plus haut, de la surprise des amants par Marc dans la forêt: non seulement, le roi se trompe sur les relations des amants, mais ceux-ci, à leur tour, se méprennent sur l’intention du roi: dans les deux cas, les fausses inférences miment le parcours herméneutique d’un lecteur qui aurait pris le récit en route et aurait tiré de ces (trompeuses) apparences d’abusives conclusions symboliques. Dans le cas qui nous occupe, on peut aussi bien invoquer la coïncidence que l’illusion volontaire: mais pourquoi Béroul aurait-il tenu à faire entrer en collision symbolique deux sortes bien distinctes d’anneaux et de sceaux? On peut faire remarquer que sont ainsi mises en relation l’écriture et la promesse amoureuse, ce qui n’est pas sans évoquer de séduisantes perspectives interprétatives […]. Peut-être cependant l’alternative de la solution symbolique et de la possible inadvertance réduit-elle indûment la stratégie de Béroul, qui pourrait très bien disséminer sciemment dans son texte de fausses pistes 12 Nous lisons les textes tristaniens dans l’édition de la Pléiade, Tristan et Yseut. Les premières versions européennes, éd. Christiane Marchello-Nizia et Régis Boyer (Paris: Gallimard, 1995). 13 Sur les pierres que s’échangent les amants, voir Shigemi Sasaki, “L’émeraude d’Iseut et le Jaspe de Tristan,” Romania, 111 (1990), 361-84.

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interprétatives, destinées, comme dans la scène des amants surpris, à égarer un lecteur trop prompt à voir des symboles là où seul règne le réel.14 Ce qui reste certain, c’est que, dans son écriture comme dans celle de tous les auteurs de son temps (car le phénomène dépasse infiniment la personnalité–fût-elle géniale–d’un écrivain particulier), certains mots sont investis d’une puissance de rayonnement et de cristallisation qui les signalent tout particulièrement à l’attention du lecteur, et qu’anel fait incontestablement partie de ces termes clés. Revenons à la scène de la séparation des amants: les quatre autres occurrences d’anel placent toutes le mot aux troisième et quatrième syllabes du vers, dessinant graphiquement une manière de chaîne annelée: Portez l’anel en vostre doi; Et s’il vos vient, sire a corage Que me mandez rien par mesage, Tant vos dirai, ce saciez bien, Certes, je n’en croiroie rien, Se cest anel, sire, ne voi. Mais, por defense de nul roi, Se voit l’anel, ne lairai mie, Ou soit savoir ou soit folie, Ne face ço que il dira, Qui cest anel m’aportera. (2710-20, nous soulignons)

Comment mieux exprimer les potentialités remémoratrices de l’objet que par cette litanie grosse de toutes les retrouvailles et de toutes les séparations qui adviendront encore aux deux héros? Dans les deux poèmes de La Folie Tristan, la bague de Tristan, dont l’évocation semble ici prolonger directement le texte de Béroul, amène la dernière et définitive étape de la reconnaissance de Tristan par Iseut; comme le dit très bien Régine Colliot, “c’est donc le triomphe de l’objet muet sur toute l’éloquence émue et inutile de Tristan.”15 N’oublions pas cependant qu’entre le discours sans effet et l’évidence de l’anneau intervient la réaction spontanée d’Husdent. L’aspect dialogique du langage est certes mis en échec, mais non tant au profit d’un pur langage de signes que de celui d’une mise en œuvre narrative, 14 Pour cette interprétation de Béroul, nous nous permettons de renvoyer à notre article, “Béroul et les choses,” Tristania, 20 (2000), 41-57. 15 R. Colliot, op. cit, p. 49.

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au sein de laquelle la parole n’apparaît que comme l’un des moyens (certes non le plus efficace) de signifier l’évolution du récit, en d’autres termes de structurer le parcours diégétique. Une fois encore, c’est à un art très concerté de l’écriture, et non à une survivance d’un mode archaïque de raconter les histoires, que renvoie une telle poétique. Mais il pourrait être plus riche de perspectives d’étudier des textes moins rebattus que les Tristan, dans lesquels le poids même du sentiment amoureux tend à obnubiler l’importance des marques plus concrètes à travers lesquelles il s’exprime. Ainsi la lecture d’une chanson de geste aussi tardive que négligée, Dieudonné de Hongrie,16 vient-elle nous apporter un exemple très intéressant d’anneau qui ne joue directement aucun rôle “transmetteur” entre amants éloignés, mais dont l’évocation récurrente permet pourtant de suppléer, au sein de la narration, à ce rôle traditionnel: ainsi, en quelque sorte, le déficit “fonctionnel” de l’objet est compensé par un tressage motivique qui fait de sa mention un élément structurel essentiel de la fin du récit. Il s’agit d’un anneau enchanté dont le rôle est exactement homologue à celui du philtre dans Cligès, puisque, don de l’enchanteur Balan, il permet à la comtesse Supplante d’échapper aux étreintes du roi sarrasin Josué, lequel, lorsqu’elle porte l’anneau, “le [= la] cuide tenir toute nuit embracie, / Mais c’est .j. orilier de coy il s’esbanie!” (1027677). Deux mille vers plus loin, c’est l’anneau qui est au centre du rappel de l’épisode: “par .j. annel qu’elle ot, que Balan li dona” (12350). Il revient ensuite tout naturellement lorsque Supplante raconte à Dieudonné la ruse qu’elle utilise, et l’anneau n’est pas mentionné moins de quatre fois en quatorze vers (13358, 13361, 13367 et 13371): on notera la précision que “tant est de grant pris” (13361) et même qu’il “vaut l’or d’un païs” (13371). Au 13807, on souligne une nouvelle fois la ruse induite par “l’annel que li donna Balant,” et au 14217 Supplante dévoile aux vassaux de Josué le stratagème de l’ “annel qui n’est mie d’argent.” Enfin, après que l’héroïne a été assassinée par des brigands, on rappelle qu’elle a donné son anneau à Corsabrine, épouse du roi Abiax: la transmission, cette fois-ci 16

Je remercie Denis Collomp de m’avoir permis de lire son édition encore inédite de la seconde partie de cette chanson de geste particulièrement représentative, par l’extraordinaire richesse des motifs qu’elle met en scène, des derniers feux de l’épopée française.

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effective, n’a pas été faite, notons-le, d’amante à amant, mais plutôt de malmariée à malmariée (“car [Corsabrine] le roy n’amoit mie,” 15107). Et l’on ne s’étonnera pas de voir une fois de plus célébré l’aspect hors normes de l’objet: “Et bien vit que l’annel si grande vertus a” (15103). Certes, on ne peut pas totalement se défendre de l’idée que l’anneau recouvre souvent dans les textes médiévaux le motif de l’amour; ainsi n’est-ce sans doute pas un hasard si la relativement tardive version de Paris de La Chanson de Roland, en même temps qu’elle élargit le rôle d’Aude, prête à cette héroïne un anneau que lui aurait donné Roland: “En sa main destre, qu’elle a amenevie, / Ot .I. anel ou durement se fie, / Que li donna Rollans par druerie” (5430-32).17 Mais ces effets, qui témoignent si l’on veut d’un affaiblissement des caractères purement héroïques de la chanson de geste, restent de surface. Plus intéressante nous semble la leçon structurale que l’on peut tirer de la présence de cet objet, et on voit particulièrement bien à travers un exemple comme celui de Dieudonné de Hongrie tout ce qu’une analyse narratologique précise aurait à gagner de la prise en compte de la circulation des objets à travers les textes narratifs de la littérature médiévale; on constaterait en outre que la pertinence de ces indices croît à proportion de la longueur du texte qui les contient. La déception à peine voilée de nombre de chercheurs devant les “incohérences” et les “longueurs” des épisodes dont sont constitués les romans et les chansons de geste les plus amples pourrait sans doute se nuancer d’intérêt, voire d’admiration, si l’on prenait davantage en compte les parcours souterrains, souvent négligés, d’objets symboliques qui, pour les auteurs médiévaux, devaient paraître des gages de cohérence textuelle beaucoup plus solides que ceux que pouvait fournir la linéarité, parfois en effet bien répétitive, des aventures vécues par leurs héros. La Chanson d’Aspremont, qui est certes loin de figurer parmi les chansons de geste les moins réussies, doit sans doute davantage de sa fascination à la présence centrale, dans son récit, d’une épée sarrasine promise à une haute destinée en mains franques–Durandal–et à un heaume semé de pierreries qui s’affirme comme le plus beau trophée

17

Les textes de la Chanson de Roland, éd. Raoul Mortier, 10 tomes (Paris: Éditions de la Geste Francor, 1940-44), t. 6, Le texte de Paris.

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de Roland18 qu’à la suite des combats qu’elle égrène. Mais, comme on en a esquissé la démonstration, l’anneau n’est pas seulement un objet; il l’est, certes, aussi, et son existence concrète ne doit pas être négligée lorsque l’on traque la présence des signes de reconnaissance matériels dans nos textes, mais il possède surtout l’avantage d’imposer sa symbolique première avant toute identification plus précise. Indépendamment de sa matière et de son éclat, il est déjà, par sa forme brute, l’analogon même du récit, tout en en niant par avance la stricte linéarité. La narrativité médiévale n’est en effet jamais le simple déroulement d’une intrigue, elle est parcourue de signes qui en hypostasient et individualisent les moments clés. Dans le fond, cette suspension du temps que réalisaient dans les plus anciennes chansons de geste ces “hautes haltes lyriques”19 qu’étaient les laisses similaires et parallèles continue, dans les meilleures œuvres narratives médiévales comme dans les autres, à représenter un principe de saisie de l’action et de la vision du monde des personnages. Moins visible, fluidifiée par un art du récit qui sait se faire alerte au gré du sautillant couplet d’octosyllables ou respirer au rythme du vaste souffle de la grande prose narrative, la perception symbolique qui télescope le passé, le présent et le futur au gré des remembrances et des rencontres décisives20 continue, jusque tard dans le Moyen Âge, à ménager de fulgurants éclairs de sens qui, tel le soleil traversant de part en part la plaie de Mordret, parviennent à abolir le temps et font, l’espace d’une notation ou d’une évocation, revenir le récit sur lui-même. Comme un anneau.

18

Voir notre article, “Parcours du désir et de la cruauté dans La Chanson d’Aspremont”dans L'Épopée romane: Actes du XVe Congrès international Rencesvals de Poitiers, 21-27 août 2000, Civilisation Médiévale, XIII, 2 tomes (Poitiers: Université de Poitiers, Centre d'Études Supérieures de Civilisation Médiévale, 2002), t. 1, pp. 465-73. 19 Jean Rychner, La Chanson de geste. Essai sur l’art épique des jongleurs (Genève: Droz, 1955), p. 93. 20 D’où tout l’intérêt qu’il y aurait à lire dans cette perspective le riche thème de la “rencontre spéculaire,” glosé par Donald Maddox dans son récent Fictions of Identity in Medieval France, (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 2000).

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PETER F. DEMBOWSKI

What is Critical in Critical Editions? The Case of Bilingual Editions riting about problems of editing medieval texts in honor of Rupert Pickens is a “natural” thing to do, because having edited two important and difficult texts he certainly is an éditeur chevronné.1 Both editions are of special interest to us because they are accompanied by an English translation. We remember that a rather foolish and fortunately short-lived “intellectual” agitation concerning the marginalization of philology, and concomitantly the marginalization of critical editing, was promised to us at the advent of the New Philology.2 These prophetic ideas reached the “old” philologists chiefly through the January 1990 special issue of Speculum and elicited various responses.3 However the Age of philological Aquarius did not descend upon us. The last twelve years have seen, if anything, a rise in publications of new editions in the domains of Old French and Old Provençal, as well as continuing discussions of editorial problems touching old vernacular languages. Let us begin with continuing editorial enterprises. It is true that the venerable “Société des Anciens Textes Français” has not been very productive in several years. This doubtless reflects a lingering “Bédierist” malaise concerning the critical and the “definitive” edition 1

Rupert T. Pickens, ed., The Songs of Jaufré Rudel (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1978), and Rupert T. Pickens, ed., William W. Kibler, trans., Chrétien de Troyes, The Story of the Grail (Li Contes del Graal), or Perceval (New York: Garland, 1990). 2 It would be helpful not only to the anciens combattants of the Speculum 1990 campaign but to all others interested in critical editions and in philology in general to peruse Ursula Schaefer’s friendly appraisal written from both geographic and chronological distance: “Von Schreibern, Philologen and anderen Schurken– Bemerkungen zu New Philology und New Medievalism in the USA,” Das Mittelalter, 5 (2000), pp. 69-81 (especially pp. 69-76). Schaefer, a specialist in medieval English literature and in orality places the Speculum 1990, and the “happenings” that followed, in a broader historical and ideological context. 3 See Keith Busby, ed., Towards a Synthesis. Essays on the New Philology (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993) and The Future of the Middle Ages . Medieval Literature in the 1990s, ed. William D. Paden (Gainesville, FL: Univ. of Florida Press, 1994). It should be remembered that Rupert’s erudition and wit shine brightly in both volumes.

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for which the Société was called to life. Since 1990 only the multivolume edition of La Version post-Vulgate de la Queste del Saint Graal et de la Mort Artu has been published. While the “Classiques Français du Moyen Age” went through a period of a somewhat diminished activity in the 1970s and 1980s, the newly reorganized series has published 19 works since 1990. A casual examination of the “Old French friendly” series of “Textes Littéraires Français” shows that, since 1990, 21 medieval French texts have been published. Among the relatively new French enterprises we should mention the “Classiques Garnier” series which publishes edited texts always accompanied by translations into Modern French, and the “Bibliothèque médiévale” (collection 10/18) organized by Paul Zumthor, which published a number of texts (bilingual or translations only), but, I believe, it ceased to function sometime after 1991. However, there has been a slow but steady stream of textual editions appearing outside of France or the United States, in particular in Germany, Italy, and Scandinavia. Thus, e.g., the Anglo-Norman Text Society, founded in 1940, has published seven new, and always critical, editions since 1990. But the most significant developments in Germany, and later, in France and in the Anglo-Saxon world, would have been the new series. Between 1962 and 2002 the German Klassische Texte des romanischen Mittelalters in zweisprachigen Ausgaben (founded by Hans Robert Jauss and Erich Köhler) published 32 bilingual editions, drawn chiefly from Old French. In France and in the U.S. two new series appeared: “Lettres gothiques” and “Garland Library of Medieval Literature.” The first, directed by Michel Zink, has produced some 36 editions of Old French since 1989. These inexpensive (or rather less expensive) books are destined for students and all of them as a rule are accompanied by a translation into Modern French on opposite pages. Since 1990, ”Garland,” the relatively new English language series published in the United States (and simultaneously in Great Britain), has been responsible for 13 editions of Old French and Old Provençal texts in the “A” series. This series consists of texts with an English translation on the facing page, while the “B” series offers translations only. It is obvious that one of the striking features of the contemporary critical editorial activity is the wide-spread acceptance of having a translation accompany the edition. An in-depth examination of the

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reasons for this practice would certainly go beyond the scope of this essay. It suffices to say that it signals, on the negative side, a greater and greater unwillingness on the part of the beginning (and often no longer beginning) scholars in our country and in Europe to acquire new language skills. Symptomatic of this development in the United States is the fact that the PMLA has ceased to publish articles in foreign languages, and requires that all the foreign citation be followed by a translation. One must thus not say, in PMLA, “lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate” without immediately adding “abandon all hope, ye who enter.” Indeed, in certain more “advanced” academic milieus, foreign citations are often taken for manifestations of reactionary (anti-multicultural?) tendencies. There are, of course, intellectual and practical reasons in favor of such translations. On the positive side, they signal the opening of the study of medieval texts to relatively uninitiated students. They also underscore the success of medieval literature. It is studied not only by the philologically minded, but by students of French literature in general. The “democratization,” or better the “anti-elitism,” of the corpus has doubtless influenced these developments. In the undergraduate courses, not only in the U.S. but also in Europe, medieval texts seem to have shared the fate of those “hitherto neglected” literatures such as the works written by women, by authors of the Francophonie, etc. It is difficult to expect that the students of such “new” courses will acquire a reading knowledge of Old French or Provençal. Responding to the need of the old texts in Modern French, Champion launched a series “Traductions des classiques français du moyen âge,” directed by Jean Dufournet.4 While the need for translations for French students is thus understandable, both for students in France and for French majors and graduate students 4

Champion had been publishing translations of Old French texts well before the “Traductions” series was formally established. One of the first texts was Erec et Enide. Roman traduit de l’ancien français d’après l’édition de Mario Roques par René Louis (Paris: H. Champion, 1953). Despite his faithfulness to Mario Roques, Louis felt obliged to introduce certain corrections where the editor’s absolute devotion to the “best manuscript” principle led to apparent incoherencies. Traduttore correttore! See my “De nouveau: Erec et Enide, Chrétien et Guiot,” in Et c’est la fin pour quoi sommes ensemble. Hommage à Jean Dufournet: littérature, histoire et langue du Moyen Age, ed. Jean-Claude Aubailly et al., 3 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1993), vol. 1, pp. 409-17, here p. 414.

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elsewhere, more difficult to understand is the publication of medieval texts alongside their translations. Although the increased popularity of bilingual editions is undoubtedly a recent phenomenon, there has been, of course, a venerable tradition of such editions, but it concerned chiefly the indisputable world classics. Thus Joseph Bédier published his famous critical edition of La Chanson de Roland in two volumes in 1921.5 The first volume, introduced by a short Avant-Propos, contained the critical text, as well as the prose translation on the facing page. The second volume contained the long introduction, with a défence et illustration of the “best manuscript” principle, an apparatus criticus and a glossary (prepared by Lucien Foulet). Since then, there have been numerous republications, but of the first volume only, for the second was, in fact, sold out sometime after 1927 and never reprinted. Other indisputable classics have also been published in critical editions accompanied by translations. Thus, François Villon has been translated several times into English. Barbara Sargent-Baur has given us a new critical text accompanied by an elegant and philologically sound English translation.6 While such lavish attention is certainly understandable in regards to the “greats,” the tendency to publish translations (with or without edited original versions) of more “ordinary” medieval texts is also evident. As far as I know, there has been little public discussion of this phenomenon. The following rationale for bilingual editions did appear some 20 years ago in an Avertissement to Théâtre comique du Moyen Age: Jusqu’ici plusieurs obstacles gênent, pour le non-spécialistes,[l’]accès directe [à la culture du Moyen Age]: ils tiennent à la fois au mode d’édition et aux difficultés propres à la langue médiévale. D’une part, diverses maisons d’édition littéraire ont publié en traduction un petit nombre des textes où s’est exprimé le Moyen Age; mais la traduction seule, par

5 La Chanson de Roland publié d’aprés le manuscrit d’Oxford (Paris: Piazza, 1921). (The “Edition définitive” was published in 1937.) Whereas the first volume continued to be printed (and was recently reprinted in the ‘Lettres gothiques” series), Bédier’s masterpiece was, of course, neither the first nor the last bilingual edition of the Roland to appear in France. 6 François Villon, Complete Poems, edited with English translation and commentary (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1994).

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l’inévitable modernisation qu’elle implique, dénature plus ou moins l’original, et peut en fausser la compréhension, en empêcher la perception juste. D’autre part, plusieurs maisons d’édition de caractère universitaire publient des collections de textes originaux, digne de toute confiance sur le plan historique, mais destinées de façon spécifique à l’enseignement et à la recherche, et pourvues à cette fin d’un appareil, parfois considérable d’érudition […]. Texte et traduction seront établis par des médiévistes qualifiés; mais ils seront publiés sans appareils érudit ni notes critiques qui pourraient alurdir la lecture.7

The Avertissement has a virtue of explicitness. Philosophically speaking, a translation is always a compromise, which “denatures” the original. Whether the accompanying original text helps to maintain its “just perception” depends of course on the reader’s ability to read the old text. More important for our profession is the fact that the Avertissement announces the exclusion of apparatus and critical notes. The edition without them can be unreliable. Yes, the apparatus and critical notes do “weigh the reading down,” but the surest way to lighten it up is simply to suppress the source text. That is exactly what the Théâtre comique did: it contains translations only. The main point of the Avertissement is this: it asks that we simply accept on faith the source text of translation as reliable. Such faith is justifiable in the case of a previously well-edited text. In other cases we must reserve judgment. There are reasons to believe that bilingual editions of Old French and Old Provençal texts have become a permanent feature of our discipline. It is even possible that trend will be extended to some postmedieval classics.8 Translations in themselves are legitimate. They can be even philologically significant. Such is certainly the case with Madeleine Tyssens’s translation of Le Voyage de Charlemagne à Jérusalem et à Constantinople: traduction critique (Gand: E. StoryScientia, 1978). The term “critical translation” is fully justified by her meticulous work upon this difficult text. Curiously, the Modern French 7

Text traduit et présenté par Claude-Alain Chevalier, “Bibliothèque médiévale” (Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 1982), pp. 7-8. The Avertissement was signed “l’éditeur” (Paul Zumthor?). 8 M. Gallimard himself told the editors of the bilingual Œuvres complètes of Chrétien de Troyes that he had seriously entertained plans to publish Rabelais and Montaigne with modern French translations because, “ces textes sont trop difficiles en version originale.” I doubt, however, whether French intellectuals would soon accept “Montaigne en français moderne.”

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text is printed on the right side only, the opposite page is left blank, presumably for an Old French version. Philologically sound and esthetically pleasing translations are a real boon for the non-specialist, and in the case of such works as Tyssens’s, a help for specialists. It is also true that a translation of an old text produces an inevitable modernization. Contrary to the quasi-universal, self-imposed ban on the translator’s notes interlingual modern translations, the translator of a medieval text should be allowed to annotate his translation. There are no modern French equivalents of such key and polyvalent terms as, e.g., recreire and recreant, and the translator should be allowed to share his or her pains in finding a modern substitute with a careful reader. Longer translations from Old French to Modern French should include a glossary of technical terms pertaining to medieval life such as barbacane, besant, bliaut etc., even if those terms are found in a modern dictionary. Translations should avoid as much as possible any archaic “flavor.” It is quite evident, if the present trend continues, that the situation of Old French and Old Provençal texts will resemble that of the “Loeb Classics Library.” But it must be underscored here that the situation of Latin and Greek texts is different from that of Medieval French. Most of the “Loeb Classics” reproduce the (critically) well-established and accepted texts. Probably all the texts published in the “Loeb Library” had been previously critically edited. Thus, the 1981 edition of The City of God uses the venerable text prepared by Bernhard Dombart (Leipzig, 1853, 4th ed. 1928-29), and the modern editor signals the (quite infrequent) departures from this text in the apparatus. The establishment of the text is not as much of the problem here as are the introduction, literary comments, and, of course, a new modern English translation. While translations accompanying medieval texts are acceptable intellectual enterprises and legitimate pedagogical tools, they must be looked at carefully. To be of real value their edited text should conform to expected norms and practices of critical editions. In other words, the translation should not impinge in any way upon the quality of the edited original. Let me give two recent examples from editions/translations of a very important text. The first confirms the fears of a pessimist concerning the “Loebization” of our discipline, the second reassures an optimist. The students of Guillaume de Machaut had waited for many years for

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the appearance of a critical text of his Le Livre du voir dit. Within the last four years not one but two such editions appeared. Both contain translations. Daniel Leech-Wilkinson edited it first in the Garland “A” series.9 About a year later appeared the critical edition promised many years ago by Paul Imbs. Published in the “Lettres gothiques” series, it was completed and seen to print by Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet.10 Let us examine the Leech-Wilkinson edition. While the English translation by an experienced translator, Palmer, is clear and elegant, the edited original text is truly baffling, which, as we shall see, occasionally confuses the translator. The editor proudly presents his work as “available for the first time in a complete critical edition” (p. c). It has obviously been prepared painstakingly which explains its astronomical price.11 A long introduction includes a section on “Editorial Policy for this Text and Translation” (pp. xciv-xcix). It is here that we encounter problems. In the sub-section, “Orthography and layout,”12 the editor acknowledges that “[e]ditors of the Middle French have traditionally modernized many features of the manuscript text, separating words, changing letter forms to distinguish u/v and i/j, and introducing accents and punctuation,13 among many other changes” (p. xciv). He is, of course, right, but I do not think that he has pondered deeply enough the nature of this “modernization.” 9

Guillaume de Machaut, Le Livre dou Voir Dit (The Book of the True Poem), ed. Daniel Leech-Wilkinson. trans. R. Barton Palmer (New York: Garland, 1998). Palmer is an experienced editor-translator. He has published four Machaut’s dits: Le Jugement du roy de Behaigne, Le Jugement du roy de Navarre, Le Confort d’Ami, and La Fonteinne amoureuse, all of them accompanied by English translations. 10 Guillaume de Machaut, Le Livre du Voir Dit (Le Dit véridique), ed. and trans. Paul Imbs. Introduction, coordination et révision, Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet. Index de noms propres et glossaire, Noël Musso (Paris: Librairie Générale Française, 1999). 11 While the items in the “Lettres gothiques” series are relatively inexpensive, this is not the case with the “Garland” series. According to Books in Print, the price of Le Voir dit is $183,75! 12 Without wishing to appear a hair-splitter, I disapprove of Leech-Wilkinson’s use of the term orthography, for in Old and Middle French there was no “correct” way of writing. He should speak about spelling (Fr. graphie). The problem is important, for had there been an established orthography our task would be to reproduce that orthography, correcting all the deviations from it, as we normally do in an edition of a modern text. 13 But Leech-Wilkinson reproduces the punctuation of ms. A, which consists of sporadic use of the raised point ( • ) to represent an approximate modern value of a comma or a semi-colon.

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Most modern editors (traditional or not) do indeed follow these principles of the traitement du texte to respond to the first requirement of a modern edition, that is a readable transcription of a medieval writing. Leech-Wilkinson has the mistaken idea that the reader should have before his eyes a printed text which resembles closely the basic manuscript that he uses as a base.14 To this end, he should have prepared a diplomatic edition. But his text has neither been diplomatically transcribed, nor traditionally established. LeechWilkinson has decided to separate the words, to develop the abbreviations, to distinguish between u and v (but paradoxically, not between i and j). Neither does he use ç, stress accent, apostrophe, punctuation and capitalization of proper names, or quotation marks to signal direct discourse. He gives (p. xcviii) a few examples of what he calls “medieval orthography” compared with the corresponding “modernized” forms. Thus Machaut’s jai or jay is “modernized” in j’ai. In ten examples supplied, there are at least three errors: j’ai été representing iay este should be “modernized” into j’ay esté; lassamblee into l’assemblee (not l’assemblée); ceste lettre quescris, not into cette lettre qu’écrit, but into ceste lettre qu’escris (either first or second person singular). The very use of the term to modernize shows the confusion. Modernization of an Old French text means translating into Modern French. It is critical to the very practice of critical editions to understand that modern editors do not really modernize, rather they transcribe while following quasi-universally accepted conventions. They respect the old text marking the phonic, rhythmic and morphological features which remain unmarked in medieval graphic representation. They know that lesemblee consisted of two morphemes and they make it explicit by dividing the morphemes with an apostrophe. They do not put an accent on the penultimate e, because they know that -ee is always stressed on the first e. Similarly, all the diacritic marks, word separation, and punctuation simply make explicit what exists in the old text implicitly. A similar principle applies to capitalization. While our medieval predecessors doubtless distinguished between the first word following 14

Ms. A, Paris, BnF, fr. 1584–the same which served as a base for the ImbsCerquiglini-Toulet edition.

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the pause (the end of a sentence), and they distinguished between the idea of a proper name and of a personification, the idea of a marker made by a capital letter (originally a decorative letter) was slow to develop and except for the first letter of each verse, the capitalization of XIVth-century French, was, for us, whimsical. Leech-Wilkinson simply follows the capitalization of his manuscript: par Saint pierre (6627), sainte marie (6647); par dieu (6694) etc. Particularly troubling is the case of numerous personifications. The following verses are hard to follow unless we realize that Desir, Pensee, Paour, Couardie and Honte are personifications: Dardant desir et pensee / Qui fu de paour engendree / et fu la fille de couardie / La honte ne soublia mie (248992).15 It is quite obvious that the text on the left is difficult to read even for those who read Middle French without difficulties. To read and to understand Leach-Wilkinson’s edition, one simply must consult the English translation. Compare this short passage taken at random from the two editions: Leech-Wilkinson (2463-76):

Imbs-Cerquiglini-Toulet (2362-74):

Quant ieus ma balade finee Ma douce dame desiree Dist cest bien fait se dieus me gart Adont son tresdous regart Me commanda quelle leust Par quoy sa bouche la leust Car en cas quelle la liroit Assez mieus len entenderoit Et ie le fis moult volentiers

Quant j’eus ma balade finee, Ma douce dame desiree Dist: “C’est bien fait, se Dieus me gart.” Adonc par son tresdoulz regart Me commada qu’elle l’eüst Par quoi sa bouche la leüst, Car, en cas qu’elle la liroit, Assez mieulz l’en ente[n]deroit. Et je le fis moult volentiers

15

This insistence on lower case confused the translator, who wrote here the thought for Pensee (better: “Worry”) and fear for Paour. Any experienced editor knows that it is sometimes difficult to establish a distinction between a personification and a common noun, just as it is difficult to punctuate an old text, for in order to capitalize and punctuate one must understand and interpret the text well. But Leech-Wilkinson’s solution to follow faithfully some features of his manuscript, is a solution de facilité. I am afraid that the unkind observation made in 1903 by A. E. Housman about the “best manuscript” method–yes, it was practiced before Bédier–applies to Leech-Wilkinson’s solution: “This method answers the purpose for which it was intended: it saves lazy editors from working and stupid editors from thinking.” Cited from Leonard E. Boyle O. P., “Optimist and Recensionist: ‘Common Errors’ or ‘Common Variations’?” in Latin Script and Letters, A.D. 400-900. Festschrift Presented to Ludwig Bieler on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday, ed. John J. O’Meara and Bernard Neuman (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1976), pp. 264-74, here p. 265.

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Et de cuer · mais endementiers Que mes escrivains lescrisoit Ma douce dame la lisoit Si quelle en sot une partie Eins que de la fust departie

Et de cuer; mais endeme[n]tiers Que mes escrivains [l’escrisoit], [Ma douce dame] la lisoit Si qu’elle en sot une partie, Ains que de la fust departie.16

It is simply unthinkable that Leech-Wilkinson’s text would have been published all by itself by any series mentioned above. The curious editorial decision taken by Leech-Wilkinson is perhaps explained by his profession: he is a musicologist.17 Many of us have had the experience of trying to guide singers in “correct” pronunciation of the lyrics written below the musical notes, only to discover that many musical editions are notorious for not observing any of the common practices and rules for editing medieval French and Provençal texts. After all, the words to be sung written below the musical notes hardly require capitalization, punctuation and stress accent (but cedilla would help).18 Although some poems of the Voir Dit were set to music, most of it was not for singing. Fortunately, we have now another edition. While I believe that the critical edition/translation formula is wrought with an ever-present danger of translation invading the proper terrain of the edition, this certainly is not the case with the Imbs-Cerquiglini-Toulet edition. They have given us a serious critical edition containing all its constituent elements: an introduction which explains editorial policy well suited for the particular edition, followed by a bibliography, a critical text with an apparatus criticus, a clear and elegant translation, an index of proper names (from which the personifications are, alas, excluded) and a glossary.

16 The supplying of missing words in A is explained in both editions by the variants. The differences in spelling of tresdous/tresdoulz, quoy/quoi, mieus/mieulz, Eins/Ains in editions based on the same manuscript is baffling. 17 Leech-Wilkinson has studied the motets of Philippe de Vitry and Machaut’s music. He has edited the latter’s Messe de Nostre Dame. 18 There is perhaps also a specifically British(?) reluctance for some diacritic signs. C. W. Coopland, ed. Philippe de Meziers, Le Songe du Viel Pelerin, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Univ. Press, 1969) refuses to put the accent on the final stressed é or utilize ç (thus Verite, manconge), but otherwise his text follows all the modern principles of textual editing. Coopland was not a philologist but an historian. He never explains the editorial policy followed in his edition of Le Songe .

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There is no doubt in my mind that the steady stream of editions/translations has influenced the very practice of making critical editions and will continue to do so. I believe that each editorial venture requires a specific editorial approach–and that this approach should be explicitly stated. To my mind, the danger posed by the bilingual edition does not lie in radically eccentric editions based on erroneous theories. Rather, the danger of more conventional editions/translations lurks in ignoring many or some humble but important rules of the traitement (or toilette) du texte. Presentation of a clear and readable text is the most critical task of an editor. Most critics have followed the rules of the traitement du texte, applied since the founding of the Société des Anciens Textes Français, and particularly since 1909 when a summary text of Paul Meyer’s Instructions was recast by Mario Roques as “Établissement de règles pratiques pour l’édition des anciens textes français et provençaux.”19 These all too succinct règles pratiques were later developed and clarified by Alfred Foulet and Mary Blakely Speer, On Editing Old French Texts.20 Their work should become an indispensable guide for anyone contemplating a critical edition in our domain (whether or not accompanied by a translation). The brief perusal of Leech-Wilkinson’s text as well as other bilingual editions make me believe that the traitement du texte suffers most frequently in the use of capital letters and of diacritic marks. The 19 They were published three times: in La Société des Anciens Textes Français, Compte Rendu de la séance […] octobre 1925 (Paris: Champion, 1926), pp. 3-9; in Romania, 52 (1926), pp. 243-49; and in Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes, 67 (1926), pp. 453-59. 20 The Edward C. Armstrong Monographs on Medieval Literature, 1 (Lawrence, KS: The Regents Press of Kansas, 1979). The discussions centered on the 1990 Speculum issue also revealed a considerable confusion concerning the history of our discipline. Foulet and Speer offered a carefully presented brief history of editorial practice from the uncodified “empirical” beginning through the “scientific” search for the Ur-Text, usually (but erroneously) associated with the name of Karl Lachmann (1793-1851), and with the subsequent reactions to the “scientific” method, usually (but erroneously) associated with the name of Joseph Bédier (1864-1938). The “Historical Orientation” introduction ends with a cautiously optimistic “Towards a New Consensus?” defining a present state of textual philology. Quite rightly Foulet and Speer emphasize the role of other dramatis personae (including my regretted teacher Edward B. Ham) in formulating the theoretical orientations of critical practices of critical editions of medieval texts in this country.

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first is not dealt with in Établissement and Foulet-Speer mention it briefly as a device to mark the beginning of a sentence and a proper name. The problem of capitalization of Old French probably stems from an often confused situation in Modern French, where distinction such as that between Église (institution) and église the (building) is not always observed. Some editors neglect the use of capitals when writing Dieus, Sire, Seignor to refer to God for fear of expressing reverence. They should be reassured that the majuscule need not do so, its main function rather is to indicate a proper name. An intelligent decision is required to indicate when a proper noun stands for a personification. But it is critical that such a decision be made and not left to the translator or a reader.21 While capitalization could be considered as essentially an outcome of modernization, for there is nothing in the structure of the language which distinguishes between simple noun and proper name, an acute accent on e and tréma on e, i, (y), o and u represent a more complex relationship between the ancient and the modern. The distinction between diphthong and hiatus existed in the very structure of Old French but was graphically unmarked, as it is essentially unmarked in Modern French. The rules concerning the use of diacritic marks in Établissement are too vague and occasionally confusing. Its principle is economy, so these diacritic marks should be used only in places in which the old usage differs from the modern. But this modern usage is often confusing, particularly for those native speakers who are not versed in formal prosody of classical poetry. Foulet-Speer proposed a better solution: we should consider Old French as a language of its own–the need to translate into Modern French proves this fact. They also wish to use acute accent and dieresis economically, that is to say, only when a given medieval spelling regularly expressed both diphthong (e.g. lié “happy”) and hiatus lïé (“attached”). The first no longer exists in Modern French, but whether the second is felt by the modern speaker bisyllabic should not be impertinent. On the other hand, certain vowel clusters (ee, eo, ia, io) were always bisyllabic in Old French and as such they do not require a tréma. The attention to those minutia is particularly important in bilingual editions, because, to 21

Most of us have been waging a (largely losing) battle to persuade the publishers not to print the Roman de la rose.

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give but one example, the distinction between lié and lïé is made clear by the accompanying translation. Thus what is critical about critical editions/translations is that the text and the translation should each stand on its own as full-fledged critical accomplishments. We must demand that the edited text and its translation do not dwell in a mutually parasitic symbiosis (as it is hinted in the Avertissement). The editor should not hide behind the translator.

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JEAN DUFOURNET

Gaston Paris et Villon: Entre Auguste Longnon et Marcel Schwob harles Ridoux, en une thèse imposante qui est devenue un maître livre,1 a érigé un véritable monument à la gloire conjointe des deux très grands savants que furent Gaston Paris et Paul Meyer. Ce livre est construit comme un véritable triptyque dont le vaste panneau central (pp. 195-998) tourne constamment autour de ces deux pionniers, à travers les institutions qu’ils ont illustrées, les revues qu’ils ont dirigées et stimulées, et leurs œuvres fort abondantes: livres, articles, comptes rendus, préfaces, discours […]. Des deux savants, Charles Ridoux trace peu à peu un chaleureux portrait moral, intellectuel et scientifique, remarquable par son objectivité, sa richesse, sa finesse et son équité. Au delà de traits communs et d’un accord sur l’essentiel, ce portrait nuancé restitue, autant que possible, à chacun des deux maîtres ce qui lui revient en propre et décèle judicieusement ce qui les distingue l’un de l’autre. Gaston Paris, omniprésent dans les institutions et les centres de décision, avait, plus que Paul Meyer, le sens des idées générales qu’il exprimait en particulier dans le Journal des Savants. Il ressentait plus fortement la nécessité de faire connaître cette nouvelle culture médiévale au plus grand nombre, de la vulgariser en écrivant des ouvrages de qualité pour les étudiants et les lycéens, pour un large public cultivé, en collaborant à des revues comme la Revue des Deux Mondes. Il regrettait, à propos de la politique éditoriale de la Société des Anciens Textes Français, qu’on n’eût pas donné la priorité aux grandes œuvres et qu’on n’eût pas pensé à un public autre que celui des spécialistes. Il avait le sentiment d’une œuvre jamais achevée, toujours en chantier, et en cela il se distingue de Joseph Bédier. Paul Meyer était, lui, un grand explorateur des bibliothèques françaises et étrangères, un découvreur de manuscrits comme ceux de la Chronique de Jean Le Bel ou de l’Histoire de Guillaume le

1

Evolution des études médiévales en France de 1860 à 1914, Nouvelle Bibliothèque du Moyen Age, 56 (Paris: Champion, 2001).

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Maréchal.2 Tourné vers l’Italie et l’Angleterre, à la différence de Gaston Paris, lié plutôt à l’Allemagne, il fut le maître des études provençales, en contact avec les félibres et Mistral. S’il avait le goût des monographies étroites et des notices de manuscrits, il montra aussi plus d’intérêt à la littérature des XIVème et XVème siècles, et en particulier à Eustache Deschamps dont il a suivi avec attention la grande édition et sur qui il a émis des jugements pénétrants. C’était un saturnien, plus âpre que son alter ego, le solaire Gaston Paris, à en croire Ch. Ridoux. Cependant, si ce dernier n’avait que peu d’estime pour la poésie du XVème siècle qui “était dans un état singulièrement languissant”3 et qu’il traite de littérature “assez pauvre,” de “floraison chétive,”4 il a toujours fait une exception en faveur de Villon, auquel il n’a cessé de s’intéresser à partir de 1867, le plus souvent sous forme de comptes rendus dans la Revue Critique (1867, 1873, 1877, 1884) et la Romania (1887, 1897), avant de consacrer au poète, en 1901, un livre de cent cinquante pages et un ensemble de Villoniana de quarante pages dans Romania. Les écrits de Gaston Paris sur Villon: un hommage à Auguste Longnon En 1867, dans la Revue Critique (t. 2-1, pp. 248-51), G. Paris rend compte de l’édition de Pierre Jannet (Paris: Picard, 1867) qui a repris le texte de la Monnoye (le meilleur, juge-t-il, jusqu’à cette date), tout en introduisant les strophes découvertes par Prompsault et inconnues de La Monnoye. Dès cette date, il expose son credo en la matière: “Villon est un de nos grands poètes et ses ouvrages méritent d’être traités avec toute la rigueur et tous les soins de la critique à laquelle il offre un champ circonscrit mais épineux.” En 1873, dans la même Revue Critique (t. 7-2, pp. 190-99), il rend compte des travaux concurrents d’Auguste Longnon (“François Villon et ses légataires,” Romania) et d’Auguste Vitu (Notice sur François Villon, Paris, Librairie des Bibliophiles, 8 mai 1873). Au cœur des 2 Sur Paul Meyer, voir les articles de Jacques Monfrin regroupés sous le titre “A l’école de Paul Meyer,” dans Etudes de philologie romane (Genève: Droz, 2001), pp. 3-103. 3 François Villon (Paris: Hachette, 1901), p. 84. 4 Ibid., p. 99.

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deux écrits se retrouvent les lettres de rémission accordées au poète par Charles VII en janvier 1456 pour le meurtre de Philippe Chermoye (ou Sermoise). Elles nous apprennent le vrai nom, François de Montcorbier, de celui qui ne nous était connu que par celui de Villon. C’est aussi pour G. Paris l’occasion de marquer sa préférence pour A. Longnon contre A. Vitu. Ce dernier, très sévère pour ses prédécesseurs, a introduit encore plus de confusion dans les débats, sans compter qu’il a eu tort d’attribuer à Villon le Monologue du Franc Archer de Bagnolet et le Dialogue de Messieurs de Malepaie et Baillevent. Au contraire, A. Longnon est arrivé, à la suite de fouilles patientes et extrêmement heureuses, faites surtout dans les registres des Archives, aux résultats les plus inattendus sur la plupart des personnages nommés dans le Lais et le Testament. L’on ne peut qu’être admiratif tant pour ses recherches les plus variées et les plus étendues que pour sa réserve et sa circonspection, toutes choses qui font défaut à Vitu. Chacun des deux concurrents prépare une édition de Villon, et l’on ne peut que conclure à la grande supériorité de Longnon qu’il a déjà manifestée dans ses recherches historiques. Ne dispose-t-il pas des qualités essentielles à un critique: “[…] la pénétration, l’intelligence, le discernement des points vraiment saillants d’une question, la patience à interroger les faits, l’ordre à les disposer, la prudence à les interpréter, la faculté d’embrasser d’un regard les différents aspects d’un problème, une grande aptitude à voir les hypothèses possibles, une grande sévérité à les admettre” (pp. 198-99). En outre, il peut utiliser le manuscrit de Fauchet “qui paraît hors de la connaissance et de la portée de son concurrent.” En 1877, toujours dans la Revue Critique (t. 11-1, pp. 319-22), Gaston Paris, signalant la publication de l’Etude biographique sur Villon d’A. Longnon (Paris, Menu, 1877), s’attarde sur le document découvert par l’auteur aux Archives, relatif au vol commis au Collège de Navarre vers la Noël 1456 par Villon, Tabarie et Colin de Cayeux, et sur l’origine du surnom de Villon que prit François de Montcorbier: “Il le devait à son protecteur Guillaume de Villon, bachelier en décret et pourvu de plusieurs prébendes, qui lui-même le tenait de son village natal: Villon près de Tonnerre en Bourgogne” (p. 319).5 5

W. G. C. Bijvanck, Spécimen d’un essai critique sur les œuvres de François Villon. Le Petit Testament (Leyde: De Breuk et Smits, 1882), p. 7, n. 2, parle de

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En 1884, G. Paris revient à la charge dans la Revue Critique (t. 18-2, pp. 317-20) contre Vitu qui venait de publier le Jargon du XVème siècle (Paris: Charpentier, 1884): “L’entreprise de restaurer les ballades en jargon et de les comprendre était courageuse; elle a échoué; c’est le contraire qui nous eût surpris.”6 Avec, pour achever l’exécution, cette phrase assassine: M. Vitu est “l’un des plus spirituels rédacteurs du Figaro,” un simple journaliste, alors que Longnon est un savant de premier ordre. En 1887, dans la Romania (t. 16, pp. 573-79), il se penche sur “Une question biographique sur Villon.” Tout en rendant hommage à Longnon, le seul biographe de Villon qui compte aujourd’hui, il se demande (avec raison) si la condamnation à mort, commuée en bannissement, n’est pas à placer non pas entre le Lais (1456) et le Testament (1461-62), mais plutôt après le Testament: “Voilà le doute que je soumets, avant tous, à mon savant confrère et ami M. Longnon, et que sa décision résoudra définitivement dans un sens ou dans l’autre. Je n’ai pas besoin de dire que le Testament s’éclaire, à plus d’un point de vue, d’un autre jour suivant qu’on le considère comme antérieur ou postérieur à l’événement le plus tragique de la vie du poète” (p. 579).7 En 1897, une note rapide de Romania (t. 26, p. 173) signale la découverte d’Ernest Langlois sur l’Archipiada de la Ballade des dames du temps jadis, qui ne serait autre qu’Alcibiade.8 Durant toute cette période, G. Paris prépara sa synthèse sur Villon dont il nous dit qu’il promit de l’écrire dès 1885, et qui, il le reconnaît lui-même à la page six de son livre, est riche des apports de ses “l’admirable travail de M. Longnon, mais il s’est plutôt occupé de l’homme que du poète.” 6 C’est aussi l’avis de Marcel Schwob, Le petit et le grant Testament de François Villon, Les cinq ballades en jargon et des poésies du cercle de Villon, etc.. reproduction fac-simile du manuscrit de Stockholm (Paris: Champion, 1905), p. 11, n. 1: “Une simple collation des pièces du manuscrit de Stockholm avec l’édition donnée par Auguste Vitu, Le jargon du XVème siècle, Paris, 1884, suffit à montrer que ce travail peut être considéré comme non avenu du point de vue de la science: il en est de même du travail de M. Schöne, Le jargon et Jobelin de François Villon, Paris, 1884, simple recueil de mots.” 7 Il revient sur ce sujet dans la préface de son François Villon, p. 6. Sur ce point, voir l’avis de Marcel Schwob, dans son livre cité, n. 6, pp. 22-23. 8 Il revient sur cette trouvaille à trois reprises dans son François Villon, p. 46, p. 107, n. 1, p. 189.

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prédécesseurs; il l’accompagna dans Romania (t. 30, 1901, pp. 353-92) d’un copieux ensemble de Villoniana qui ne pouvaient trouver leur place dans un ouvrage de vulgarisation, si rigoureux qu’il fût. C’est l’ultime occasion de rendre hommage à Auguste Longnon dont Paris précise la bibliographie et dont il exalte l’édition publiée en 1892, chez Lemerre à Paris: “(elle) est faite avec soin, une intelligence et une critique au-dessus de tout éloge. Elle constitue vis-à-vis des éditions antérieures non pas un progrès, mais une révolution. A moins de la découverte, bien peu probable, de nouveaux manuscrits, elle peut être considérée comme définitive. Elle ne peut guère subir que de légères retouches de détail” (p. 354).9 Puis, revenant sur l’ordre et les titres des pièces retenus par A. Longnon qu’il juge défectueux: Il faudrait, semble-t-il, mettre en tête le Lais (bien que telle ou telle ballade doive ou puisse avoir été composée avant), puis les ballades morales ou plaisantes de Bon conseil, des Contre-vérités, des Proverbes, des Menus propos, des Ennemis de la France, puis les pièces composées entre 1456 et 1461 et qui sont à peu près toutes sûrement datées: le Dit de la naissance Marie (décembre 1457), la double ballade sur le même sujet (idem), la ballade du concours de Blois (idem), la ballade à Monseigneur de Bourbon (1458?), l’épître en forme de ballade à ses amis (1461), le Débat du cœur et du corps (idem), la ballade de Fortune (idem); ensuite le Testament (fin de 1461 ou commencement de 1462); et enfin les quatre pièces composées lors de la condamnation et de la grâce (janvier 1453): quatrain-épître, ballade des Pendus, ballade à Garnier, ballade au Parlement. Tel est le seul ordre logique d’une édition de Villon. (p. 355)

Quant aux ballades en jargon, à placer chronologiquement entre le Testament et les pièces du procès, il estime: “[…] je laisserais de côté ces sept ballades dont on ne peut avoir un texte satisfaisant et qui n’intéressent que des spécialistes, ou tout au moins je les relèguerais en appendice” (p. 356).10 Ainsi, pour Gaston Paris, Auguste Longnon est un très grand savant qui, ruinant toutes les supputations antérieures, nous a apporté une 9

On a tendance maintenant à remettre en question l’édition d’A. Longnon, passée en 1911 dans les Classiques Français du Moyen Âge (Paris: Champion), et améliorée à plusieurs reprises par Lucien Foulet (1914, 1923, 1932). En effet, Longnon, s’appuyant sur une tradition qui remontait à l’Imprimé de Levet, s’est borné à nettoyer le texte en recourant aux mss. A et F, alors qu’il eût fallu suivre plus fidèlement le ms. C. Voir les éditions d’Albert Henry et Jean Rychner, (Genève: Droz, 1974-1977), et de Jean Dufournet, (Paris: GF, 1992). 10 Ce qui a été fait dans l’édition de 1911.

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riche moisson de renseignements sur la vie du poète, de ses légataires, de ses deux amis Regnier de Montigny et Colin de Cayeux, et surtout des pièces justificatives dont les plus importantes concernent Villon et qui, complétées par les travaux de Marcel Schwob, ont fait sortir de l’ombre sa figure. Il a eu le mérite d’appliquer “une méthode rigoureuse, austère, nourrie de logique, de précision, de critique” et de s’en tenir à une approche documentaire, car il faut, selon G. Paris et P. Meyer, poser d’abord les fondements avant de construire, c’est-à-dire remédier à l’ignorance des œuvres: il ne convient pas d’exciter pour la vieille littérature “un enthousiasme romantique qui ne serait pas durable.”11 G. Paris a apprécié d’autant plus Longnon que son Villon était proche du sien et qu’il porte un jugement favorable sur le poète “dont le cœur saigne si cruellement au souvenir des années qui viennent de s’écouler et pendant lesquelles il a commis des fautes telles que, malgré l’étendue de son humilité, il n’ose les avouer publiquement,” retrouvant, après avoir bu toutes les hontes, la foi religieuse, le patriotisme (il exalte Jeanne d’Arc et anathémise les ennemis du royaume), l’amour filial, la reconnaissance envers Guillaume de Villon et Louis XI. Le Villon de Gaston Paris Le “petit livre” de G. Paris sur Villon (l’expression est de l’auteur lui-même) a été publié en 1901 dans la collection Les Grands Ecrivains Français (Paris: Hachette). Il était destiné à un large public, comme, auparavant, le Rutebeuf de Léon Clédat et le Froissart de Mary Darmesteter.12 Aussi comporte-t-il peu de notes, sinon pour expliquer des mots sortis de l’usage, établir des rapprochements avec des auteurs célèbres, ajouter un renseignement et, parfois, suggérer une hypothèse. Elégant, facile à lire–c’est un des mérites constants de G. Paris, en quelque sorte la politesse d’un grand savant–c’est un ouvrage de haute vulgarisation, fondé sur les derniers acquis de la recherche, passés au crible d’une critique rigoureuse, et reproduisant “fidèlement 11

Ce sont les termes qu’utilise René Cagnat pour qualifier la méthode de Paul Meyer. Voir Charles Ridoux, p. 214. 12 La plupart des auteurs de cette collection étaient membres de l’Académie Française.

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le texte de Villon, en n’employant d’accents que sur l’e final, et avec une orthographe quelque peu simplifiée et régularisée” (p. 189).13 G. Paris ne demandait-il pas aux érudits “d’ouvrir leurs trésors au public s’ils ne veulent pas que les profanes les déflorent et les gâtent en les maniant”?14 1. Dans cet ouvrage, G. Paris a fixé le modèle d’une certaine critique positiviste fondée sur le critère décisif du référent historicobiographique accessible au savoir, au contrôle, à l’orthodoxie d’une lecture à sens unique. Le livre comporte trois parties, deux d’égale longueur sur la vie (pp. 7-81) et l’œuvre (pp. 83-162) et une troisième, plus courte, sur le succès (pp. 163-87). Cette vie restée largement obscure,15 G. Paris la présente en trois temps. Il commence par la captivité de Meung-sur-Loire (été 1461) dont il a pressenti l’importance pour l’interprétation du Testament (pp. 7-13). Puis il enchaîne sur l’enfance et l’adolescence, sur les années de formation (pp. 13-51), évoquant avec verve l’affaire du Pet-au-Diable, les mariages d’enseignes et les échauffourées avec la police (on sent l’influence de Notre-Dame de Paris qu’il évoque, p. 27, à propos de Robert d’Estouteville), pour finir sur la période la mieux connue, pour l’essentiel grâce aux documents découverts par A. Longnon et M. Schwob (pp. 51-81): rixe avec Sermoise du 5 juin 1455 et lettres de rémission; retour à Paris en janvier 1456 et cambriolage vers la Noël du Collège de Navarre; composition du Lais à la fin de 1456; pérégrinations, en 1457, du côté de Blois, de Moulins et du Berry, fréquentation des Coquillards; en 1461, prison de Meung; retour à Paris en 1462; affaire Ferrebouc en novembre 1462, emprisonnement, condamnation à mort commuée en bannissement le 5 janvier 1463. Cette biographie est entrecoupée de nombreux développements sur l’environnement social: vie des écoliers, sort des clercs, structure de l’Université parisienne […] et d’un essai de reconstitution historique et géographique. Ainsi G. Paris signale-t-il que le Collège de Navarre se trouvait à l’emplacement de l’Ecole Polytechnique, que le Pet-au13

L’ouvrage est complété d’une note additionnelle de deux pages, comportant des compléments bibliographiques à l’édition de Longnon de 1892, des indications rapides sur le texte de Villon et la recherche d’une illustration. 14 A propos de l’édition d’Aucassin et Nicolette publiée par Alfred Delvau. 15 Que G. Paris a essayé de reconstituer, écrit-il, “à l’aide des pièces officielles qui ont été retrouvées et de ce que le poète nous dit de lui-même” (François Villon, p. 13).

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Diable, “une grosse pierre, sans doute d’origine préhistorique […] se dressait de temps immémorial devant un hôtel situé en face Saint-Jeanen-Grève et appartenant à la veuve de maître Girard de Bruyères, en son vivant notaire et secrétaire du roi” (p. 26) et que le cimetière des Innocents, avec sa danse Macabré, ses charniers, sa vie quotidienne, “occupait le vaste terrain jadis appelé les Champeaux, là où sont aujourd’hui les Halles” (p. 31).16 Comme ses prédécesseurs et contemporains, G. Paris a tendance à donner un contenu biographique et historique à chaque nom cité par Villon. Par exemple, Roussillon, à la fin du Testament: “[…] il faut entendre la ville dauphinoise de ce nom, qui appartenait alors au duc de Bourbon. Villon, nous l’avons vu, était par son père d’origine bourbonnaise et il paraît avoir cherché, quand il perdit la faveur du duc d’Orléans, un nouveau protecteur dans le duc Jean 1er qui venait de succéder à son père” (p. 60-61).17 De même, selon G. Paris, Villon aurait eu des liens personnels avec les personnages qu’il nomme, comme Robert d’Estouteville (pp. 35-36); il aurait fréquenté dans les tavernes les braves bourgeois qu’il institue ses légataires (pp. 36-37). Pour l’étude de l’œuvre, il commence par un panorama de la littérature du XVème siècle qu’il juge sans excès d’indulgence: c’est une période de déclin et de futilité. De ce naufrage, ne surnagent que quelques œuvres, Jean de Saintré et Jean de Paris (p. 87), des poèmes de Christine de Pizan (p. 91) et surtout de l’ingénieux et délicat Charles d’Orléans (pp. 91), le Quadriloge invectif d’Alain Chartier (pp. 82-93), le Champion des Dames de Martin Le Franc (p. 94), certaines ballades d’Eustache Deschamps (p. 97) et deux chefsd’œuvre de notre ancien théâtre comique, “la farce de Patelin et le monologue du Franc Archer de Bagnolet” (p. 98). Villon, dont la culture est surtout orale, n’aurait pas connu, selon G. Paris, les œuvres de Machaut, Deschamps, Froissart, Christine de Pizan, Martin Le 16

On remarquera que beaucoup de ces informations sont aujourd’hui périmées à cause des transformations de Paris. 17 Autre exemple, p. 62: “Il [ Villon ] est toutefois dans sa lamentable odyssée des moments plus doux et moins souillés. Il nous raconte qu’il avait appris à parler poitevin, avec ‘deux filles très belles et très gentes,’ qui ‘demeuraient à SaintGénéroux’ […].” Il ajoute même, p. 64, n. 1: “On a conjecturé que ce fut à SaintGénéroux, près de ses gentilles amies poitevines [qu’il aurait écrit le Testament], et cela est assez plausible.”

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Franc; tout au plus avait-il lu le Roman de la Rose (pp. 100 et 102), Alain Chartier18 (pp. 100-01) et connu le théâtre (p. 101). G. Paris examine ensuite les ballades qu’il étudie selon l’ordre chronologique qu’il a établi, le seul logique à ses yeux, de la Ballade pour Robert d’Estouteville et de la Ballade de Conseil à la Ballade des Pendus et aux ballades à Garnier et au Parlement. Il s’attache alors (pp. 119-40) à la partie testamentaire de ses deux œuvres les plus étendues, dont il apprécie la gaieté et l’art du croquis et, pour le Testament qui est plus ample, le renouvellement des legs et l’insertion dans le poème de pièces de vers qui contribuent à l’heureuse diversité de la forme et du ton. Il termine par la première partie du Testament (pp. 140-151), plus personnelle, où Villon se livre et se révèle corps et âme (p. 143), sans qu’il s’amende véritablement, mais il est traversé de bonnes dispositions passagères (p. 148); et il conclut par les qualités qui font de Villon un grand poète: le mélange des tons jusqu’à la dissonance;19 le don d’observer et de rendre la réalité extérieure; la gaieté et les jeux de mots dont il tire parfois d’heureux effets; l’art du vers et la beauté poétique de la phrase qui “est comme une formule magique, comme un sortilège” (p. 158); la vérité de son inspiration, la sincérité de ses sentiments et la simplicité de l’expression (p. 159); et par-dessus tout “un don tout personnel de poésie” (p. 160). Le troisième chapitre, consacré à la fortune littéraire de Villon, consiste à présenter: les éditions de Villon, de Levet (1489) à Longnon (1892); les documents publiés à partir de 1863 par Vitu, Longnon et Schwob, “qui ont permis de reconstituer en partie la vie lamentable du poète” (p. 168); les commentateurs du poète, d’Eloi d’Amerval (vers 1500) à Anatole de Montaiglon (en 1875) dont Paris cite un long passage, fort élogieux, qui résume tout à fait sa propre pensée;20 les 18 Bijvanck, p. 131, pense que le Lais est une parodie du Livre de l’Espérance de Chartier. 19 Ce que Bijvanck, pp. 72-73, avait déjà souligné: “[…] le génie du poète qui aime à dérouter ses auditeurs (et qui y a singulièrement réussi), en soulignant ses vers pathétiques d’un sarcasme grossier, –que l’on croit en route pour les régions de l’idéal ou du sentimentalisme chevaleresque et qui brusquement se retourne, lance un mot obscène ou burlesque et part en riant.” 20 François Villon, pp. 179-80: En 1875, Anatole de Montaiglon donnait à l’appréciation moderne de la poésie de Villon une forme à peu près définitive: “On ne dira jamais assez à quel point le mérite de la pensée et de la forme y est inestimable. […] La bouffonnerie, dans ses

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“héritiers” du pauvre François, de Guillaume Alexis et Pierre Faifeu à l’école anglaise de Rossetti et à la Villon Society, qui ont apprécié la sûreté de la touche du poète, la précision de son style et son déséquilibre moral (p. 186). Et Gaston Paris de conclure: “Merveilleuse puissance de l’art, et aussi merveilleux effet de cette sincérité qui, chez Villon, fait partie de l’art” (p. 187). 2. D’autre part, il a en quelque sorte établi la doxa villonienne, opérant un tri sévère parmi les œuvres et orientant le goût de la critique pendant plus d’un demi-siècle. D’un côté, il a rejeté dans les ténèbres extérieures force ballades, comme la Ballade pour Robert d’Estouteville (pp. 35, 102), la Ballade de Conseil, “plus faible encore” (p. 102), les ballades énumératives, “genre puéril fort à la mode au XVème siècle” (pp. 103-04), la Ballade a s’amie, “médiocre” (p. 110); la Ballade de Fortune qui “n’a pas grande valeur” (p. 102), la Ballade des Seigneurs, “également insignifiante” (p. 115), comme celle en vieux français, “tout à fait médiocre” (p. 115), les deux pièces, “fort indignes de lui,” qu’il consacra à la naissance de Marie, la fille du duc d’Orléans (p. 58), les ballades en jargon qui n’ont “aucune espèce de valeur” (pp. 116-17), et la Requête à la cour de Parlement “emphatique et vulgaire” (p. 118), voire grotesque. Il n’a pas de mots assez durs pour la Ballade de la Grosse Margot qu’il exécute à plusieurs reprises: “trop célèbre” (p. 40), “infâme” (p. 104), “ignoble” (p. 108), “trop connue” (ibidem). En revanche, il exalte la Ballade pour prier Notre Dame qui exprime “la piété naïve des humbles” (p. 105), les Regrets de la Belle Heaumière où “avec un réalisme auquel rien n’échappe, il a tracé une double image de la femme, dans sa splendeur juvénile et dans sa misère sénile, qui s’est gravée dans toutes vers, se mêle à la gravité, l’émotion à la raillerie, la tristesse à la débauche; le trait piquant se termine avec mélancolie; le sentiment du néant des choses et des êtres est mêlé d’un burlesque soudain qui en augmente l’effet. Et tout cela est si naturel, si net, si franc, si spirituel; le style suit la pensée avec une justesse si vive, que vous n’avez pas le temps d’admirer comment le corps qu’il revêt est habillé par le vêtement. […] Il a tout, la vigueur et le charme, la clarté et l’éclat, la variété et l’unité, la gravité et l’esprit, la briéveté incisive du trait et la plénitude du sens, la souplesse capricieuse et la fougue violente, la qualité contemporaine et l’éternelle humanité. Il faut aller jusqu’à Rabelais pour trouver un maître qu’on puisse lui comparer, et qui écrive le français avec la science et l’instinct, avec la pureté et la fantaisie, avec la grâce délicate et la rudesse souveraine qu’on admire dans Villon, et qu’il a seul parmi les gens de son temps.”

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les mémoires” (p. 106), la Ballade des Dames du temps jadis, “une des perles les plus rares de la poésie de tous les temps” (p. 106), “vrai chef-d’œuvre” (p. 108), sauf une ou deux taches, le Débat du corps et du cœur où, pour la première fois, nous voyons le poète descendre en lui-même, fouiller les replis secrets de son cœur, s’apitoyer sur son malheur et en rechercher sérieusement les causes” (p. 112), l’Epître à ses amis, “un petit chef-d’œuvre d’esprit et de grâce et en même temps un charmant tableau de la société joyeuse et frivole à laquelle le poète se souvenait d’avoir appartenu” (p. 113), la Ballade des folles amours, “pleine de gaieté et d’humour,” la Ballade de merci, “fort vivement exécutée “ (p. 115) et la Ballade finale d’“une grâce extrême” (p. 115), la “prestigieuse ballade en l’honneur de Jean Cotart, digne des Flamands les plus réjouis” (p. 115), “une des ballades les mieux frappées” (p. 38), la Ballade des pendus, un pur chef-d’œuvre qui “est avec celle des Dames du temps jadis ce qui reste et restera éternellement vivant de l’œuvre du poète parisien (où) l’homme et l’artiste nous y émeuvent également” (p. 117), enfin, “sa jolie ballade au guichetier Garnier: c’est une des mieux tournées et des plus vives qu’il ait écrites” (p. 118). G. Paris ne manque pas de sévérité pour une syntaxe jugée trop souvent imparfaite, pour la maladresse du poète à construire des propositions un peu longues (témoin les anacoluthes au début du Lais et du Testament), pour des licences de versification, comme les rimes ostes et sotes, enfle et temple, fuste et fusse, et pour ce personnage “peu recommandable” (p. 75), naturellement sensuel et ami du bienêtre, faible et impulsif, d’une dangereuse mobilité, encore qu’il ait droit aux circonstances atténuantes dans un monde perverti par la guerre de Cent Ans et qu’il ne soit pas étranger aux bons sentiments. Villon se rattache à une certaine tradition médiévale, au Roman de la Rose, érudit, frondeur, cynique et galant, à Alain Chartier qui lui a légué le huitain octosyllabique, l’aisance et la grâce de son style sentimental, la mièvrerie de ses propos amoureux, à Deschamps et à Nesson, auteur de sombres Vigiles des Morts, aux mystères où le sérieux coexistait avec le bouffon, mais sans doute doit-il plus à la tradition orale qu’aux livres. Poète bourgeois, emphatique et vulgaire, quand il vise au style noble, c’est un ferme tenant du réalisme, opposé au romanesque: sa fantaisie s’épanouit sur un fond de très solide bon sens et de mépris pour les vieux mythes usés de la chevalerie et de la courtoisie. Poète personnel qui parle de lui-même et de nombreuses

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autres personnes, il s’insère dans une tradition que G. Paris allonge beaucoup, puisqu’elle part de la littérature latine (Catulle, Tibulle, Properce, Horace), passe par le Moyen Age (Colin Muset, Deschamps, Chr. de Pizan, Charles d’Orléans) et l’époque classique (Régnier, La Fontaine), pour s’épanouir au XIXème siècle avec Goethe, les romantiques français, Sully-Prudhomme et Verlaine. Il est surtout proche de Heine qu’il n’atteint pas.21 3. Pour pallier les vides d’une biographie très lacunaire, G. Paris a émis des hypothèses dont certaines peuvent aujourd’hui prêter à sourire: “Nous sommes toutefois porté à croire que ces premières années de vie universitaire furent celles que le futur poète employa le mieux “ (p. 23); “Ce débauché cynique a su faire parler le cœur même de sa mère en lui mettant ses vers dans la bouche, et avec quelle joie, quelle ferveur, la pauvre femme a dû les réciter aux pieds de l’image de Notre-Dame!” (p. 105).22 Mais, même dans ses propositions les plus aventureuses, il demeure très prudent, multipliant les peut-être, les sans doute, les il avait pu, il put, il (ou elle) a dû […]. L’on retrouve ici la rigueur scientifique qui est le premier article de son credo, et qui est celle des sciences naturelles auxquelles Paris a fait mainte fois référence. Comme l’a écrit Charles Ridoux, “on sent aussi combien, chez G. Paris, sont intrinséquement liées une intelligence analytique soucieuse de la plus extrême précision dans les détails et une capacité aux plus hautes et aux plus amples synthèses. C’est sans doute cette complémentarité des dons, si rare, qui fera de lui le primus inter pares parmi les romanistes de son temps” (p. 180). Gaston Paris et Marcel Schwob 1. Le Villon de Gaston Paris est très différent de celui de Marcel Schwob dont le grand médiéviste a connu les travaux et à qui il a rendu hommage à plusieurs reprises.

21 G. Paris revient à plusieurs reprises sur cette comparaison: p. 105, la Ballade pour prier Notre-Dame rappelle le Pèlerinage à Kevlar; p. 154: “Ce mélange du rire et des larmes fait parfois, chez l’un comme chez l’autre, l’effet d’une dissonance aiguë.” 22 Autre exemple, p. 42: “Le triomphe de maître François était surtout dans une écorniflerie poussée très loin dans l’art de se procurer des ‘repues franches.’”

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Au mois de novembre 1900, G. Paris terminait son ouvrage sur Villon, et, note Pierre Champion, “il se trouvait embarrassé par l’idée des ‘nouvelles découvertes’” dont Marcel Schwob lui avait fait connaître l’une des plus curieuses; il voudrait les utiliser et répugne à la faire. Il lui offrait l’idée d’une collaboration à la Romania: “Dans tous les cas, il le remerciera toujours bien sincèrement.” Puis, Gaston Paris lui envoyait, en janvier 1901, son livre en placards; il accueillera ses remarques avec reconnaissance. Le 12, Gaston Paris lui écrivait encore: “Mon petit livre vous devra tant, en ce qu’il semblera avoir de nouveau, que je me demande vraiment si, en bonne conscience, j’ai le droit de profiter, aussi largement que vous m’y invitez, des recherches et des idées qui vous appartiennent, et dont tout autre se serait jalousement, et bien légitimement, réservé la primeur. Je vais revoir avec soin, tous les passages que vous voulez bien m’indiquer.”23 Quand il lui adressa le 21 mars 1901 un exemplaire de son ouvrage, il copia pour lui la dédicace de Clément Marot à François 1er: “Si en Villon on trouve encore à dire […].” Dans une note de son livre (p. 169, n. 1), G. Paris précisait: “Je ne puis ne pas dire ici que M. Marcel Schwob a mis à ma disposition, non seulement tous les documents qu’il a réunis et dont plusieurs sont encore inédits, mais son interprétation personnelle, toujours si pénétrante, de plusieurs passages de l’œuvre du poète.”24 De son côté, à la même époque, Schwob, bien que très malade, rêvait toujours d’écrire le livre définitif sur Villon, “une véritable biographie, s’appuyant sur ses découvertes et sa connaissance d’un homme qui représente une énigme.”25 Il fréquente les Archives Nationales et les bibliothèques, encouragé par Auguste Longnon et de nombreux érudits “pensant qu’il est le seul à pouvoir percer l’énigme Villon.” Bibliophile, bibliomane, il vivait au milieu de ses livres parmi lesquels “François Villon est honoré au-delà du possible, pas moins de 23

Marcel Schwob et son temps (Paris: Grasset, 1927), p. 150. Ce que confirme Louis Thomas, Les dernières leçons de Marcel Schwob sur François Villon (Paris, Editions de Psyché, 1906), p. 2: “D’autre part, Schwob donna des renseignements à quelques personnes–Gaston Paris entre autres–qui s’occupèrent de Villon, et ces renseignements étaient quelquefois de nouvelles précisions qu’il ne se souciait pas de confier lui-même au public.” 25 Sylvain Goudemare, Marcel Schwob ou les vies imaginaires (Paris: Le Cherche Midi, 2000), p. 232. 24

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seize éditions, sans compter les études, de Marot à Longnon, rien ne manque.”26 2. L’ensemble des recherches sur Villon encadre la production littéraire de Marcel Schwob, dont il est bon de rappeler que c’était un esprit universel.27 Chronologiquement, puisqu’il commença, en 1888, par des ballades à la manière de François Villon, et, en 1889, par ses études sur les Coquillards, et que ses derniers travaux furent les leçons qu’il donna sur le poète dans les quatre derniers mois qui précédèrent sa mort. Théoriquement: il y puisa son goût pour les formes courtes et pour l’exploitation des différents idiomes. Thématiquement: Schwob se retrouvait en Villon, le déviant qui cristallise et catalyse toutes les figures marginales du Moyen Âge. Attentif aux obscurités des âmes doubles et complexes, attiré par le langage et la vie des classes dangereuses, il était normal qu’il s’intéressât à Villon, joignant selon Paul Valéry “l’imagination inductive d’un Edgar Poe et la sagacité minutieuse d’un philologue rompu à l’analyse des textes.” Usant de plusieurs modes d’investigation–longue étude publiée dans la Revue des deux Mondes, et reprise ensuite dans Spicilège, esquisses présentées sous forme de communications à l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres, chronique donnée à l’Echo de Paris, deux chapitres du grand ouvrage demeuré inachevé, voire vies imaginaires de Katherine la Dentellière et de Nicolas Loyseleur qui se situent dans le prolongement, sur les franges de la vie de Villon–se proposant d’emblée d’“étudier l’homme et son milieu,” Schwob sera le premier écrivain à vouloir mêler pour Villon, la passion littéraire à l’étude scientifique, à pressentir qu’une

26

Ibid., p. 288. Dont Léon Daudet fait l’éloge dans son violent Au temps de Judas (Paris: B. Grasset, 1933): Histoire, linguistique, poésie, prose, astrologie, chimie, critique, anglais, allemand, grec, latin, italien, espagnol, hébreu, Schwob animait, agitait, ordonnait, reconstituait, associait toutes ces connaissances, dans son immense et précise fantaisie. Il évoquait les capitaines d’aventures, avec la justesse de Quicherat et la verve de Cervantès. Il décrivait aussi éloquemment les mœurs des souteneurs et des prostituées, dans le panier de crabes des faubourgs, que celles des savants du XVIè siècle ou des conquistadors espagnols. Avec cela un goût parfait, jamais un faux pas, ni une surcharge. Toute sa morale se ramenait à la pitié qu’il appliquait indistinctement aux criminels et aux saints, aux traîtres et aux héros. 27

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esthétique pouvait sortir de la méthode scientifique, à pratiquer une “poétique du grossissement.” Pour Schwob, Villon est l’homme de la duplicité et du mensonge, il le situe dans le multiple et le mouvant, dans le creux aussi: origine sociale et lieu de naissance inconnus, alors qu’en revanche, les noms pour le désigner sont, eux aussi, multiples. La mobilité le caractérise au plus haut point, mais toujours dans un contexte de pluralité. Habile à composer sa figure, à changer de manières pour s’adapter à chaque milieu, préférant organiser les mauvais coups et en profiter, plutôt que de les mettre à exécution, poussant ses compagnons et restant à l’écart, acceptant de bouffonner et d’être moqué “pourvu qu’on lui donnât de l’hospitalité et de l’admiration pour son extraordinaire talent de poète,” il ment aussi dans ses œuvres. “Le mensonge reste l’un des traits les mieux fixés de son caractère, et au cours du séjour qu’il fit à Blois, Charles d’Orléans semble l’avoir noté.” Au-delà, Villon est le point d’intersection où les turbulences se rencontrent, celles de l’Université et des classes dangereuses, figure exemplaire qui vaut surtout par son immersion dans ce grand tumulte et derrière laquelle Schwob débusque le grouillement des classes sociales: dans ce grouillement, un poète,Villon, et au cœur de sa poésie, le grouillement de la langue, du sens, du Moyen Âge tout entier, de la matière, de la mort. Au travers de ses incessantes métamorphoses, Villon n’oublie ni la haine qu’il doit à ses ennemis, ni l’esprit frondeur qu’il se doit à luimême de demeurer. Cependant, pour Schwob, le Testament est un “traité édifiant,” un pamphlet contre les riches et les financiers, par le biais des passages à double sens. Les recherches de Schwob s’orientaient dans cette dernière direction, à en juger par Les dernières leçons de Marcel Schwob sur François Villon,28 rassemblées par Louis Thomas, sans qu’il ait renoncé à l’idée d’un poète pervers (sans connotation péjorative), qui était le contraire d’un naïf, ne coïncidant jamais avec lui-même ni avec son aventure, se dissimulant pour

28 “Je ne sais même pas si Schwob n’allait pas quelquefois un peu loin, mais n’estce pas la marque d’une intelligence infiniment souple que cette facilité à doucement solliciter les textes (p. 3).”

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travailler de l’intérieur la langue, la culture, le sens, refusant la soumission.29 3. De l’apport considérable d’un véritable savant, qu’a retenu Gaston Paris? Il a rendu hommage à Marcel Schwob commentateur et découvreur de documents nouveaux (enquête de Dijon sur les Coquillards, textes relatifs à la condamnation à mort et à la grâce de Villon en 1462-1463) plutôt qu’au critique littéraire dont il n’a retenu aucune des idées qui, pourtant, renouvelaient en profondeur l’approche du poète. Sans doute, Gaston Paris, qui fut le disciple autant que le maître de Marcel Schwob, a-t-il été effrayé par la noirceur de son portrait de Villon, et rebuté par les nombreuses équivoques que Schwob a décelées, et qu’on retrouve dans le petit recueil de Louis Thomas, et par la “rare ingéniosité, je dirais même l’extraordinaire subtilité employée par Marcel Schwob pour résoudre des problèmes dont la donnée semble toujours imprécise et fuyante.”30 Depuis les années 60, beaucoup de travaux ont enrichi et renouvelé la lecture de Villon, en mettant l’accent sur la complexité des jeux de mots, sur leur méchanceté raffinée, sur la recherche constante, à tous les niveaux, de l’ambiguïté et de l’ambivalence, sur les aspects carnavalesques du Lais et du Testament, sur les liens de l’œuvre avec le Roman de la Rose, voire sur l’homosexualité du poète. Ainsi a-t-on reconnu, entre autres exemples, que Macée d’Orléans n’est pas une femme et que Villon ne s’est sans doute pas rendu à Saint-Generou, près de Saint-Julien-de-Voventes, mais qu’il faut comprendre, avec Michel Dubois, je ne souds vos ventes (“je ne paie pas ce que vous m’avez vendu”).31 Mais le François Villon de Gaston Paris, qu’on a tenu pour un classique dès sa publication, marque une date importante dans les études villoniennes et reste un modèle de vulgarisation fondée sur les recherches les plus sûres, frayant la voie à la magistrale contribution d’André Suarès qui, dans le sillage de Gaston Paris, prit le contrepied

29

Voir sur ce portrait nos remarques sur “Pierre Champion, de Marcel Schwob à Villon,” postface à Pierre Champion, François Villon. Sa vie et son temps (Paris: Champion, 1985), pp. i-viii. 30 Cf. Louis Thomas, p. 39: “Villon avait une sorte de plaisanterie double, et comme géométrique: il ne s’agit pas d’en perdre le fil.” 31 “Poitou et Poitevins (de Benoît à Villon),” Romania, 80 (1959), 243-53.

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de Marcel Schwob dont le livre posthume, François Villon, rédactions et notes, avait paru en 1912. D’autre part, le livre dessine en filigrane le portrait intellectuel et moral de Gaston Paris dont nous découvrons les goûts, les références (à Marot, à la Pléiade, à Scarron, à Voltaire, à Vigny, à Musset, et en particulier à Henri Heine à qui il voue une singulière admiration), la formation classique, toutefois ouverte à la poésie de son temps, et aussi les refus et les répugnances.

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Perceforest et Chrétien de Troyes ans la partie que son étude pionnière consacrait aux sources de Perceforest, Jeanne Lods insistait sur la parenté de ce vaste roman avec les textes en prose du cycle du Lancelot Graal, et elle notait qu’“il n’y a pas dans Perceforest de souvenirs directs de Chrétien.”1 Certes il n’est pas toujours facile d’évaluer si un emprunt est direct ou non dans un texte du XIVe siècle (voire du XVe),2 la filiation avec Chrétien de Troyes pouvant fort bien se faire en ce Moyen Âge tardif par l’intermédiaire d’une prose du XIIIe siècle, comme c’est le cas, semble-t-il, pour tout ce qui dans Perceforest rappelle le Graal, et qui remonte, non à Chrétien, mais à l’Estoire del Saint Graal et à la Queste del Saint Graal.3 Pourtant je pense que deux épisodes, dans cette masse touffue et pourtant fort bien structurée qu’est Perceforest, s’inspirent directement de l’auteur champenois. Le peuple sauvage, décrit au début du livre II (t. I, pp. 2 et ss.),4 me semble une récriture de l’épisode où Perceval, jeune nice, rencontre pour la première fois des chevaliers,5 tandis que le lion que Lyonnel sauve alors qu’il est en train de se battre contre un serpent (l. II, t. I, p. 286) serait une reprise du Chevalier au Lion.6 Après avoir examiné dans quelle mesure il est légitime de considérer que ces passages sont des récritures directes de Chrétien de Troyes, on proposera une 1

Le roman de Perceforest (Genève: Droz, 1951), p. 51. En ce qui concerne les problèmes de datation de Perceforest, l’hypothèse de G. Roussineau est très attrayante, selon laquelle Perceforest tel que nous le connaissons est une récriture du XVe siècle; voir l’introduction de G. Roussineau à son édition de la quatrième partie (Genève: Droz, 1987), pp. xviii-xix et notre Fées, bestes et luitons, croyances et merveilles (Paris: Presses Universitaires Paris Sorbonne, 2002), pp. 254 et ss. Les travaux en cours de J. van der Meulen semblent conforter cette position. 3 Voir J. Lods, pp. 41 et ss. J. Taylor, “The Fourteenth Century: Context, Text and Intertext,” dans The Legacy of Chrétien de Troyes, éd. N. J. Lacy, D. Kelly et K. Busby, 2 t. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1987), où elle commente ainsi la reprise du l’épisode de la Charrette dans Perceforest: “One final example, the re-use in the Perceforest of the cart episode from the Lancelot (again, of course, the author’s direct model was not Chrétien’s version, but the adaptation in the Vulgate Cycle) […]” (p. 324). 4 Les références renvoient à l’édition de G. Roussineau, 2 tomes (Genève: Droz, 1999). 5 Ed. F. Lecoy (Paris: Champion, 1973), t. I, 69 et ss. 6 Ed. D. Hult (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1994), 3341 et ss. 2

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hypothèse concernant la place qu’occupe l’auteur champenois dans la bibliothèque imaginaire de l’auteur de Perceforest.7 Le nice et le chevalier Au début du livre II, Gadifer, qui dans le livre précédent a été couronné roi d’Ecosse, entreprend d’explorer l’ensemble de son royaume pour le pacifier. Il rencontre un peuple de pasteurs, plus bibliques que rousseauistes ou virgiliens, et plus encore marqués par l’influence de Chrétien de Troyes et de la scène d’ouverture du Conte du Graal. Les points communs entre les deux textes sont nombreux. Certains ne sont guère pertinents pour étayer l’hypothèse d’une reprise, dans la mesure où ils correspondent à des topoi très fréquents: tout au plus peuvent-ils renforcer l’hypothèse, mais n’ont pas valeur de preuves. C’est le cas par exemple pour l’ouverture qui tient de la reverdie, avec, chez Chrétien (69 et ss.), le chant des oiseaux et les prés qui verdissent, et dans Perceforest un lieu delectable où coule une belle riviere au milieu d’une prairie. Plus originale, la présentation de ce peuple sauvage passe dans les deux textes par une évocation du monde de la campagne, rapide mais néanmoins significative quand on se souvient du traitement que connaît habituellement le vilain dans les romans.8 Dans Perceforest, Gadifer et ses compagnons rencontrent d’abord des pasteurs qui gardent des vaches. Chez Chrétien, la mère du héros s’est retirée sur ses terres, que cultivent des hercheors (82) à l’aide de bœufs. Aucune de ces deux esquisses n’est marquée négativement. L’épisode de Perceforest quant à lui est une double pastorale: Gadifer, avant de partir explorer ses terres, se présente comme le Bon Pasteur9 qui se

7 Pour un exposé très riche sur les reprises dans les romans du XIVe siècle, dont Perceforest, voir J. Taylor, pp. 267 et ss. 8 Les vilains y sont rares, et quand on les rencontre, ils sont hideux, comme le monstrueux gardien de la Fontaine dans Le Chevalier au Lion, ou comiques, comme dans Fergus. Sur les vilains comiques, voir Ph. Ménard, Le rire et le sourire dans le roman courtois en France au Moyen Âge (Genève: Droz, 1969), pp. 168 et ss. 9 Sur le souverain vu comme Bon Pasteur, voir G. Roussineau, introduction de son édition du livre II, op. cit., p. xiii et la référence qu’il fait à l’ouvrage de J. Krynen, Idéal du prince et pouvoir royal en France à la fin du Moyen Âge (1380-1440) (Paris:

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doit de protéger les siens; d’autre part, la vie des habitants des Déserts d’Ecosse est celle de bergers au milieu de leurs vaches domestez (p. 5), personnages suffisamment rares dans la tradition romanesque pour que leur apparition retienne l’attention. Associés à cette vision pastorale originale, un certain nombre d’indices communs peuvent être retenus. Dans les deux cas, le soleil joue un rôle dans la scène de rencontre entre les deux mondes: c’est lui qui provoque l’éblouissement et l’illusion du nice, c’est lui qui a décoloré les cheveux de la jeune pucelle dans Perceforest (p. 6) où le peuple sauvage n’a pas la noirceur païenne et diabolique traditionnelle. L’extrême jeunesse est aussi un élément commun: Gadifer rencontre d’abord des enfants de dix ou douze ans (p. 5) et le personnage qui se détachera du groupe et sera appelé à jouer un rôle important est une pucelle de douze ans, tandis que Perceval n’est qu’un valet (184). Tous ces personnages sont placés sous la dépendance de figures parentales, et surtout de mères dont l’instinct ne manque pas de férocité. Perceval apparaît dans le texte, anonyme (il le sera encore longtemps), comme le fils de la Veuve Dame (74), autorité à laquelle il ne cesse de faire ensuite référence, et qui semble l’étouffer d’un amour castrateur. Dans Perceforest, Gadifer, après avoir vu les enfants dans la prairie, s’enquiert des parents (p. 5), tandis que la mère de Priande et celles des autres enfants, peu courtoises, se précipitent sur les chevaliers comme des furies pour protéger leur progéniture (p. 8).10 Par ailleurs, Perceval, comme le peuple sauvage, est marqué par une relative animalité. Les enfants que voient Gadifer sont nus, excepté les peaux de mouton qu’ils portent et ils poussent des cris de bêtes (“criant et breant comme se ce fussent cerfz ramaiges,” p. 5); la pucelle dont se saisit Estonné mord et degrate (p. 6). Les trois cents hommes que voient Gadifer et ses chevaliers sont vêtus de peaux de cerfs ou de vaches, et ils ont les cheveux longs (p. 6). Perceval est certes plus civilisé, mais l’un des chevaliers qui le rencontrent ne voit en lui qu’une beste: “[Que] Galois sont tuit par nature / Plus fol que bestes an pasture. / Cist est ausi com une beste” (241-43).

Éditions A. et J. Picard, 1981), p. 109. L’image du Bon Pasteur se trouve dans Isaïe 40.10-11 et dans Jean 10.11. 10 La mention des femmes plus courageuses que les hommes dans Perceforest correspond chez Perceval à la prédominance de la lignée maternelle.

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Néanmoins ni Perceval, ni le peuple de Troyens exilés ne sont des vilains, même si le premier est plus proche du travail des champs que ne le sont habituellement les chevaliers et que les autres pratiquent eux-mêmes l’élevage: le Gallois est un noble jeune homme qui n’a pas eu l’éducation qui, habituellement, attend tout valet de condition, tandis que les aléas historiques ont conduit les Troyens, de bonne naissance, à vivre comme des sauvages. Leur état est plus affaire de norreture que de nature. L’opposition entre ces deux notions, si fréquente dans les textes du Moyen Âge (tant romanesques comme Guillaume de Palerne, Le Roman de Silence et Guillaume d’Angleterre, ou lyriques, comme le Livre de Mutacion de Fortune de Christine de Pisan), se retrouve dans les deux épisodes. Pour ce qui est du Conte du Graal le questionnement concernant Nature et Norreture est explicitement conduit par Perceval au sujet des chevaliers dont il se demande s’ils sont nés avec leurs armures (280 et ss., voire 383), tandis que toute l’histoire du jeune nice est celle d’une nature noble et valeureuse qui finit par se révéler malgré une norreture chevaleresque déficiente. En ce qui concerne Perceforest, Estonné (p. 6) commence par remarquer que la pucelle sauvage qu’il rencontre serait jolie si elle était nourrie comme elle le devrait, puis quand elle le voit en difficulté, “Nature, qui ne peult mentir, luy fist le cœur esmouvoir en pitié” (p. 9). L’état de ces personnages vient dans les deux cas, non de leur nature, contrairement à ce que pense le chevalier du Conte du Graal (241), mais d’une absence d’éducation, dont le signe le plus net est la méconnaissance des règles de la chevalerie et de la courtoisie. Comme Perceval, les Troyens exilés ignorent “la conduicte ne la maniere des faiz de la guerre selon la coustume de notre paÿs” (p. 7). L’autre signe qui ne saurait tromper est leur manque de maîtrise verbale: Perceval ignore des mots essentiels, comme son nom (343 et ss.) et celui des armes chevaleresques (222 et ss.), tandis que le peuple sauvage a oublié sa langue première, le grec, et ne connaît plus qu’“une maniere de parler descongneu” (p. 6). L’auteur de Perceforest est conscient de l’évolution linguistique et souvent il intègre (explicitement ou implicitement) des jeux pseudo-étymologiques dans son œuvre faisant état de la corruption des prononciations.11 11 Parmi ces jeux onomastiques, relevons par exemple le cas de l’Islangue. Voir notre article “La géographie et les progrès de la civilisation dans Perceforest,” dans Provinces, régions, terroirs au Moyen Âge, de la réalité à l’imaginaire, Actes du

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L’ignorance de ces êtres simples est associée à une méconnaissance du danger, dont on ne sait s’il faut y voir une célébration de leur vaillance ou une dénonciation de leur manque de mesure. Les Troyens n’ont pas peur (“sy ne craignent ne doubtent nullement ne la mort ne nulles playes,” p. 7), tout comme Perceval qui va se lancer sans aucune retenue contre ses adversaires successifs. L’état de Perceval, comme celui du peuple sauvage, est associé à des transgressions sociales et sexuelles, ce qui est conforme à l’image médiévale de l’homme sauvage.12 Perceval est un déclassé, ce que comprendra parfaitement l’auteur de Fergus dans sa reprise parodique. Dans Perceforest, le peuple sauvage est un peuple déchu, tombé des palais troyens à l’élevage écossais. L’irruption, tout à fait inhabituelle dans un roman, de déclassés qui ne soient pas monstrueux, laisse à penser que dans Perceforest le couplet antonymique gentilz et vilains (“Dont il avint une grande merveille et qui depuis fut moult recordee entre gentilz et vilains,” p. 8) n’est pas simplement rhétorique: il rend compte de cette confusion sociale, que signale aussi l’hybride étrange qu’est un homme (ou une femme) sauvage blond (et non brun comme un Maure ou un diable). La transgression sexuelle est claire dans l’épisode de Perceforest où les femmes sont armées comme des hommes, se battent comme eux, et sont en cela proches parentes des merveilles féminines de l’univers alexandrin. L’inversion est présentée avec insistance: les hommes ont lâchement fui dans la forêt, laissant les femmes se battre contre les chevaliers (“ilz n’osoient venir secourre leurs femmes,” p. 11). Chez Chrétien de Troyes, il n’est pas question de transgression sexuelle, mais le héros n’est pas encore pleinement accompli dans ce domaine, soumis qu’il est aux désirs de sa mère. Les deux épisodes se rejoignent dans la mesure où ils renvoient à une différenciation sexuelle douteuse.

Colloque International des Rencontres Européennes de Strasbourg, 19-21 septembre 1991, éd. B. Guidot (Nancy: Presses Universitaires de Nancy, 1993), pp. 275-90. On notera que certains de ces jeux sont implicites: Zéphir est le genius loci associé au château de Brane, et il témoigne un goût marqué pour le bran (les excréments, les ordures) sans que le texte ne le glose. 12 Voir R. Bernheimer, Wild Men in the Middle Ages: A Study in Art, Sentiment and Demonology (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1952) et notre Fées, bestes et luitons, pp. 282 et ss.

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Par ailleurs, dans les deux textes, la présentation insiste sur un jeu de double regard, qui rejoint la topique merveilleuse13 dans la mesure où le vocabulaire de la merveille est associé à une vision incertaine et à un questionnement. L’épisode de Perceforest alterne les regards et les accompagne de notations sur les points de vue, et la topique merveilleuse est mise en œuvre à la fois du côté des chevaliers et du côté des hommes sauvages. Gadifer et ses hommes prennent le peuple sauvage pour des animaux, et leur jugement insiste sur l’absence de raison (“ainsi que elle fust hors du sens,” p. 6 et “sans sens et sans advis ainsy que toute foursenee,” p. 7); en même temps Estonné trouve que la “pucelle seroit belle a devise” si elle était bien nourrie. Réciproquement, le peuple sauvage regarde le roi et ses compagnons et les prend pour des diables.14 De même dans Le Conte du Graal, les chevaliers observent le jeune homme et s’interrogent sur sa nature (241), entre animalité et folie (242), tandis que le nice, contemplant la troupe brillante qui traverse la forêt, hésite, ébloui, entre Dieu et le Diable. C’est à ce niveau que la reprise de Chrétien se révèle indiscutable dans Perceforest. Quand les hommes sauvages: veyrent l’or et l’azur resplendir es escuz et les heaumes luyre aux raiz du soleil, ils furent sy espouentez qu’ilz ne sceurent aler avant, car oncques mais n’avoient veu homme armé. Mais quant ilz veirent paumoier leurs glaives, ilz se mirent tous en

13 Sur la topique merveilleuse et le regard, voir notre ouvrage Merveilles et topique merveilleuse dans les romans médiévaux (Paris: Champion, 2003), pp. 91 et ss. 14 Regardant Priande, Estonné “voit qu’elle estoit de sy beaux membres et de sy belles factures que c’estoit une merveille a regarder. Adont dist a ses compaignons que se elle estoit nourrie ainsi qu’elle deust qu’elle seroit belle a devise,” son opinion étant relayée par le cri animal que pousse la demoiselle et par la question du roi qui n’arrive pas à identifier celle-ci et la désigne par le terme chose. Lorsque Gadifer et ses hommes voient les femmes sauvages, ils émettent d’abord une opinion concernant leur nombre. L’évocation qui est donnée ensuite (ce sembloit) englobe le regard des chevaliers et le lecteur inscrit, et oriente vers la démesure démoniaque des mauvais esprits. En retour, quand ces femmes sauvages voient les chevaliers, “elles se prindrent moult a esmerveillier” (p. 8). On retrouve ce double regard et ce double jeu de points de vue échangés entre le héros et la merveille, le héros jaugeant et jugeant la merveille qui en retour le regarde et s’interroge. L’auteur échange les perspectives et adopte le point de vue de la pucelle lorsqu’il transcrit l’appel qu’elle adresse à sa mère, appel qui normalement ne devrait pas être compris étant donné la corruption de la langue parlée par le peuple sauvage (p. 8).

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fuyte, car ilz cuiderent que ce fussent ennemis d’enfer qui fussent yssuz pour eulz emporter. (p. 7)

On reconnaît des éléments empruntés à la première rencontre de Perceval et des chevaliers. L’évocation reprend le texte de Chrétien: Et tuit li hauberc fremissoient, les lances as escuz hurtoient, sonoit li fuz, sonoit li fers et des escuz et des haubers. Li vaslez ot et ne voit pas ces qui vienent plus que le pas, si s’an mervoille et dit: “Par m’ame, voir me dist ma mere, ma dame, qui me dist que deable sont plus esfreé que rien del mont; et si dist, por moi anseignier.” (Conte du Graal, 107 et ss.) Et quant il les vit en apert que del bois furent descovert, et vit les haubers fremianz et les hiaumes clers et luisanz, et vit le vert et le vermoil reluire contre le soloil, et l’or et l’azur et l’argent, se li fu mout et bel et gent. (Conte du Graal, 127-34; c’est nous qui soulignons)

La réaction du valet chez Chrétien se décomposait en deux temps, qui sont ici confondus: d’abord, ne voyant pas les chevaliers, mais les entendant, le nice les prenait pour des diables (115), puis les contemplant, il était ébloui par l’éclat de leurs armes et les prenait pour des anges (127). Dans Perceforest, l’interprétation diabolique est déplacée et mise en relation avec la vue.15 De la même façon, la pucelle, voyant Estonné, le prend aussi pour ung ennemy (p. 9): la reprise est redoublée. Le travail de récriture s’effectue donc par fusion de deux moments et par duplication. La surprise éprouvée par les femmes sauvages quand les chevaliers enlèvent leur armure renouvelle par ailleurs la question de Perceval qui se demande si les chevaliers sont nés avec leur armure: “Et quant les femmes les veyrent au nu et 15 L’interprétation angélique n’était peut-être pas intégrable à ce moment de Perceforest puisque l’aventure se déroule en des temps préchrétiens, où sévissent essentiellement le Diable et ses suppôts.

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qu’ilz avoient telles factures qu’elles avoient, elles furent toutes esbahyes, car elles cuidoient qu’ilz n’eussent aultres viaires que les heaumes qu’ilz avoient affulez” (p. 11). La notation concernant la pucelle confrontée à Estonné est précédée par “Dont il avint une grande merveille et qui depuis fut mult recordee entre gentilz et vilains” (p. 8). Certes, il s’agit de souligner l’extraordinaire revirement de la pucelle, mais ne peut-on aussi comprendre que dans cette savoureuse méprise diabolique qui est supposée passer à la postérité, c’est le roman de Chrétien qui est désigné, le lien entre le texte et l’hypotexte étant pour ainsi dire narrativisé, le texte source étant présenté comme “remembrance” du récit en train de se constituer. Les nombreuses subtilités que réserve Perceforest et la conscience aiguë qu’a l’auteur de son travail d’écrivain, autorisent à mon avis à présenter cette hypothèse. S’il paraît légitime de voir dans cet épisode une reprise de Chrétien, il ne faut cependant pas minimiser que la conjointure, serrée, met en œuvre d’autres échos, tant internes qu’externes. Au-delà de la scène de rencontre elle-même, la prise en compte d’une unité textuelle plus large montre de nouveaux points communs. Au-delà même de la rencontre avec les chevaliers, l’histoire de ce peuple sauvage qui occupe les premiers folios du livre II ressemble à celle de Perceval. De même que la mère de Perceval sera amenée à expliquer ce qu’elle sait des origines de son fils, de même le preudomme qui guide le peuple sauvage révélera le passé du peuple de Priam: dans les deux cas, le passé est douloureux, et a été oblitéré par une mémoire souffrante. Les questions que pose Perceval aux chevaliers sont reprises par les nombreuses interrogations de Gadifer sur les mœurs et l’habitat du peuple sauvage, et à l’entreprise de civilisation qu’entreprend le roi et qui connaît des revers correspondent l’initiation de Perceval et ses échecs. Par ailleurs, la troupe de femmes sauvages rencontrées par le roi et ses hommes élargit l’ancrage du texte en rappelant les conquêtes d’Alexandre si souvent confronté à d’étranges peuples féminins armés bizarrement16 (relevons le cas des Amazones, ou celui des femmes

16 Il est logique que Perceforest au début du livre II, alors qu’Alexandre vient juste de repartir pour Babylone, présente des points communs avec la tradition centrée sur le grand conquérant.

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armées de masses d’or du Roman d’Alexandre en prose17). La reprise ponctuelle et voyante de la scène de rencontre entre Perceval et les chevaliers est donc relayée par une similitude plus large, qui renforce la conjointure. Par ailleurs la découverte du peuple sauvage par Gadifer et ses hommes s’intègre fort subtilement à l’ensemble du livre II dans la mesure où la troupe bruyante des femmes (“elles menoient sy grant noise que ce sembloit que ce fust une tempeste de mer, et sy tenoit chacune ung grant baston en sa main et venoient ainsy que toutes esragees pardevers le roy,” p. 8) trouve un écho plus loin dans l’évocation du vol des sorcières et des esprits féminins.18 Au sein du livre II la cohérence est renforcée par la reprise du motif des femmes hurlantes, comparées à la tempête et “armées,” à la fois dans l’épisode du peuple sauvage et dans celui du sabbat: dans les deux cas, c’est le chevalier Estonné qui est victime de ces furies. Ce rapprochement permet alors de donner une saveur particulière à la référence diabolique de l’épisode des femmes sauvages: lors du sabbat, le démon apparaîtra en personne avec le titre de maistre. Par ailleurs, les deux scènes se répondent sur un certain nombre de points: – L’arrivée des sorcières s’accompagne d’“une tourmente et une noise si grande de vent” (p. 216) tandis que les femmes sauvages font “si grant noise que ce sembloit que ce fust une tempeste de mer” (p. 8); – La violence inhumaine est associée à l’animalité et à la folie (braire et esragees, p. 216, dans la scène de sabbat, esragees et dervees, p. 8 dans l’épisode du peuple sauvage); – Le roi, courtois, défend aux chevaliers de tuer ces femmes et conseille à ses hommes de se protéger en se couvrant de leurs écus et en frappant du plat de l’épée. Estonné est frappé à la tête, puis à l’épaule, avant d’être assailli de toutes parts par les femmes sauvages. Dans la scène de sabbat, Estonné choisit de recevoir une buffe de chaque sorcière plutôt que de les embrasser (p. 218): une vieille barbue 17

Sur ces créatures, outre les pages consacrées par C. Gaullier-Bougassas aux Amazones, Les Romans d’Alexandre. Aux frontières de l’épique et du romanesque (Paris: Champion, 1998), pp. 127-28, 137-38 et 264-65, on consultera F. Dubost, Aspects fantastiques de la littérature narrative médiévale (Paris: Champion, 1981), pp. 256 et ss. 18 Sur ce passage (l. II, t. I, pp. 215 et ss.), voir notre Fées, bestes et luitons, pp. 253 et ss. et notre article, “Le sabbat de vielles barbues dans Perceforest,” Le Moyen Âge, 99 (1993), pp. 471-504.

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s’approche pour le frapper, mais il la devance et la frappe sur la joue. Dans le premier épisode, l’autorité (le roi) conseille à Estonné de frapper, et c’est au contraire le chevalier qui est frappé; dans le second, l’autorité (le diabolique maistre) donne licence aux femmes de frapper, mais c’est l’une d’elles qui reçoit les coups. Dans les deux épisodes, le comique des coups et de l’inversion, ainsi que le burlesque d’un combat discourtois contre des femmes, se retrouvent. L’auteur ne se contente donc pas de reprendre Chrétien: il l’intègre à sa conjointure: il n’était pas sans habileté de commencer le livre II par une reprise de la scène d’ouverture du Conte du Graal. Voyons si l’épisode du lion de Lyonnel, inspiré par le lion d’Yvain, présente des caractéristiques similaires. Le lion Dans le livre II de Perceforest (t. I, pp. 286 et ss.), Lyonnel du Glat et son écuyer Clamidès traversent un désert, la Terre de l’Estrange Marche où, pendant deux jours, ils ne trouvent rien à manger. Ils arrivent à une montagne ravagée par un lion et une lionne que tue le héros. Aux mamelles de la femelle, il découvre deux lionceaux, dont l’un l’émeut, au point qu’il l’épargne et l’adopte. Plus loin (pp. 333 et ss.), on retrouve le chevalier, qui sauve son lion d’un serpent. Enfin, dans un troisième épisode, Troïlus voit le lion tracer un cercle autour de Lyonnel, et cette scène rappelle à ce dernier un rêve qu’il a eu récemment, dans lequel son lion lui disait de fonder une ville et commençait même le travail. Jeanne Lods pense que le combat du lion et du serpent remonte à quelques lignes de la Queste del Saint Graal (p. 62) et en conclut que l’auteur de Perceforest s’est saisi de cette brève notation et l’a considérablement enrichie. Pourtant il me semble que les rapprochements avec Le Chevalier au Lion sont trop nombreux pour qu’on puisse exclure une influence de Chrétien de Troyes.19 19 Sur le lion d’Yvain, on lira entre autres J. Harris, “The Role of the Lion in Chrétien de Troyes’s Yvain,” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, 64 (1949), 1143-63, qui insiste sur la dimension christique du lion, et J. Frappier, Étude sur Yvain (Paris: SEDES, 1969), pp. 289-90, qui pense au contraire que Chrétien a intégralement transféré le symbolisme dans le domaine courtois. Pour une interprétation zodiacale du lion d’Yvain, voir Ph. Walter, Canicule. Essai de mythologie sur Yvain de Chrétien de Troyes (Paris: SEDES, 1988), pp. 187 et ss.

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Outre le cadre général (Lyonnel et Yvain mènent une quête amoureuse), trop général pour être significatif, un certain nombre d’indices communs signalent l’emprunt. – le débat concernant la nature des lions: devant le lion et le serpent Yvain s’interroge longuement pour savoir lequel il aidera (3354 et ss.); dans Perceforest Lyonnel et son écuyer discutent, le second pensant qu’il faut tuer les petits, le premier hésitant (p. 291). – le combat du lion et du serpent: le motif prélude chez Chrétien de Troyes à la rencontre avec le lion, tandis que dans Perceforest il ne vient qu’après. Si chez Chrétien le serpent tient le lion par le keue (3350), dans Perceforest à l’inverse c’est le lion qui finit par jeter le serpent à terre en l’attrapant par la queue. – le lion qui s’apprivoise et s’humanise: dans les deux cas, le félin se met à pleurer, et se comporte avec “humilité, en soy humiliant” (3386 et ss., p. 291); il est comparé à un chien et se comporte comme tel, léchant les mains, se laissant frotter les oreilles et jouant dans Perceforest, chassant chez Chrétien (3416 et ss.). – Clamidès emporte le lionceau et Lyonnel blessés sur une bière (p. 294) et sur son écu sont prises les deux pattes coupées du lion féroce (p. 298); Yvain fait une litière pour son lion blessé qu’il porte sur son écu (4649). – le combat contre le géant: dans Perceforest, Lyonnel tue le Géant aux Crins Dorés, sans l’aide du lion qui reste spectateur; dans le combat contre Harpin de la Montagne, Yvain est aidé par son lion, qui est en revanche mis à l’écart lors du combat contre les accusateurs de Lunete (3785 et ss., 4447 et ss.). – Yvain recevra le nom de Chevalier au Lion; avant même l’aventure, Lyonnel est déjà, par son nom où s’entend “lion,” destiné à rencontrer la bête. Quelques caractéristiques de la reprise sont notables. Si, chez Chrétien, on a une simple humanisation du lion, dans Perceforest la rencontre entre l’homme et l’animal résulte d’un double mouvement: le chevalier, symétriquement au lion qui s’apprivoise, se fait animal sauvage, contraint de manger de la viande crue, vêtu de peaux de bêtes tant ses habits sont déchirés, hérissé de barbe (p. 286), bandé de cuir de cerf après avoir été éventré (p. 289). Par ailleurs, on note une multiplication des lions (deux adultes cruels et deux lionceaux, dont un féroce, dans Perceforest), ainsi que l’éclatement et la réorganisation des épisodes (le combat contre le serpent est déplacé dans Perceforest,

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n’a lieu qu’en deuxième temps et est disjoint de la rencontre entre le chevalier et le félin). Les points communs sont certes nombreux, mais le succès du motif du lion reconnaissant n’exclut pas a priori une autre source.20 Florimont d’Aymon de Varennes (1188), objet de récritures au XVe siècle, n’était peut-être pas inconnu de l’auteur de Perceforest. Dans ce roman, à partir du modèle de Chrétien,21 la polarisation du lion est inversée (il devient négatif 489 et ss.22), mais dans un songe (Florimont en présente plusieurs) un lion bienveillant, comme celui de Chrétien, apparaît (1713 et ss.): affectueux et apprivoisé, il aide à tuer un monstre destructeur. Cette apparition du lion dans un songe seraitelle reprise par Perceforest? Le motif onirique est certes banal, mais l’influence de Florimont sur Perceforest, peut-être indémontrable, est néanmoins possible, étant donné la culture de l’auteur: Florimont repose sur un projet comparable à celui de Perceforest, qui a pour enjeu de relier les mondes antique, alexandrin et breton. Dans Gui de Warewick (XIIIe siècle), le héros sauve de même un lion d’un serpent (4123 et ss.).23 Plus loin, l’animal, apprivoisé, blessé par un sénéchal félon, rejoint le héros, traînant ses boyaux derrière lui (4350), pour lui lécher les mains une dernière fois avant de mourir. La similitude du geste épique de remettre les boyaux (pour le chevalier dans Perceforest lors du combat contre les deux lions (p. 289), pour le lion dans Gui de Warewick) peut surprendre, mais la fréquence du motif ne la rend guère probante. Néanmoins, on constate que de même que dans Yvain le lion imite l’humanité dans ce qu’elle a de plus spectaculairement littéraire (son geste suicidaire, 3502 et ss., rappelle Pirame et Tisbé), dans Gui de Warewick le lion et ses boyaux réactivent le modèle épique. Doit-on supposer que Gui de Warewick s’inspire de Chrétien en traitant la mort du lion sur un mode parodique, et que Perceforest emprunte au roman du XIIIe siècle l’association 20 Sur le motif du lion reconnaissant, voir Merveilles et topique merveilleuse, op. cit., pp. 294 et ss., et C. Cremonesi, “Le lion reconnaissant: Yvain et Le Roman de la Dame à la Lycorne et du Biau Chevalier au lion,” dans Mélanges de la langue et littérature françaises du Moyen Âge et de la Renaissance: offerts à Monsieur Charles Foulon, 2 tomes (Rennes: Institut Français de l’Université de Haute-Bretagne, 1980), t. I, pp. 49-53. 21 Voir notre livre Merveilles et topique merveilleuse, pp. 294 et ss. 22 Ed. A. Hilka (Göttingen: Gesellschaft für romanische Literatur, 1933). 23 Ed. A. Ewert (Paris: Champion, 1933).

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héros/lion/boyaux, en redonnant au motif sa forme primaire (le héros qui perd ses entrailles)? A priori on ne peut conclure. Néanmoins, la scène où dans Gui de Warewick (4171 et ss.) le héros joue avec le lion ressemble fort à Perceforest: dans les deux textes, le félin lèche le chevalier (la main dans Perceforest p. 291, les pieds dans Gui de Warewick (alors qu’il ne lèche pas chez Chrétien); Lyonnel dans le texte en prose frotte les oreilles du lion, tout comme le fait Gui; dans Perceforest le lion est comparé à un jeune chien, dans Gui de Warevick à un lévrier (4176); le lion monte sur le cheval (Gui de Warewick, 4168; Perceforest, p. 292). Ces similitudes sont troublantes et laissent penser que l’auteur de Perceforest a pu relire Chrétien en s’inspirant de Gui de Warewick. Si l’influence du maître champenois est certaine, le travail de récriture passe vraisemblablement par un jeu d’aimantation. Le motif du lion reconnaissant connaît tout au long du Moyen Âge une vogue notable, et l’auteur de Perceforest a rattaché au noyau proposé par son modèle divers éléments tirés de textes autres, souvent eux-mêmes influencés par l’auteur champenois. Il n’est d’ailleurs pas impossible que le motif du lion sauvé et reconnaissant ait rencontré un succès particulier dans le milieu où Perceforest fut composé: dans un autre roman lié au Hainaut, Gilles de Chin, écrit en vers dans les années 1230-40 et mis en prose au XVe siècle, le héros sauve un lion qui le sert fidèlement. Au XIVe siècle, il était de bon goût d’écrire un Roman de la Dame à la Licorne et du Beau Chevalier au lion, et c’est ce que fait l’auteur de Perceforest. Le lion reconnaissant trouve cependant dans Perceforest une légitimité originale. Le troisième épisode où le félin apparaît permet en effet d’intégrer ce lion au grandiose projet généalogique qui fait de Perceforest une préhistoire arthurienne. Alors que Lyonnel se repose avec son lion, Troïlus de Royauville arrive et voit le lion gratter du pied et faire autour de Lyonnel “un cercle rond de deux cents pieds de rayon” (l. II, t. I, p. 378) comme le ferait un labourier. Troïlus interprète le geste du lion, qui ensuite se couche sur son maître, comme une volonté de protéger celui-ci. A son réveil, Lyonnel explique que cette scène lui rappelle une vision qu’il a eue (p. 379): dans ce rêve (dont le contenu est différé, p. 382) son lion lui disait de fonder un château et commençait même le travail (p. 383). La

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construction d’une ville est décidée, qui est menée à son terme dans le livre III (t. I, p. 288):24 elle est nommée le Chastel au Lion. Une prolepse comme l’auteur les affectionne permet alors de rattacher cette cité au monde arthurien et de révéler in fine le projet qui préside à cette invention: cette terre fut appelée “le royaume de Lyonnel” et la cité, “de hoir en hoir,” échut au père de Tristan, ce qui permet d’établir la jonction avec le temps du roi Arthur (l. III, t. I, p. 289). Or ce qui assure la cohérence de l’ensemble, c’est un de ces jeux de mots pseudo-étymologiques comme l’auteur les aime tant,25 et ce de façon d’autant plus subtile que le terme qui permet de tout comprendre n’est pas mentionné même s’il ne peut manquer de venir à l’esprit du lecteur: Tristan est en effet Tristan de Leonois, et ce Leonois, qui n’apparaît pas dans le développement proleptique de Perceforest, ne peut manquer d’évoquer le leon, le lion.26 Il est donc logique que Perceforest invente l’histoire d’un chevalier au lion comme préhistoire à celle de Tristan. Chrétien de Troyes sert clairement de référence, mais la remotivation du nom propre renforce le réseau de sens qui identifie, quasiment sur le mode totémique, le héros Lyonnel, et la bête. L’incertitude de la merveille est ici d’autant plus grande que la reconnaissance du lion est psychologiquement logique chez Chrétien puisque l’animal est sauvé par le chevalier, tandis que dans le texte en prose, c’est la peur qui soumet l’orphelin, dont la nature reste ambiguë et dont on ne saurait dire s’il est une noble bête par nature ou par accident. Le lion est finalement d’autant plus merveilleux qu’il reste ambigu, à la fois féroce et hagiographique: “merveilles fut du lyoncel 24

Ed. G. Roussineau, Perceforest, 2e partie, t. 1 (Genève: Droz, 1999). Voir notre article “La géographie et les progrès de la civilisation dans Perceforest,” dans Provinces, pp. 275 et ss. 26 E. Brugger pense que le lien entre Yvain et le lion a pu être suggéré par le fait qu’à côté d’Yvain, fils d’Urien, héros du roman de Chrétien, existait Yvain de Loenel (Leonel, Lionel, puis Loonois) que cite d’ailleurs l’auteur champenois: Leonel et lion auraient été rapprochés; voir son “Yvain and his lion,” dans Studies in Honor of W. A. Nitze, éd. Cl. E. Parmenter, Modern Philology, 28 (1947), 267-87. Le transfert à un autre Yvain s’expliquerait par une volonté de gommer l’évidence de la source. J. Frappier (op. cit., p. 111) se montre très réservé. Il n’empêche que l’auteur de Perceforest, tout en gommant l’écho puisqu’il ne reprend pas le terme Loonois dans ce contexte, associe aussi (et tout aussi discrètement) un héros du Leonois (Tristan) et un lion. 25

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car il se prist a suchier les playes de Lyonnel sy doulcement et tant de bien luy fist qu’il les radoulcy toutes” (p. 293). Dans cette région frontalière qu’est l’Estrange Marche se rencontrent à la fois la monstruosité sans appel des géniteurs et l’humanité du petit. L’hiatus entre la généalogie et les comportements constatés chez le rejeton est étonnant et l’on hésite entre le lion hostile de Florimont et le lion bienveillant de Chrétien de Troyes, d’où un merveilleux puissant. La prose par ailleurs facilite l’amplificatio et l’intégration d’éléments absents chez Chrétien: “le chevalier emprist a froter les oreilles au lyoncel […] qui le mordoit par feste ainsi que ung jeune chien” (p. 291). De plus l’auteur de Perceforest travaille la structure: s’il fallait attendre chez Chrétien pour que le lion soit porté par le chevalier sur son écu sur une litière de mousse et de fougères (4649), c’est ici au terme de la bataille, par un effet de concentration qui renforce la merveille, que Clamidès porte sur des feuilles le chevalier et le lion, blessés et déjà réunis. L’entrelacement permet par ailleurs à l’auteur de Perceforest de susciter plus loin de nouvelles réminiscences de Chrétien, nourrissant l’incertitude concernant son propre lion de la complexité du félin champenois. Si Chrétien combinait le combat contre le serpent et l’épisode du lion bienveillant, dans le roman en prose, les deux sont disjoints. Il faut attendre plusieurs folios et des changements de sujets liés à l’entrelacement pour retrouver Lyonnel et son lion face à un dragon monstrueux. Celui-ci enlève le lion, comme un rapace ravit sa proie: adont descendy aval tout en volant aussi comme tempeste de mer et va saisir le lyon qui aloit dessus la nef et luy fiche ses ongles ou dos et le lieve en l’air, sy l’emporte en son ysle. Dont Lyonnel qui senty le vent que les elles du serpent jecterent en venant fut tout esbahy […] et dist qu’il iroit rescourre son lyon. (l. II, t. I, p. 340)27

Le combat contre le serpent est long, la dimension diabolique de la créature est développée. Le lion participe au coup final, en attrapant la queue du serpent et en le jetant à terre: à l’inverse chez Chrétien c’était le serpent qui tenait le lion par la queue (3349). Peu après, toujours à la faveur de l’entrelacement (p. 378), Troïlus trouve Lyonnel endormi et 27

La dernière phrase peut être un écho de Chrétien: “Lors dist c’au lyon secorra” (Le Chevalier au Lion, 3356).

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voit le lion gratter du pied. La scène, vue à travers le regard de Troïlus, est l’occasion d’une écriture merveilleuse. Songe prémonitoire, cercle magique, relation du lion avec la fondation d’une cité comme dans Florimont, motivation double du nom du héros qui s’appelle Lyonnel du Glat (Lyonnel fait référence au félin, et Glat à son cri) enrichissent la polysémie de la bête. Dans le livre II, l’auteur de Perceforest nous offre donc deux récritures de Chrétien de Troyes sans qu’à aucun moment ce modèle ne soit avoué. Si certains échos sont à peu près certains, d’autres sont plus difficiles à estimer, tant l’écriture médiévale est topique. Néanmoins il semble que l’auteur de Perceforest déconstruise les épisodes dont il s’inspire et les recompose, soit en fusionnant, soit en disloquant, et qu’il n’hésite pas à combiner des sources plurielles. Ces reprises par ailleurs sont toujours associées à un travail sur le sens, qu’il s’agisse de l’épisode du peuple sauvage où Perceval sert de point de départ à une réflexion sur la civilisation et les rapports entre nature et culture, ou du lion d’Yvain, qui permet d’inventer une préhistoire au royaume de Tristan. Par ailleurs, nonobstant des omissions toujours possibles dans un texte aussi foisonnant, je ne pense pas que d’autres reprises de ce type soient décelables dans ce vaste ensemble. Est-ce alors un hasard si les deux seules récritures de Chrétien figurent dans le livre II? A lire et relire Perceforest, on finit par ne plus croire au hasard. Ces épisodes se trouvent dans la première partie du livre II. Or ce livre inaugure une nouvelle époque: Alexandre est reparti vers Babylone (l. II, t. I, p. 1) et c’est aux rois d’Angleterre et d’Ecosse désormais de mener à bien leur œuvre civilisatrice, qui n’en est donc qu’à ses débuts. Chrétien intervient dans ces temps anciens de fondation, alors que la matière alexandrine n’a plus de raison d’être puisque le conquérant macédonien est reparti (c’en est fini de la relecture des poissons chevaliers28) et que l’on est encore loin des temps du Graal et du Dieu 28 Sur l’épisode des poissons chevaliers qui reprennent un motif tiré du Roman d’Alexandre, voir notre Fées, bestes et luitons, pp. 299 et ss. On pourra s’étonner d’un renvoi clair au monde alexandrin dans le discours du démon tentateur du livre VI (manuscrit Arsenal 3493, ff. 6 et ss.) qui promet des filles fleurs comme on en trouve dans la geste du Macédonien: en fait, le démon est ici associé à un paganisme séducteur et “rétrograde.” De la même façon, la reprise de l’épisode de la Charrette à partir du Lancelot en prose dans le livre I est à rebours car il s’agit d’une farce du

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Souverain (l’heure n’est pas venue des récritures des grands cycles en prose centrés sur le saint vessel). Peut-être alors pourrait-on voir un lien entre ces deux reprises de Chrétien de Troyes, dans la mesure où toutes deux réfléchissent sur les rapports entre la sauvagerie et la civilisation, et attirent l’attention sur un des leitmotive de ce texte, à savoir que civilisation et décadence sauvage ne cessent de se succéder et que les frontières de l’une à l’autre sont désespérément et heureusement perméables, puisque de nobles Troyens redeviennent des sauvages hirsutes avant de revenir à la civilisation, tandis qu’un chevalier peut se faire bête, velu et bandé de cuir, tandis qu’un lion s’humanise, pour que d’une terre inculte naisse une ville prospère. Certes ce n’est là qu’une hypothèse, que la masse fascinante mais épuisante et inépuisable de Perceforest m’interdit de confirmer définitivement. Néanmoins il me semble que l’auteur de Perceforest ne mettait pas sur le même plan les vers de Chrétien et les proses du XIIIe siècle et qu’il possédait, outre une vaste culture, un sens de l’histoire littéraire certain.

démoniaque Zéphir. Les écarts dans la logique des récritures (antiques d’abord, et évoluant vers les grandes proses arthuriennes plus tard) s’expliqueraient par l’irruption de forces plus ou moins diaboliques (les démons, Zéphir […]), pervertissant les apparences, les paroles, l’histoire et les textes.

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JOAN TASKER GRIMBERT

The Reception of the Tristan Legend in Renaut’s Galeran de Bretagne1 enaut’s propensity to incorporate into Galeran de Bretagne themes and motifs found in other works and even to imitate certain authors is legendary.2 It has been amply demonstrated that he builds on the framework provided by Marie’s Le Fresne, combines it with the traditional structure of the idyllic romance (Floire et Blancheflor), and uses motifs from a variety of other works, including Milon, L’Escoufle, Ile et Galeron, the Romans d’Eneas, de Thebes and de Troie, Philomena, Erec et Enide, Cligés, and Beuve de Hanstone.3 But so far no scholar has remarked on the influence of Thomas’s Tristan. Galeran’s contemplation of marriage with a woman other than his true love has, of course, been compared to that of Gurun, his counterpart in Marie’s lai and to that of Eliduc, but the distinctiveness of Galeran’s particular situation has not been sufficiently underscored. The fact that Galeran is attracted to Fresne’s twin sister Fleurie solely because of her resemblance to his first love engenders in the hero’s 1

A shorter version of this paper was presented at the XXth International Arthurian Congress in Bangor, Wales (21-28 July 2002). 2 All references to the romance are based on Lucien Foulet’s edition, Jean Renart, Galeran de Bretagne, Roman du XIIIe siècle, (Paris: Champion, 1975). Note that Foulet does not agree with the general consensus that Renaut is not to be identified with Jean Renart. His edition was, however, published before the appearance of the definitive demonstration undertaken by Lars Lindvall: Jean Renart et Galeran de Bretagne. Étude sur un problème d’attribution de textes. Structures syntaxiques et structures stylistiques dans quelques romans d’aventure français (Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell, 1982). See also Jean Dufournet’s introduction to his modern French translation, Renaut, Galeran de Bretagne (Paris: Champion, 1996), esp. pp. 89. 3 So struck was Maurice Wilmotte by the abundance of intertextual allusions that he denounced Renaut as a plagiarist; see his “Un Curieux cas de plagiat littéraire: Le Poème de ‘Galeran’,” Bull. de l’Académie Royale de Belgique, Classe des Lettres, 5e série, 24 (1928), pp. 269-300. But most scholars today would agree with the opinion expressed by E. Hoepffner, “Les Lais de Marie de France dans Galeran de Bretagne et Guillaume de Dole,” Romania 56 (1930), 212-35. Admitting that the romance “se présente comme un tissu d’emprunts cousus bout à bout,” he nevertheless defends Renaut’s intertextual impulse as being typical of medieval romancers.

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mind and heart a great deal more confusion than in the case of Gurun and Eliduc.4 This bewilderment and consequent vacillation mirrors Tristan’s thoughts in Thomas’s version as he attempts to justify his desire to marry Yseut aux Blanches Mains. I propose to explore here the manner in which Renaut drew on Thomas, as well as the significance of this striking example of intertextuality. In Galeran de Bretagne, Marie’s 546-line lai is expanded to 8,000 lines. This remarkable amplification stems in part from Renaut’s elaborate rhetoric but also from the changes introduced into the story.5 In his version, the orphaned status of his heroine is the consequence, as in Marie’s lai, of her mother’s fear that if her peers knew she had given birth to twins, they could accuse her, as she herself had accused a neighbor, of having slept with a man other than her husband. The infant is found in an ash tree next to an abbey, but here Renaut’s romance diverges sharply from his model, for Fresne is raised in the company of the abbess’s nephew Galeran, son of the count of Brittany. Like Floire and Blancheflor, the two children spend a happy youth in this idyllic setting, appropriately named Beauséjour, and grow naturally to pledge their love to each other. But as in all idyllic romances, separation is inevitable: Galeran’s father dies, and the youth is called to Nantes to fulfill the role for which he was destined. He returns regularly to the abbey and communicates by messenger with 4

On Galeran as a critique of ressemblance, see Paul Vincent Rockwell, “Twin Mysteries: Ceci n’est pas un Fresne,” in his Rewriting Resemblance in Medieval French Romance (New York: Garland, 1995), pp. 25-42. 5 One of the first scholars to study Renaut’s romance was Myrrha Lot-Borodine, who penned this enthusiastic assessment of his reworking: “Combien grande est la transformation du sujet chez notre poète, combien riche et féconde son imagination! D’une ébauche incolore, il a su faire un drame achevé, d’une couleur si vivante, d’un intérêt si humain!” (Le Roman idyllique au Moyen Âge [Paris: Picard, 1913], p. 182). She goes on to describe at length the “abîme” that separates Renaut’s romance “au point de vue psychologique et litteraire” from his model (pp. 183-84). So much fine work has been done in the past few decades—by Rupert Pickens, among others—to reveal Marie’s artistry that few scholars today, I dare say, would care to make such a comparison! Another early positive assessment of the romance came from M. A. Boucherie, who discovered it in 1887. According to Ch. V. Langlois, he ranked Renaut above all medieval poets, including Chrétien de Troyes, and characterized Galeran as an “œuvre vraiment supérieure, qui est aux romans d’aventure du moyen âge ce qu’est Paul et Virginie aux romans du XVIIIe siècle” (La Société française au XIIIe siècle d’après six romans d’aventure, 2e éd. revue [Paris: Hachette, 1904], p. 3).

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Fresne until his aunt realizes that the two young people are indulging a love that will likely have no future, given their difference in social status. She quarrels with Galeran and eventually bans Fresne from Beauséjour, when the young woman’s natural pride and willfulness put her at odds with the abbess. Before leaving, Fresne takes possession of the objects that her mother, Gente, had sent to accompany her abandoned child, a beautiful pillow and an embroidered cloth. And here at the exact midpoint of the romance, Fresne realizes that, unlike the abbess’s assertion that she is unworthy to marry Galeran, the tokens prove on the contrary that she is of noble birth. Renaut then treats his readers to twin, intertwined narratives that recount not simply Galeran’s development as a knight, but also Fresne’s professional exploitation of the skills, embroidery and music, that she had learned at Beauséjour. Galeran searches the world for Fresne—but in vain, and when at last his barons press him to marry, he agrees reluctantly, selecting Fleurie, solely for her uncanny resemblance to his first love. When Fresne, now living in Rouen, hears about the impending marriage, she rushes to Roche-Guyon, the site of the wedding, and gains admittance to the château disguised as a minstrel. It is here that Fresne proves to be a resourceful young woman capable not only of earning a living but also of devising a way to win back her long lost love. Marie’s heroine is a passive, self-effacing figure of the Griselda type,6 whose mother recognizes her because of the coverlet she obligingly spreads on the nuptial bed of her sister and former lover. Renaut’s Fresne, much more active, has the boldness and initiative of a Lienor. She actually fashions a dress out of the material her mother had sent with her when she abandoned her and sets off for Galeran’s wedding. She appears before her love to perform a piece that she knows will reveal her identity to him in no uncertain terms. It is not, however, as in Aucassin et Nicolete, the story of their life but rather a lai that Galeran had taught her, instructing her never to divulge it to anyone else. When Galeran blanches on hearing it, she teases him unmercifully, speculating cleverly on the source of his discomfiture: 6 Glyn S. Burgess, Marie de France, Text and Context (Athens: Univ. of Georgia Press, 1987), asserts that “Le Frêne is probably one of Marie’s most passive heroines” (p. 131), and Lot-Borodine claims that Renaut transforms the Griselda theme into “un plaidoyer éloquent en faveur de l’égalité sentimentale des sexes” (p. 183). She might have spoken as well of “égalité professionnelle.”

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“Est ce cops qui vous a nercy / D’espee ou de lance de fresne?” (702425). It is only after the mother recognizes the embroidered material of Fresne’s dress that the recognition scene is played out, as Gente embraces her daughter and recounts her villainous conduct to her husband, after which Galeran is allowed to marry Fresne instead of Fleurie, who withdraws to a convent. In reworking Marie’s lai, Renaut draws especially on elements of Thomas’s Tristan that relate to the characters of Yseut the Blonde and Yseut of the White Hands and to Tristan’s relations with the two young women. Tristan in the Thomas tradition of the legend is extremely accomplished in all the courtly and aristocratic skills, including hunting, falconry, chess, and music.7 So too is Galeran. Yseut’s musical skills, which she learned from Tristan, are also well known, and in Thomas’s version she is seen singing the Lai de Guirun. In Galeran de Bretagne, the hero composes lais, and under his tutelage Fresne learns to play the harp, to sing, and even to compose. Her devotion to music is so much a part of her identity, that at one point the narrator, after describing the beautiful outfit she is wearing one day, goes on to describe her harp in nearly as much detail (2022-37). Moreover, when Fresne sends her lover a sleeve to wear into combat, the portrait of her that she has embroidered thereon actually includes an image of her harp (3156-61). Galeran thinks the portrait, of which he details every trait, represents Fresne with remarkable fidelity. All that is missing is her voice, he muses (3233-51), a significant observation since it will be her voice singing his lai that will cause him to recognize her at the end. Fresne learns by heart a work of Galeran’s composition that speaks of the joys and pains of love; it will—quite appropriately—become the emblem of their love as well as the token of recognition. From the description of its contents (1972-82), “Le Lay Galeren le Breton,” which is based on oppositions such as praise and blame of love, the laughter and tears it causes, and the lover’s sickness and health, is apparently a chanson d’amour.8 Fresne is also familiar with songs 7 Gottfried underscores these skills, and it is likely that he was following Thomas here as elsewhere. 8 See the discussion by Faith Lyons, “The Literary Originality of Galeran de Bretagne,” in Medieval Miscellany Presented to Eugène Vinaver, ed. Frederick Whitehead et al. (Manchester: Manchester Univ. Press, 1965), pp. 206-19.

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normally associated with the more popular register: when she arrives at Galeran’s wedding in La Roche-Guyon, a place already celebrated in the chanson de toile of Bele Aëlis, she is singing the first song she ever composed: “Je voiz aux noces mon amy: / Plus dolente de moy n’y va!” (6976-77).9 This chanson de femme is of the type known as chanson d’ami, in which a young woman laments the loss of her lover,10 and it seems that Fresne has composed it especially to express the sorrow she feels on this occasion. Fresne’s music vocation is not the only aspect of her person that is reminiscent of Yseut. When the narrator introduces her, he claims that in beauty she surpasses Yseut, Lavinia, and Helen (1221-25). This kind of comparison is fairly standard fare and would perhaps not be so significant if it did not recur in a similar form at the end of the romance as the twins’ mother labors to beautify her daughter Fleurie so that she will be comparable to Helen, or Lavinia, or “Ysolt la blonde, / Qui fu la plus belle du monde” (6868-70). After describing the sumptuous fabrics and accessories that contribute to Fleurie’s adornment, the narrator admits that she looks quite lovely but adds that one should admire Fresne still more, because she surpasses her sister as the precious stone does glass and the rose does the primrose (688891). The implication, which is significant, as we shall see, is that Fresne’s natural beauty requires no adornment. Unlike Marie, Renaut exploits the startling resemblance between Fresne and her twin sister, a tactic that provides the clearest evidence of his use of the Tristan legend. In describing Galeran’s feelings for Fleurie, Renaut draws on Thomas’s depiction of Tristan’s confused and misguided attempts to justify acting on his attraction to Yseut aux Blanches Mains so that he can marry her.11 Tristan knows very well that Kaherdin’s sister is not his real love, but since he believes that Yseut la Blonde has virtually forgotten him and may now be content 9

F. M. Warren, “Notes on the Romans d’Aventure,” Modern Language Notes, 13 (1898), 170-76, p. 175. 10 See the discussion in Eglal Doss-Quinby, Joan Tasker Grimbert, Wendy Pfeffer, and Elizabeth Aubry, eds. Songs of the Women Trouvères (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 2001), p. 127. 11 See Thomas, Les Fragments du Roman de Tristan, ed. Bartina H. Wind, 2nd ed. (Geneva: Droz and Paris: Minard, 1960), esp. Sneyd1, 1-182, which trace Tristan’s reasoning, followed by the narrator’s analysis (183-368).

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simply to enjoy pleasure with her husband, he reasons that he has the right to experience the same pleasure in the arms of a wife. Indeed, he claims that by replicating Yseut’s situation he will actually feel closer to her! “Je voil espuser la meschine Pur saveir l’estre a la reïne, Si l’espusaille e l’assembler Me pureient li faire oblier, Si cum ele pur sun seignur Ad entroblié nostre amur. Nel faz mie li pur haïr, Mais pur ço que jo voil partir, U li amer cum ele fait mei Pur saveir cum aime lu rei.” (Sneyd1, 173-82)

Only on his wedding night does Tristan realize he is incapable of making love to a woman other than Yseut la Blonde, whom his wife resembles in virtue solely of her name and her beauty. Galeran’s mystification, which recalls Tristan’s in that he is caught between two women, is several times magnified, though its source is somewhat different. He never confuses lust with real desire, but when he first meets Fleurie he actually believes for an instant that she is Fresne and is so overcome that he takes her in his arms and kisses her passionately (5233-38), conduct that Fleurie naturally finds shocking. When Galeran realizes his error, he quickly repairs to the garden to sort out his feelings, and there he is reminded of the pleasurable hours he used to spend with Fresne in the garden at Beauséjour. Initially he reproaches himself bitterly for betraying his love, but he soon convinces himself that he is actually keeping faith with her and honoring their love by kissing a woman who is her very image. Has he not often kissed the portrait that Fresne embroidered on the sleeve she sent him? Does it not seem more reasonable to kiss a living portrait of her, he asks himself:12

12 Citing this scene as an example of Renaut’s “obsession” with the concept of “semblant,” A. M. Plasson does not, however, mention Thomas’s Tristan as a possible model; see “L’Obsession du reflet dans Galeran de Bretagne,” in Mélanges de Langue et de Littératures médiévales offerts à Pierre Le Gentil par ses collègues, ses élèves et ses amis (Paris: SEDES, 1973), pp. 673-89; here p. 675.

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“J’abays m’amour? Certes non faz, Ne de moy pour ce ne le faz, N’ele ne s’en courroucie mie. Si je bays le semblant m’amie, Ay je dont fait si grant oultrage? Enne bays je souvent s’ymage Qu’elle a en sa manche pourtraicte? Quelle raison ay avant traite? Fresne l’a tyssue a ses mains, S’en y a fait ne plus ne mains Qu’il a en li, si la ressemble. Par foy, greindre resons me semble A la pucelle de ceens Qu’a l’ymage, qui est nïens Envers li, qu’elle me presente Fresnain, tant est et belle et gente, Et pour Fresnain amer la vueil.” (5289-305)

Galeran goes on to marvel at how she resembles Fresne in every physical trait and how Nature has managed to resurrect her (5306-24). Tristan could well have identified with this reasoning when he first laid eyes on Yseut aux Blanches Mains, and at that point he would no doubt have understood Galeran’s lack of compunction about loving Fleurie for the sake of Fresne. When Galeran finally carries into chivalric combat the embroidered sleeve that Fresne has sent him, he does so in order to honor Fleurie. Although Galeran is able to justify his feelings to himself, he knows he must explain his shocking conduct to Fleurie, and he does so by blaming it on his girlfriend (“m’amie”) and on the love that this friend inspires: […] “Ma damoiselle, Cuers qui aime en maint lieu oysele, En maint lieu pence, en maint lieu va. Se mes deduiz huy vous greva, A moy ne vous en prenez mie, Mais prenez vous en a m’amie, Qui m’a fait cest oultrage faire.” (5361-67)

The ambiguity of this reference causes a stir in Fleurie’s heart. Just as Kaherdin assumed that Tristan was thinking of his sister, Yseut aux Blanches Mains, when he sang of “Yseut,” Fleurie believes that Galeran’s reference to his sweetheart applies to her.

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Galeran’s efforts to justify loving Fleurie may well seem to be as much in bad faith as does Tristan’s rationalization of his desire for Yseut aux Blanches Mains. But Renaut’s narrator, unlike Thomas’s, appears to accept his hero’s reasoning, for he is intent on depicting Galeran and Fresne not only as the truest of lovers but also as ones who are incapable of lying, either to themselves or to others, and this is a clear indication that Renaut actually considers them superior to Tristan and Yseut. The narrator takes care to explain that if Galeran is deceiving Fresne—or indeed either woman—he is doing so loyally: he does not renounce his love for Fresne nor does he exchange it for that of Fleurie; rather he keeps it intact and simply lends it to Fleurie, who will lodge it temporarily: Or y met Galeren s’entente, Et pour autruy l’esgarde et ayme, Si l’apelle s’amie et claime; Decevant la va loyaument, Ne de rien s’amour n’en desment; Et s’on li voit celi mentir, S’amours s’i doit bien assentir, Qu’il ne la mue ne ne change; Car s’il la met en fame estrange, N’a s’amie pour ce changie. Flourie a l’amour hebergie Que Galeran li a prestee, Si ne l’a mais fors qu’empruntee. (5372-84)

Of course, it is one thing simply to enjoy the company of a woman who resembles one’s love and quite another to marry her, as Galeran realizes when he is pressed to take a wife. Painfully aware that he is reneging on his solemn pledge never to marry anyone but Fresne, like Tristan he does what seems to him the next best thing: he will wed the woman who most resembles his true love. But unlike Tristan, if he reluctantly accepts his companion Brun’s advice to marry, it is not in order to have pleasure—although Brun does evoke that aspect of the enterprise—but rather for a very practical reason also mentioned by Brun, in order to produce an heir, as in Marie’s lai. Like Tristan, Galeran will eventually realize the enormous difference that separates his bride from his first love, but fortunately that realization comes before, not after, he marries her. On the eve of his wedding he agonizes over his situation. Since he will be marrying Fleurie for her physical beauty alone and not for her inner worth, his

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marriage will be a farce, a totally insincere and superficial gesture that will essentially make a mockery of an institution for which he clearly has great respect. Speaking of Fleurie he exclaims that if he solemnly consents to marry her, he will be lying since his heart will not be in it. He will be marrying her for her teeth, her eyes, and her mouth, a woman who is but the shadow of his true love: “Dieux! comment m’en puis je deffendre A m’onneur de ce mariage? Elle est a un homme si sage Fille, qui a tante vertu: S’or te demande: ‘Veus la tu?’ Comment te peuz tu assentir A respondre oïl sans mentir Mauvaisement? Je ray en sens Que mariage fait assens. Si je dy oïl, j’ai menty: Si m’y ai je voir assenty, Selon que on juge dehors. Comment pourra sentir mes cors Le veu, quant je li mentiray? Sans assentir l’assentiray, En tant com Dieux juge dedens. Si prendray fame pour ses dens, Et pour ses yeulx, et pour sa bouche, Quant de si peu m’amie touche Celle, ne m’em porte que l’ombre!” (6834-53)

The narrator joins in Galeran’s dismay when he concludes: “De li espouser ne s’encombre, / Car ce seroit faulce jointure!” (6854-55). Galeran’s musings are similar to those of Tristan when, once married but incapable of consummating the marriage, he realizes he has betrayed both his wife and his true love and considers as well the dishonor he is bringing to his wife’s family by rejecting Yseut aux Blanches Mains. Since Galeran’s moment of lucidity occurs prior to his wedding, he keeps from defiling the institution. His situation contrasts not only with Tristan’s but also with Gurun’s: in Marie’s lai, the recognition scene does not occur until the wedding night, and the marriage must subsequently be annulled. Renaut’s appreciation of marriage is obvious throughout the romance, which may explain why his use of the Tristan legend has gone unnoticed, since the institution is often seen as incompatible with passionate love. When Galeran and Fresne first confess their love to

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each other, they do so in the manner of passionate lovers, and indeed Renaut’s description recalls Chrétien’s depiction of the torments endured by Alixandre and Soredamors and Cligés and Fenice. But while star-crossed lovers like Tristan and Yseut and Cligés and Fenice are obliged to espouse secrecy and generally live their passion on the margins of society, Renaut’s lovers favor total transparency and always link their love to marriage. Their avowal of their mutual love is followed immediately by Galeran’s pledge to marry Fresne as soon as he is in a situation to do so, and he reassures her repeatedly of his intention. When Fresne’s godfather Lohier first realizes she is in love and expresses the hope that the man with whom she is smitten is of a status worthy of her, a servant or a squire, for example, she retorts that she would never lower herself to love anyone of that rank. Instead she places herself squarely in the company of noble—and tragic— legendary lovers, Paris and Helen and Tristan and Yseut, but goes on to claim that if Galeran is preserved from death, she will be his wife and loyal spouse, as if Helen and Yseut had enjoyed the same fate! “Plus que Paris n’ayma Helaine M’aime Galeren, bien le sçay, Et de ce sent je bien l’essçay, Car j’ayme assez plus Galeren Qu’onques Yseut n’ama Tristen: Bien pouez nommer Tristen lui, Car s’il n’a de la mort ennuy Ou de langueur ou de prison, Dame seray de sa maison, Sa femme et sa loyal espouse.” (1582-91)

When Lohier questions Galeran in turn, the young man claims that his passion is greater than was that of Turnus and Eneas for Lavinia (1786-804) and also swears that he will never wed anyone other than Fresne (1827-33). Another trait that distinguishes Galeran and Fresne from other passionate lovers is their self-restraint. Renaut is a moralist: he clearly believes that young lovers should remain chaste, even when they are totally committed to each other and thus virtually betrothed. So Galeran and Fresne, unlike Tristan and Yseut—and even Cligés and Fenice—spend hours together in an idyllic natural setting, kissing and embracing but never venturing beyond the limits of decency (225467). Indeed, the members of their entourage who, like the slanderers

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featured in the Tristan legend, denounce the couple, jump to conclusions that are totally unfounded, as their protector Lohier discovers when he questions his charges sternly. Needless to say, Galeran’s code of honor vis-à-vis Fresne contrasts sharply with Gurun’s behavior in Marie’s lai. It is by highlighting the opposition between appearance and reality that Renaut underscores most effectively his preference for transparency. This theme, no doubt the most prominent one in Galeran de Bretagne, is first introduced when the narrator compares Gente’s outward nobility with her inner malice, using the metaphor of the wood compared to the bark (564-67). It is repeated when Galeran is summoned to assume his role as Count of Brittany and to begin his life as a knight: it is not enough to have a beautiful, graceful appearance if the heart is not valiant, for bark without marrow or force is nothing (2449-59). Finally and most significantly, Galeran uses the image to describe what he would gain by marrying Fleurie compared to what he would have with Fresne (6822-33). And just as Fleurie’s physical appearance conceals what she lacks, Fresne’s outward appearance of an enfant trouvé masks her actual nobility. It is only when the abbess hands over the precious objects that her mother sent along with her that the determined young woman possesses actual proof of a feeling she has always had—that she is worthy of a count. The opposition between appearance and reality seems to dissolve at the end of the romance as natural relations are restored among the various characters. When Gente recognizes her long-lost daughter, her natural maternal instincts come to the fore, totally effacing the malice she had displayed at the beginning of the romance. The father, once apprized of the situation, also displays natural paternal instincts as he embraces the daughter he never knew he had. The only discordant note seems to be the fate of Fleurie. Although Galeran compares her to “bark,” she is in fact superficial only in her resemblance to her twin: unlike her counterpart in Marie’s lai, who agrees readily to the suitable match that her parents find to make up for her groom’s defection, the rejected twin is so disconsolate over the loss of the man she deeply loves that she sees no other alternative than to consecrate herself to God. When Renaut drew on the Tristan legend in reworking Marie’s lai, he obviously did so in a revisionist spirit. No previous scholar has recognized Renaut’s debt to the Tristan legend, save indirectly—

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through borrowings from Cligés,13 and although Renaut was clearly inspired directly by Thomas’s Tristan, Cligés was no doubt a significant intermediary text. Although the traditional view is that Chrétien was trying to rewrite the Tristan legend, I believe he was well aware, as I have argued elsewhere,14 that Fenice’s conduct did not produce a morally acceptable version of the legend. Chrétien surely knew, too, that a happy ending, especially one that resulted in the marriage of the lovers, was totally incompatible with the Tristan legend. Renaut, on the other hand, appears to have been of a different mind entirely, for in Galeran de Bretagne he seems desirous of infusing the idyllic romance model with the kind of passion found in stories of tragic lovers. In Galeran’s case, that passion threatens at one point to turn tragic as he is on the verge of abandoning his true love for a woman who is but a shadow of that love. In the end, though, the romance reverts to the usual happy ending of the idyllic romance. Indeed, Renaut, unlike Denis de Rougemont, clearly believes that great passion can exist perfectly well within the bonds of marriage. Once the lovers are reunited in heart and body, they have “joie et plenté,” a situation that, far from diminishing their desire, actually causes it to grow stronger, thus belying the vilain’s proverb that “plentez n’a saveur” (7749),15 for their desire is so insatiable that in their state of plenty they are needy and their love grows daily: Ceste besoigne ont en leur vie Qui estre ne puet assovie Ne pour deduit ne pour solaz, Si sont eulx deux laciez d’un laz, Et croist leur amour chascun jour. (7753-57)

At the end of Cligés, the narrator also asserts that the love of his hero and heroine grew stronger daily even after they married. However, he goes on directly to observe that not only did they never mistrust each 13

F. M. Warren, “The Works of Jean Renart, Poet, and Their Relation to Galeran de Bretagne,” Modern Language Notes, 23 (1908), 69-73 and 97-100. 14 “On Fenice’s Vain Attempts to Revise a Romantic Archetype and Chrétien de Troyes’s Fabled Hostility to the Tristan Legend,” in Reassessing the Heroine in Medieval French Literature, ed. Kathy M. Krause (Gainesville: Univ. Press of Florida, 2001), pp. 87-106. 15 See Joseph Morawski, Proverbes français antérieurs au XVe siècle (Paris: Champion, 1925), no. 1644: “Planté n’a saveur.”

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other or quarrel but that Fenice was never imprisoned, though her successors were because their spouses remembered how she had deceived Alis. The reference to the couple’s ardent love in the context of the negative exemplum that they would henceforth represent (despite Fenice’s desperate precautions) seems ironic at best, especially since their passion had made a mockery of marriage. In Galeran de Bretagne, by contrast, given both Renaut’s respect for marriage and the couple’s consistently upright conduct, the constancy of Galeran and Fresne’s passion seems totally believable.

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BERNARD GUIDOT

La famille de Narbonne dans Elie de Saint-Gilles n ne saurait s’attendre à ce que les membres de la famille de Narbonne jouent un rôle de premier plan dans Elie de SaintGilles.1 Ce sont quatre Narbonnais essentiellement qui interviennent, par épisodes, dans le récit; d’autres sont simplement mentionnés ou se distinguent à peine du flou artistique caractérisant un groupe lointain. Dans l’ensemble, il s’agit donc d’une insertion “de biais” au sein de la trame narrative relatant les aventures d’Elie. Cependant, les liens avec ce dernier relèvent à la fois du familial, du vassalique et de l’héroïque. Chez les Narbonnais, des caractéristiques sont attendues par comparaison avec le Cycle de Guillaume d’Orange; par ailleurs, une réelle harmonie existe entre les réactions d’Elie et celles de ses prestigieux compagnons qui lui servent de stimulant et de modèle. Si la notoriété réside d’abord dans le regard des autres, nous constatons que, dans notre chanson, les Narbonnais n’offrent pas toujours une image fidèle à ce que transmet la tradition épique. Sans qu’ils perdent définitivement la face, il leur arrive d’être simplement pragmatiques, voire désemparés, et ils doivent composer avec les événements ou avec des individus moins brillants qu’eux.2

1 La chanson d’Elie de Saint-Gilles est constamment associée à celle d’Aiol (elles sont d’ailleurs conservées ensemble dans le même manuscrit BnF, fr. 25516). Pour lire Aiol, on se sert des éditions de Wendelin Foerster, Aiol et Mirabel und Elie de Saint Gille (Heilbronn: Verlag von Gebr. Henninger, 1876-82) ou de Jacques Normand et Gaston Raynaud, Aiol (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1877). Mis à part l’ouvrage de Wendelin Foerster, la seule édition de référence actuelle pour Elie est celle de Gaston Raynaud, Elie de Saint Gille (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1879). Pour les citations proposées dans la présente contribution, nous nous fondons sur notre propre travail, car nous préparons une nouvelle édition d’Elie qui paraîtra dans la Collection des Classiques Français du Moyen Âge, chez Champion. 2 C’est avec un réel bonheur que nous offrons cette modeste contribution à une meilleure connaissance d’Elie de Saint-Gilles au Professeur Rupert T. Pickens. Notre amitié, ancienne et vive, s’est renforcée à l’occasion de nombreuses rencontres, lors de missions aux États-Unis ou en France, de visites privées, de participations à des Congrès arthuriens ou épiques.

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Quelques aspects traditionnels de la famille de Narbonne Se fondant sur la tradition épique, A. Moisan a établi un arbre généalogique “des familles d’Aiol et d’Elie de Saint-Gilles” qui fournit de précieux renseignements.3 Elie, frère d’Olive,4 de Marsent et de Gautier, comte de Soissons, est le fils de Julien, comte de Saint-Gilles, et d’une fille d’Aymeri de Narbonne, sans que l’on connaisse le nom de celle-ci.5 Ce lien direct d’Elie avec la famille de Narbonne est mentionné par Alberic de Trois-Fontaines, Julien lui-même étant fils de Bernier et Beatrix, comme l’indique Raoul de Cambrai. Elie, à la suite de son mariage avec Avisse, fille de Charlemagne, devient père d’Aiol. Si l’on se réfère à Andrea da Barberino avec son Ajolfo del Barbicone (version italienne d’Aiol) et ses Storie Nerbonesi, on apprend qu’Elia, frère de Guido di Bagot et d’Olivia, est le fils de Guido, ‘conte di campagna di Roma’. A ce sujet, notre chanson entre moins dans les détails, mais elle n’est pas en contradiction avec ce faisceau d’indications. Devant ses barons, Julien souligne les liens qui l’unissent à la famille de Narbonne: “Il a dit a ses homes: ‘Car levés sus! / Che sont mi droit signor, a Dieu ren ge salu’” (863-64), et son fils Elie, rencontrant les quatre larrons dans la forêt, se présente comme neveu de Guillaume d’Orange, son suzerain légitime étant Aymeri de Narbonne; ce n’est qu’en second lieu qu’il ajoute qu’il est le fils de Julien de Saint-Gilles: “Nés sui de douche Franche, de molt grant parenté, Guillaumes est mes oncles, li marcis au Cor Nés, Mes grans sire Aymeri, de Nerbone sor mer, Et sui fieus Julien, de saint Gille, le ber.” (1084-87)

3 Voir A. Moisan, Répertoire des noms propres de personnes et de lieux cités dans les chansons de geste françaises et les œuvres étrangères dérivées, 2 t. (Genève: Droz, 1986) t. II, vol. 5, p. 964 et aussi t. II, vol. 3, p. 7 et pp. 40-41, ainsi que t. II, vol. 4, p. 10. 4 Dans Elie de Saint-Gilles, Julien déclare que sa fille, Olive, a été demandée en mariage par Garin de Piereplate, mais que celui-ci est trop jeune pour qu’on puisse accepter sa requête (41-42). 5 On sait que Blanchefleur est la seule des cinq filles d’Aymeri à porter un nom précis.

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Dans Elie de Saint-Gilles, les Narbonnais conservent leur réputation de héros généreux: le messager blessé du début de l’œuvre6 raconte comment le roi, à la tête d’une armée de secours, s’est heurté aux Sarrasins en Bretagne, et de quelle manière, sur le point d’être fait prisonnier, il a été sauvé par quatre membres de la famille de Narbonne (221-26). Ce sont ceux qui restent souvent au premier plan dans la narration d’Elie et dont les qualités sont complémentaires: Guillaume d’Orange, qui brille par son énergie et son enthousiasme, Bernard de Brubant, la sagesse incarnée, le fantasque et vantard Hernaut de Gironde (appelé Hernaut li floris) et Bertrand, le représentant de la jeune génération qui transmettra les valeurs fondamentales. Même lorsque le destin l’a placé dans une situation délicate (il est garrotté sous un arbre), Guillaume ne se préoccupe pas de son propre sort; il prie en faveur d’Elie qu’il aimerait secourir: “Dameldex, dist Guillaumes, par ton saintisme non, Qu’avés fait del vasal qui tant est coragous, Qu’encaucent li glouton, par le pré angoisous? He! Dieus, com fust grant joie, se desloié fuisons, Se l’alison secore, a force et a bandon!” (577-81)

Dès qu’il est libéré, il exprime sa farouche détermination (613-20) et ses compagnons, avant de passer à l’action (632-38) se distinguent par la même vigueur de pensée et les mêmes intentions, qu’il s’agisse de Bernard (621-23), d’Hernaut de Gironde (624-26) ou de Bertrand (627-30). Comme dans nombre de chansons du Cycle, Guillaume d’Orange est le fier porte-parole du groupe; c’est le cas lors de l’arrivée des Narbonnais à la cour de Julien de Saint-Gilles: “Amis, je sui Guillaume, ne me celerai plus; Cist autre sont mi frere, qui tant sont parcreü: C’est Bertram et Hernaus et Bernart li kenus. Fil somes Aymeri de Nerbone, au chenu.” (845-48)

Plus tard, Aymeri offre au père d’Elie l’aide de l’ensemble de la famille et c’est lui, sorte de mentor, qui établit le contact avec tous ses parents qui se trouvaient auprès du roi Louis: Bernard, Hernaut, 6

Il est fils du comte Amauri de Poitiers et se présente comme cousin germain de Julien de Saint-Gilles (198-200).

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Beuves, Garin, Aÿmer, Bertrand, sans oublier Rainouart au Tinel. Curieusement, dans cet extrait (2527-37), seuls Guillaume et Guibert ne sont pas mentionnés, mais la suite du récit tend à prouver qu’ils étaient bien présents.7 Guerriers impétueux, vaillants et terribles, les Narbonnais incitent le narrateur à recourir aux comparaisons traditionnelles qui soulignent l’ardeur de Guillaume: “Ausi com li faucons fait les oiseus fuir, / Fait Guillaumes d’Orenge paien et Sarrasin” (659-60), ou la férocité des combats, “En la presse se fierent, ensement conme lous. / La veïssiés bataille et mervellos estour, / Voler sanc et cervelle conme pleue qui court” (648-50), le récit étant quelquefois particularisé par un détail piquant, “Qui Bernart de Brubant esgardast en l’estour, / Com il croille la barbe et fronce le gernon!”(651-52). Les victoires individuelles– comme celle de Bertrand qui met à mal un adversaire (696-701) et suscite, à cause de son impétuosité, la jalousie de son père Bernard (702-06)–constituent un exaltant tourbillon. Guillaume, Hernaut et les vingt chevaliers envoyés par Julien ne sont pas en reste (707-11). Le groupe tire aussi ses qualités de l’intelligence stratégique et de l’intérêt pour les alliances possibles. C’est ainsi que les quatre protagonistes narbonnais proposent à Elie de les rejoindre. Ils n’en seront que plus forts: Guillaume est en la presse et Bertram avoec lui, Et Bernart de Brubant et Hernaut li kenu. Il escrient Elye a la fiere vertu: “Ber, car te trai vers nous, si serons plus cremu, Jamais n’en penras mort tant com en dura uns.” (736-40)

Conformément aux habitudes, les Narbonnais apparaissent comme de solides défenseurs du christianisme. Lorsque Godefroi, messager de la dernière chance pour Elie, et qui revient d’un pèlerinage d’au-delà des mers, arrive à Saint-Gilles pour requérir le secours de Julien, il trouve à ses côtés les principaux dignitaires de la geste de Narbonne: 7

Pour une analyse récente touchant la conduite du récit de notre chanson, voir B. Guidot, “La narration d’Elie de Saint-Gilles: rigueur ou fantaisie?”, communication présentée le 21 avril 2001, dans le cadre de la Kentucky Foreign Language Conference, à Lexington, Kentucky, parue dans La Chevalerie du Moyen Age à nos jours. Mélanges offerts à Michel Stanesco, études réunies par M. Voicu et V. D. Vladulescu (Bucuresti: Editura Universitatii din Bucuresti, 2003), pp. 180-98.

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Aymeri, Hernaut, Bernard, Garin d’Anseüne, Aÿmer, Beuves de Conmarchis et Bertrand. Tous s’étaient réunis pour parler de l’avenir de la chrétienté (2489-500). De ce fait–de même que dans le Couronnement de Louis ou le Siège de Barbastre–nos protagonistes sont amenés à rester des soutiens déterminés de la royauté légitime. Ils entourent Louis dans les moments cruciaux, le font bénéficier de leur force, de leur expérience, de leur notoriété. Aymeri, symbole vivant de cette assistance permanente, est en tête de l’armée royale–tout près de l’oriflamme du souverain–qui s’approche de Sorbrie pour sauver Elie (2556-62). Un modèle de référence implicite La lecture d’Elie de Saint-Gilles8 donne souvent le sentiment que le narrateur, en concevant les réactions de certains de ses personnages, a gardé en mémoire les schémas de pensée propres à la Geste de Guillaume, les structures bien connues de scènes typiques. L’esprit de la famille de Narbonne9 est en arrière-plan de ces phénomènes d’échos narratifs ou de ces effets de miroir. Au début d’Elie, Julien s’irrite vivement contre le manque d’initiative de son fils et l’oppose à ce qu’il faisait dans sa propre jeunesse: “Molt me mervel com fais est ses corages S’il vaura estre, conme destriers en garde, Moine reclus a Noël u a Pasques; Or deüst estre a Paris u a Chartes, Ou en Espaigne u au roi de Navaire, 8

Pour les rapports entre Elie et Aiol, on consultera notamment M. Delbouille, “Problèmes d’attribution et de composition. II. La chanson d’Elie et la geste de Saint Gilles,” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire, 11 (1932), 577-91 et E. Melli, “Nouvelles recherches sur la composition et la rédaction d’Aiol et d’Elie de Saint Gille,” dans Essor et fortune de la chanson de geste dans l’Europe et l’Orient latin: actes du IXe Congrès international de la Société Rencesvals pour l'étude des épopées romanes, Padoue-Venise, 29 août-4 septembre 1982, 2 t. (Modena: Mucchi Editore, 1984), t. I, pp. 131-49. 9 Pour des points de comparaisons et des convergences utiles à une meilleure lecture d’Elie de Saint-Gilles, on peut se reporter à B. Guidot, “Le mythe familial de Narbonne dans la Chanson des Aliscans: une insertion souriante,” Travaux de Littérature, 7 (1994), pp. 9-25 et, du même, “Aélis et Rainouart dans la Chanson des Aliscans: un renouveau oblique de la famille de Narbonne,” Travaux de Littérature, 9 (1996), pp. 21-35.

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Et servist tant Loeÿs le fieus Charle Que de son fief [en] eüst heritage.” (45-51)

Son attitude10 n’est pas sans rappeler les conflits de générations fréquents dans le Cycle de Guillaume et les intentions d’Aymeri dans les Narbonnais, quand il décide d’envoyer ses fils à la conquête de fiefs et leur annonce sans ménagement qu’ils ne pourront plus rester auprès de lui. La comparaison dépréciative du jeune Elie avec un moine reclus se situe dans le cadre de l’opposition classique entre le clerc et le chevalier, mais renvoie aussi à la fureur de Charlemagne contre son fils, dans le Couronnement de Louis:11 “Qui en feroit roi, ce seroit pechiez. Or li ferons toz les cheveus tranchier. Moines sera a Es en cel moustier: Tirra les cordes et sera marreglier, S’avra provende qu’il ne puist mandïer.” (94-98)

Dans cette dernière chanson, Guillaume partage totalement l’avis de son souverain, quoiqu’il soit amené à consacrer sa jeunesse12 au service de la dynastie. Même quand ils se trouvent dans une situation extrêmement difficile, les Narbonnais n’hésitent jamais à révéler, et surtout à revendiquer, leurs origines et à menacer leurs interlocuteurs d’une vengeance exercée par les autres membres de la famille. C’est ce que fait Beuves dans le Siège de Barbastre13 et c’est avec une fierté identique, quelles qu’en soient les conséquences, que le jeune Elie revendique sa religion et donne son identité au Sarrasin Triacle: “Ies tu, va, crestiens de le malvaise geste, U se crois Mahomet qui le siecle governe?

10 La diatribe de Julien se termine par une menace explicite: “Et se je voi que tu ensi le faches / Qu’a honte tort n’a moi n’a mon lignage, / N’enporteras del mien qui .I. seul denier vaille” (76-78). 11 Nous citons le texte de l’édition d’Yvan G. Lepage, Les Rédactions en vers du Couronnement de Louis (Genève: Droz, 1978), rédaction AB. 12 On se rappelle notamment les vers 2187-89 (éd. cit., rédact. AB): “Niés, dist Guillelmes, merci te vueill proier / Quar en grant peine vueill ma jovente user / Ainz que cist rois n’ait ses granz heritez.” 13 Le Siège de Barbastre, éd. B. Guidot (Paris: Champion, 2000), 422-30 et 439-48.

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–Naie, che dist Elye, mes en Dieu le grant mestre. Si sui nés de Saint Gille, de Provence le bele, Fiex Julïen au conte, a le chenue teste.” (384-88)

Elie, en digne émule de Guillaume, incite les Narbonnais à ne pas le secourir.14 Il préfère rester aux mains des Sarrasins, si cela leur permet de s’enfuir: Elyes lor escrie, ensi pris com il fu: “Ber, laissiés le bataille, puis que sui retenu, Miex aim que je seus soie et pris et retenu Que vous autre fuissiés ne jugié ne pendu.” (771-74)

De tels propos, fondés sur le sens du sacrifice, auraient pu être tenus par Aymeri, Guillaume ou l’un de ses frères, dans une autre chanson. Et c’est encore “en Narbonnais” que le héros éponyme, sans se laisser émouvoir, répond sans ambages au chef des larrons qui refuse de lui offrir de la nourriture: “Or ne mangai de pain, bien a tier jor passés, / Or voi chi le mangier garni et apresté; / Certes, g’en mangerai, qui qu’en doie pesser” (1090-92). Le comportement de Rosamonde est comparable à celui de Guibourc dans la Prise d’Orange. En son for intérieur, elle se réjouit que Galopin15 et Elie aient réussi à échapper à leurs poursuivants et forme des vœux pour que le chevalier chrétien soit en mesure de retourner en France: Quant le voit Rosamonde, se conmencha a rire, Et dist entre ses dens, que nus ne l’entent mie: 14

Il est alors prisonnier de Malpriant. A propos de ce personnage insolite dont le rôle est essentiel dans Elie de SaintGilles, on consultera: P. Jonin, “Les Galopin épiques,” dans Société Rencesvals, pour l'étude des épopées romanes: VIe Congrès international, Aix-en-Provence, 29 août-4 septembre 1973: actes (Aix-en-Provence: Université de Provence, 1974), pp. 731-45, Chr. Ferlampin-Acher, “Larron contre Luiton: les métamorphoses de Maugis,” dans Entre épopée et légende: les Quatre Fils Aymon ou Renaut de Montauban, éd. D. Quéruel, 2 t. (Langres-Saints Geosmes: D. Guéniot, 2000), t. 2, pp. 101-18 (l’auteur évoque, entre autres, Galopin dans Elie de Saint Gilles) et surtout Ph. Ménard, “Les noms et qualificatifs des génies et des enchanteurs dans les chansons de geste,” dans Ce nous dist li escris–Che est la verité: Etudes de littérature médiévale offertes à André Moisan par ses collègues et ses amis, Senefiance 45 (Aix-en-Provence: CUER MA, 2000), pp. 179-91. 15

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“De mort et de prison desfenge Dieus Elye! Si le conduie en Franche, sain et sauf et delivre, A Julien son pere, qui le pleure et dessire.” (1326-30)

Elle va spontanément aider celui vers qui elle est attirée, comme Malatrie dans le Siège de Barbastre, comme Nubie dans la Prise de Cordres et de Sebille, et elle s’approche du modèle d’Hermenjart, grande dame qui règne sur la geste depuis Aymeri de Narbonne. Un dernier effet de miroir, sorte de clin d’œil narratif, est fourni par l’originalité analogue de Galopin et Rainouart dans des épisodes comparables, aux accents comiques voire cocasses. Dans les Aliscans, Rainouart, longtemps étranger à l’univers chevaleresque, enfourchait son destrier à l’envers. Dans Elie (1230-41), le héros s’empare d’une monture qu’il offre à son protégé, mais ce dernier la refuse, veut continuer son chemin à pied, en faisant avancer tous les chevaux privés de cavaliers! La présence des Narbonnais, à elle seule, exerce une influence extrêmement bénéfique sur les protagonistes. Leur réputation d’excellents chevaliers joue le rôle de stimulant efficace, avivant les énergies, notamment dans le domaine guerrier. Dès qu’il a pu parler avec Guillaume et ses compagnons, qui sont pourtant, à ce moment, écrasés par le sort contraire, Elie redouble d’ardeur et s’en va pourfendre Rodoant: Vait ferir Rodoan en son escu listé, Desor la bende d’or li a fraint et troé, Le blanc hauberc del dos desmailliet et fausé, Enpoin le par vertu si l’a mort craventé: “Cuivers, che dist Elye, Dieu doinst toi mal dehé! Onques li miens lignages ne pot le tien amer!” (324-29)

De la même façon, Julien, le cœur pourtant chargé d’affliction à cause de la situation critique où se trouve son fils, reprend espoir et confiance en l’avenir, aussitôt qu’il a conscience de l’aide qu’il va recevoir de plusieurs Narbonnais notoires. Cette alliance lui insuffle une solide détermination et un optimisme suffisant pour qu’il réconforte son épouse: “Dame, che dist li dus, mal nous est avenu, C’Elyes nos chiers fieus est pris et retenus, Mais selonc l’aventure nous est bien avenu,

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Quant cil sont escapé, qui tant ont de vertu. Par ceus avrai Elye, ja si bien n’ert tenu.” (858-62)

C’est dans le regard admiratif des autres que se décèle le mieux le rayonnement moral de la famille de Narbonne.16 Que le poète de la chanson couve des yeux ses brillants protagonistes n’a rien d’exceptionnel, même quand le style épique traditionnel vibre d’une émotion et d’une chaleur inhabituelles: “Or chevalcent tout .IV. ensanble li baron, / C’est de la flor de Franche, des millors qui i sont” (639-40), mais lorsque des ennemis de toujours se croient bénis des dieux (c’est-à-dire favorisés par Mahomet), parce qu’ils ont capturé quatre adversaires, parmi les plus prestigieux: “Molt nos est Mahomet fierement guionage, Ces François avons tous desconfis en lor marces. Qui tel eskiec enmaine bien doit estre sor garde: C’est Guillame d’Orenge, qui faissoit les batailles, Il et Bertran ses niés, li cortois et li sages, Et Bernart de Breubant et Hernaut a la barbe.” (260-65)

ou quand ils expriment une crainte quasi respectueuse, l’hommage– fût-il indirect–attire davantage l’attention. L’émir Jossés d’Alixandre est véritablement impressionné par la férocité guerrière de Bernard de Brubant.17 L’hyperbole et la métaphore qui caractérisent d’instinct son sentiment montrent à quel point il est bouleversé: Dist Jossés d’Alixandre: “Cis viex est mervellous! C’est Artus de Bretaigne u Gavain, ses nevos, U Pilate d’enfer u Mordrant l’aïrous, Qui mangüent les homes .V. u .IV. en .I. jor.” (653-56)

Il procède d’ailleurs à d’étranges associations–le roi Arthur, son neveu Gauvain, Pilate et Mordrant–sur lesquelles il convient de dire quelques 16

Dans le même ordre d’idée, Elie associe les Narbonnais à ses émotions les plus fortes, c’est ainsi qu’il regrette vivement leur absence, lorsqu’il exprime son admiration pour Rosamonde: il estime que les Sarrasins paieraient très cher leur hostilité (1472-82). 17 Un peu plus loin dans le récit, Jossés d’Alixandre exprime une admiration analogue, en analysant les conséquences de la fuite des Narbonnais: ils vont revenir avec des troupes importantes; il convient donc de quitter rapidement la région. Les Sarrasins rejoignent leurs bateaux et emmènent Elie, fortement garrotté (873-82).

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mots. La connaissance de l’univers arthurien par un émir sarrasin de l’épopée ne peut être que vaguement mythique et superficielle. Les deux autres métaphores relèvent plutôt d’un fantastique populaire. Dans les chansons de geste–on le sait–le gouverneur de Judée a, tour à tour, été considéré comme “un damné, un diable ou un dieu sarrasin.”18 Il semble que Jossés d’Alixandre songe ici à un diable. Quant à Mordrant,19 il est inconnu de la tradition épique; il est une sorte de projection de l’effroi viscéral du Sarrasin. Contrairement aux rapprochements idéologiques qui existent dans le Siège de Barbastre,20 la séparation entre les mondes chrétien et sarrasin perdure dans Elie de Saint-Gilles; il ne s’agit encore que d’une estime craintive d’un Sarrasin pour un héros narbonnais, on ne saurait toutefois la négliger. Un héroïsme aux teintes pâlies Dans la Geste de Guillaume d’Orange, il arrive qu’un Narbonnais soit assiégé dans une forteresse ou prisonnier de Sarrasins. Il fait alors appel à sa parenté (ascendants, frères ou neveux). La solidarité des membres du lignage joue à plein et les Aymerides convergent vers le lieu de difficulté pour apporter leur concours guerrier. Des armées brillantes et bariolées sont survolées du regard et sobrement caractérisées par l’art épique. Cette scène typique, grandiose, existe dans plusieurs chansons. Dans le Siège de Barbastre, le caractère rituel repose sur la reprise quasi textuelle, par le messager, de la requête adressée par Beuves à Aymeri, Bernard, Guillaume, Hernaut, Garin d’Anseüne et Guibert d’Andrenas. Chaque fois, se trouve rappelée l’aide que Beuves a lui-même apportée à chacun d’eux en diverses occasions. Dans Elie de Saint-Gilles, c’est l’inverse: des Narbonnais, prisonniers en groupe et cruellement traités par des Sarrasins, sont totalement désemparés. Guillaume se lamente sur le sort qui leur est 18

Voir A. Moisan, t. I, vol. 2, p. 783. A. Moisan, t. I, vol. 1, p. 716, écrit simplement: “Mordrant, l’aïrous: anthropophage.” Il ne fournit qu’une seule référence, celle d’Elie de Saint-Gilles, et s’est manifestement appuyé sur le seul contexte pour préciser la personnalité du personnage. 20 Voir B. Guidot, “Le Siège de Barbastre: une idéologie ambiguë,” dans Convergences médiévales: Epopée, lyrique, roman. Mélanges offerts à Madeleine Tyssens, éd. N. Henrard, P. Moreno et M. Thiry-Stassin (Bruxelles: De Boeck Université, 2001), pp. 209-25. 19

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réservé et sa prière est chargée d’un noir pessimisme: “Et Guillaume d’Orenge s’en va molt dementant […] / ‘Dameldieu penst des armes par son conmandement, / Car li cors sont torné a grant juisemant’” (284, 288-89). Passant à proximité du lieu où Rodoant maltraite Guillaume et les siens, Elie ne reconnaît pas les Narbonnais. Il interroge le Sarrasin sur l’identité de ses captifs et s’imagine avoir affaire à des paysans ou à des bourgeois (313-19). L’erreur d’appréciation, significative de la disparition momentanée de tout héroïsme éclatant et triomphant, est singulièrement humiliante pour la famille de Narbonne. Comme le sera plus tard la fuite du groupe devant la puissance guerrière des Sarrasins, malgré l’unité et la qualité du clan (788-94). La fuite n’est pas dans la culture de la famille, même quand on peut la considérer comme stratégique. Il suffit de se souvenir de l’obstination de Vivien; elle lui coûte la vie, mais elle n’est aucunement remise en cause par ses proches, ni dans la Chanson de Guillaume, ni dans Aliscans, ni dans la Chevalerie Vivien. C’est avec des personnages qui n’appartiennent pas à l’élite chevaleresque que les Narbonnais d’Elie de Saint-Gilles sont le plus mal à l’aise, comme l’indiquent les scènes piquantes avec le vilain, avec le portier de Saint-Gilles ou avec Galopin. L’habituelle assurance des héros est alors gagnée par les balbutiements. Dans Aliscans, le vilain se plaignait qu’on lui ait saccagé son champ de fèves, ce qui pouvait être interprété comme une transposition burlesque d’un récit de conquête de fief. Le vilain se trouvait en situation d’infériorité et les chevaliers le considéraient avec une hauteur certes souriante, mais légèrement ironique. Les rôles sont inversés dans Elie. Ce personnage pittoresque, sommairement particularisé, paraît jaillir du néant: “A iceste parolle .I. vilain lor est sors, / Et portoit se cuingnie dont ot ovré le jor” (582-83) et c’est Guillaume qui l’incite à apporter son aide, ce qui est assez étonnant, si l’on s’en réfère à la tradition. Le Narbonnais entre dans les détails, raconte comment ses compagnons et lui ont été faits prisonniers et de quelle manière ils ont été maltraités depuis quinze jours (586-96).21 Le récit est révélateur d’un nouvel état d’esprit et l’homme, peu habitué à 21 On notera que Guillaume, avec un empressement curieux, offre d’abord au vilain de prendre possession des destriers restés sans cavalier, après la bataille. Proposition incongrue, car l’homme serait sans doute bien incapable de trouver un acheteur.

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tant de sollicitude, s’en tient au début à son propre cas. Il présente une sorte de revendication à une juste rétribution, accusant son maître de ne pas le récompenser régulièrement pour le travail qu’il fournit; dès lors, il a bien du mal–dit-il–à élever ses sept enfants. Guillaume comprend qu’il doit faire preuve de patience, ce qui n’est guère sa qualité première. Aucune brusquerie de sa part, mais une profonde et sincère pitié (605-10). Il joue sur le double registre de la générosité (en offrant au vilain les vêtements des morts qu’il pourra vendre) et de l’appel à la dévotion: qu’il veuille bien prier pour l’âme de celui qui a tué tous ces adversaires! Sans doute touché par le ton bienveillant du comte, l’homme se décide à agir: “Quant li vilains entent le consel del baron, / Il a trait son coutel si les delie tous” (611-12). Lors de l’épisode précédemment étudié–marqué au sceau d’une certaine originalité–un humble paysan sort le héros d’une très mauvaise passe. La scène de portier, rituelle dans la chanson de geste en général, conduit une fois encore un prestigieux Narbonnais à une confrontation difficile avec un homme socialement inférieur, mais non dénué de sens moral voire de bon sens. Dans Elie, elle comporte des variantes notoires qui s’écartent des éléments qui ont permis d’établir une épure classique fondée sur des propos et des gestes devenus célèbres. Comme dans d’autres cas, le portier se montre intransigeant et méfiant: il refuse à l’arrivant le droit d’entrée immédiate, exprimant sa crainte de n’avoir affaire qu’à un espion (ce qui provoque la fureur de Guillaume). Contrairement aux habitudes, le vigilant gardien ne se trouve pas en haut des murailles, puisque le difficile dialogue va dégénérer en affrontement mortel. Il n’appartient guère à la tradition épique la mieux établie qu’un homme d’un rang social modeste frappe un chevalier, même si celui-ci a cherché à passer en force. C’est pourtant ce qui arrive: Quant Guillaumes l’entent, le sens quide derver, Il hurte le destrier, qu’il vaut laiens entrer. Li portiers saut en piés, s’a .I. baston conbré, Ferir en vaut Guillaume, le marcis au Cor Nés. Quant li cuens l’a veü, l’escu li a torné, Et li glous i feri qui fu fel et irés, .I. grant piet li fendi del escu noelé. (812-18)

Le châtiment, pour terrible qu’il soit, n’est pas celui que l’on attendait. Au lieu de Guillaume, c’est Bertrand qui saisit l’homme par les cheveux. Il ne lui applique pas le coup fatal asséné derrière la nuque,

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bien connu de la geste depuis le célèbre épisode du Couronnement de Louis, mais précipite sa victime dans les douves où elle se noie. Le héros ne se fait pas justice lui-même, comme si cela était indigne de lui et le portier est condamné à une mort ignoble, lui qui avait frappé avec la seule arme qui lui soit accessible, le bâton. Sa mort est injuste mais personne ne s’en émeut. La scène est ici caractérisée par une tonalité grinçante, alors que dans le modèle, souvent repris dans le Cycle de Guillaume, le héros, conscient de sa supériorité, considérait avec une désinvolture bienveillante l’extrême rigidité de l’homme de garde. Un dernier élément est nouveau par rapport à la structure classique de la scène: le fils du portier vient réclamer l’appui de Julien. Sa plainte, dans un acte de contestation analogue à la revendication du vilain, développe l’argument du mérite non récompensé: A sa vois qu’il ot haute s’escrie par vertu: “Julien de saint Gille, molt t’est mal avenu! Mes peres t’a servi .XIV. ans, voire plus, C’onques ne li donas palefroi ne boin mul; Molt malvais gueredon l’en as hui rendu, C’ a ta porte a trové .I. glouton mescreü, En l’aige l’a jeté desoz le pont la jus.” (829-35)

Il n’est pas entendu et, de fait, ni la chevalerie dans son ensemble ni la famille de Narbonne ne sortent grandies de ce malheureux épisode. La spontanéité brutale du clan narbonnais a ponctuellement perdu la contrepartie qui la rendait sympathique, c’est-à-dire sa naturelle générosité. Galopin, dans un dernier extrait d’Elie que nous voulons examiner, montre avec quel détachement cynique il tient compte d’instructions formelles données par Bernard de Brubant. Le frère de Guillaume, au cœur d’un affrontement, est parvenu à mettre Macabré hors d’état de nuire, mais sans le tuer. Il confie provisoirement l’émir à Galopin, avec mission de le surveiller jusqu’à son retour, à la fin des combats. Tout laisse à penser que son ordre sera suivi à la lettre, d’autant que Galopin lui promet de jeter le guerrier sarrasin dans l’immonde prison de Sorbrie.22 Aussitôt après, avec une précision toute technique et sans

22

Elle contiendrait, selon Galopin, crapauds et couleuvres qui lui mangeront les flancs! (2638-41)

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la moindre transition, ce qui montre la froide détermination du petit larron, le récit raconte comment Macabré est exécuté: Lors a drechiet amont le grant baston quarré, Par mi outre le teste a feru Macabré, Le teste li pechoie, li oilg en sont volé, Et li cors estendi, l’ame en portent malfé. (2642-45)

Dès lors, la narration survole les événements et, après avoir mentionné en deux vers la conquête de la vile par les troupes du roi Louis (264647), se consacre à Bernard de Brubant qui vient réclamer son prisonnier. La scène ne va pas manquer de sel, car le petit larron ne répond rien, mais agit tranquillement, avec désinvolture et un cruel humour noir. Il saisit le cadavre par les pieds et le traîne jusque devant le Narbonnais qui exprime son étonnement avec un vocabulaire choisi: “‘Amis, che dist Bernart, tu le m’as conraé. / Il n’est pas ore iteus quant le t’oi conmandé’” (2653-54). Galopin ne se démonte pas pour autant: selon lui, Macabré ne voulait pas avancer et l’aurait méprisé à cause de sa petite taille! Séduit par un tel esprit de répartie, Bernard laisse libre cours à sa joie (2657). Il ne perd pas la face, parce qu’il a su s’adapter à une situation insolite, toutefois force est de constater que Bernard, lors de cette aventure, est dépourvu de l’une des composantes de l’esprit de Narbonne: la capacité naturelle à imposer ses vues. Les petites gestes épiques ont leur vie propre et leur originalité, mais elles entretiennent aussi des relations plus ou moins étroites avec les Cycles de premier plan. C’est ainsi que la narration d’Elie de SaintGilles accueille certains des membres de la prestigieuse famille de Narbonne, à la suite d’aventures qui les amènent à croiser le chemin du héros éponyme. Leur importance ne se limite pas à l’influence qu’ils exercent sur les événements. Leur rayonnement personnel, leur philosophie de l’existence imprègnent l’univers mental de la chanson et structurent les rapports des personnages sur le plan social et dans le domaine idéologique. Dans un premier temps, le lecteur de la Geste de Guillaume d’Orange n’est donc ni surpris ni dérouté, pourtant quelques scènes significatives de l’œuvre lui donnent le sentiment étrange d’être en présence de Narbonnais qui, momentanément privés de leur héroïsme protecteur qui les éloignait de l’humanité moyenne, ont perdu leurs repères spirituels. Descendus de leur piédestal, ils

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peuvent être bousculés par les traverses d’un destin contraire, tributaires de comparses qui ne les considèrent plus comme des êtres d’exception et parfois les traitent avec une certaine désinvolture.

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EDWARD A. HEINEMANN

More on Speech Presentation in the Charroi de Nîmes: In Which Otran and Harpin Begin to Speak he high frequency of verbs of speech makes them a good subject for studying patterns in the traditional language of the chanson de geste,1 but high frequency and banality go hand in hand. Indeed, what could be more banal in a story than the narrator=s telling us that a character begins to speak: “Dist li païens, Sire dist il, Et cil responnent”? And so it is something of a surprise to realize that verses like “Looÿs sire dit Guillelmes li prouz” (182) in the Charroi de Nîmes are a bit more than a banal laisse introduction; they are, as well, a leitmotiv marking the opening of a reproach throughout Episode 1 of the poem.2 Louis’s replies to William, principally on the model of verse 73, “Sire Guillelmes dist Looÿs le ber,” likewise appear to play a thematic and structural role, and there may be a function in the distribution of the hemistich Et dist Guillelmes, points which I intend to examine at some time in the near future. The verses in which the narrator tells us that Otran or Harpin begins to speak form an intricate network of cross-references and could with little exaggeration be described as the key structural element in the organization of the scene in which William and his convoy enter the city of Nîmes, laisses XLV-XLVIII, and an important one in the following scene, the souring of relations between the supposed merchants and the Saracens, laisses XLIX-LII. In the three poems of the kernel cycle of William of Orange, the Couronnement de Louis, the Charroi de Nîmes, and the Prise

1

See my “Fréquence lexicale et rythmes du vers épique dans les présentations de discours,” in Dominique Boutet, Marie-Madeleine Castellani, Françoise Ferrand and Aimé Petit, eds., Plaist vos oïr bone cançon vallant? Mélanges offerts à François Suard, Collection UL3, Travaux et Recherches (Lille: Université Charles-de-Gaulle Lille 3, 1999), pp. 387-94. 2 “Patterns in the Presentation of Discourse in the Charroi de Nîmes,” to appear in Olifant, proceedings of the colloquium “Romance Epic in the Americas,” Baltimore, Maryland (October 5-6, 2001), 22 (1998-2003), pp. 73-87.

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d=Orange,3 a noun designates the brothers Otran and Harpin a total of forty-three times, thirty-five in the Charroi and eight in the Prise.4 In twenty-one of those occurrences, all in the Charroi, the noun is subject of its clause,5 and in twelve of those cases it is subject of a verb of speech, one of them referring to a speech rather than introducing it (for these twelve, see Appendix 1a). Seven of the twelve verses begin with the words Li rois, and the hemistich Li rois Otrans occurs in two other verses (Appendix 1b). In sum, six verses show the pattern {H1 subject: Li rois Otrans (or Harpins) + H2: verb of speech} (Appendix 1c), all appearing in the first and second scenes of the capture of the city (see Appendix 2). And these six verses point us toward a number of fruitful questions involving a variety of intricately interrelated metric elements: cohesion, length, position, and echo. The intricacy of the material we are about to examine precludes almost any orderly analysis. At nearly every point in the Charroi, allusions, many of them multiple, send us in a variety of directions. Consequently, we shall make a series of loosely connected observations leading to extended commentary on the ramifications and anticipating and returning to points frequently as we go along. We 3 My textbase uses the vulgate version as found in the following editions: Yvan G. Lepage, Les Rédactions en vers du «Couronnement de Louis» (Geneva: Droz, 1978); Duncan McMillan, Le Charroi de Nîmes, Chanson de geste du XIIe siècle, 2e éd. rev. et cor. (Paris: Klincksieck, 1978); Claude Régnier, Les Rédactions en vers de la «Prise d’Orange» (Paris: Klincksieck, 1966). For the rhythms of the genre, see my Art métrique de la chanson de geste, Essai sur la musicalité du récit (Geneva: Droz, 1993). 4 There is one such occurrence of frere (PO 575) out of 43 and none out of 8 of freres, although in CN XLIII 1081 freres is used to describe, as opposed to designating, the two kings. There is one of roi in CN 1249; of the 16 occurrences of roi or rois designating them, in only the phrase roi de la cité (CN 1249) does it occur unaccompanied by the name of the king. There is one of Sarrazins (CN 1341): 38 occurrences of sarrazin, 6 of sarrazine, 37 of sarrazins. There are two of paiens (CN 1137 and 1245): 53 occurrences of paien, 20 of paiens, 1 of païens. Neither Turc nor Escler is used for them: 4 Tur, 1 Turc, 19 Turs; 15 Escler, 4 Esclers.Thirty-eight times their names, either alone or in redundant designations such as rois Otrans designate them: 9 Harpin, 5 Harpins, 11 Otran, 8 Otrans, 3 Otrant, 2 Otranz. The two men have no role in CL, and the mentions of them in PO refer to them as William’s victims. Although these numbers have little bearing on the present analysis, they may be of some interest as an approximate portrayal of the lexicon designating these two characters. 5 5 Harpins, 3/11 Otran, 8 Otrans, 2 Otranz, 2/20 paiens, 1/37 Sarrazins.

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begin by sketching very rapidly the narrative organization of the passage in which the verses in question appear, laisses XLV-LII, the first two scenes in the capture of the city of Nîmes. Examination of the ways in which the poem organizes the story line into the various divisions would require a lengthy article in itself.6 Here we shall simply take as a given the grouping of laisses into scenes shown in Appendix 2. In particular, we assume the division of the episode into two chapters and of Chapter 2 into a number of scenes, of which the first two interest us. At the end of our analysis, the reader should have something of a feel for the rhythms which give shape to these divisions. After the strongly marked narrative halt in laisse XLIV, the narrative advance resumes in the first laisse of Scene 1 (XLV), a fairly short one in which the supposed merchants enter the city and meet the two pagan kings. The scene then organizes itself as a diminuendo, laisse XLVI being markedly longer than XLVII, which in turn is perceptibly longer than XLVIII. The diminuendo is followed in Scene 2 by something of an explosion, both in content and in length, XLIX being the second longest laisse of the poem and the point at which the first overtly hostile act occurs, the killing of the two lead oxen. The ebb and flow of laisse length in the rest of Scene 2 (L-LII, in which the pagans become insulting and William begins to lose his temper) pales in contrast to this climactic burst.

6

For a schematic breakdown of the Charroi into scenes, see pp. 28-30 of “L’art métrique de la chanson de geste: Un exemple particulièrement réussi, le Charroi de Nîmes, et l’apport de l’informatique,” Littérales, Cahiers du département de français, Paris-X Nanterre, 14 (1994), La Chanson de Geste: Écriture, Intertextualités, Translations, pp. 9-39. The breakdown of the story into segments is not devoid of subjectivity and invites disagreement. Compare the analyses of D. D. R. Owen, “Structural Artistry in the Charroi de Nîmes,” Forum for Modern Language Studies, 14 (1978), 47-60 and of Claude Lachet, Le Charroi de Nîmes, Chanson de geste du Cycle de Guillaume d’Orange, (Paris: Gallimard, 1999). Owen (p. 47) divides the poem in two almost equal halves at verse 760; Lachet (p. 12) sees the story dividing into three principal segments, the conflict between William and Louis (14-760), the expedition (761-1069), and the capture of the city (1070-1486). Basing my analysis on narrative rhythms deriving from laisse, incident, echo, intonation patterns, I agree with both but place the division between episodes between laisses XXVIII and XXIX, at verses 781-782 (see pp. 10-20, and in them 14-17 for these particular divisions, of “Art […] particulièrement réussi”).

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In Appendix 1c we have the set of verses which figure both in Appendix 1a and in 1b and which meet a third criterion, namely that, unlike verse 1312 (found in both 1a and 1b), the verse introduces a direct discourse. The first hemistiches read Li rois Otrans/Harpins (Appendix 1b). The king in the first hemistich is subject of a verb of speech found in the second (1a). The very fact of the interrelation of the three appendices gives a glimpse of the intricacy of the Charroi: the components of a given detail recur both together (repeating the detail) and separately (in combinations which link to other details). Thus the following three rather simplistic observations about three of the six verses in Appendix 1c lead us in many fruitful directions: 1) Laisses XLVII and XLVIII open with parallel introductions (1154 and 1185; see Appendix 3a). 2) The verbal echo between these two introductions is not as strong as the outright word-for-word repetition between 1185 and 1317. 3) Unlike the other two verses, 1317 is not the first verse in its laisse. 1) The parallel introductions of XLVII and XLVIII It is fairly clear in Appendix 3a that, despite a measure of verbal variation, these two laisses open in parallel.7 Although there is some similarity of content between the two laisses, however, in that both continue the conversation between William and the two kings, a number of fairly clear differences make themselves felt. The initial parallelism serves to emphasize divergence. As far as content goes, the two are neither strikingly similar nor dramatically different. The subject of the conversation differs, in XLVII Otran asking the supposed merchant to be generous with his wares, and, in XLVIII, how he has come by this wealth of merchandise. It is true that Otran=s question leads to an answer from William, but there is little play of one topic against the other. The answer in XLVII is rich in double-entendre (“De mon avoir vos ferai tant doner / Toz li plus forz i avra que porter” 1167-1168), and in XLVIII the supposed merchant rattles off a wild enumeration of the 7 I have put laisse XLVI out of order so as to emphasize the play of resemblances and variations in the complete set of occurrences. To begin, we are interested in only XLVII and XLVIII.

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places to which his wanderings have taken him. It is things other than raw content which give shape to these two laisses. One of those things is an aspect of content: the number of narrative components, in this case questions and answers. XLVII contains two speeches by the pagans, two answers from William, a question and answer between William and his men, and a short conclusion in the narrator=s voice. In XLVIII, Otran asks a question, William answers, and a short comment from the pagans concludes the laisse. The number of speeches diminishes markedly from one laisse to the next, and, in consequence, as these two laisses diminish in length, they increase in internal cohesion, a point to which we shall return, for it is one of the components of intensification in the scene. It is in the two conclusions that the divergence of subject matter occurs. The assembled pagans conclude laisse XLVIII with a remark the banality of which seems to express their bedazzlement at William=s supposed travels. Laisse XLVII, on the other hand, concludes with an anticipatory aside: William verifies that all his wagons have entered the city, and the narrator assures us that they are taking position in such a way as to give themselves a military advantage. Whereas the conclusion to XLVII has us thinking about a coming battle, that of XLVIII shows us William=s sheer joy at pulling off his disguise and the image of pagans almost struck dumb with amazement in response. Thus the fairly clear echo tying the opening of XLVII to that of XLVIII leads to two different but fundamental sides of the story: the heroic in the more or less ominous anticipation of coming battle, and the burlesque in William=s exuberant play-acting.8 And, we may note, the intensification in the scene tends to emphasize comedy over heroism. 2) The identical wording of verses 1185 and 1317 in contrast to 1154

8

An example both of the play-acting and the subtlety on the subject of which I invite the reader’s skepticism is found in verse 1136 of laisse XLVI. In the first hemistich, William uses a four-syllable vocative, Biau tres dolz sire at the beginning of his speech, as if he is being particularly obsequious. Of the 26 verses in the three poems in which beau and sire appear in the same hemistich, only PO 523, Beau sire chiers, goes so far as to add another adjective to the formula of greeting.

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Whereas proximity (successive laisses) and length (the echo comprises two verses) strengthen the cross-reference between 1154 and 1185, compensating (or allowing) for variation in word choice, not only are 1185 and 1317 separated by the 110 verses and wild activity of laisse XLIX, they also belong to different scenes. Further, a point to which we shall return under item 3, position, 1185 is the first verse of the laisse and 1317 is the third. The intricacy of the play of variables against constants in this seemingly insignificant detail illustrates two aspects of that play in the Charroi: the patterns of resemblance and difference between occurrences, which I have called formules de répétition (Art métrique, pp. 231-235), can be quite complex; and the play entails association with other echoes as well as wording of the echo. 2a) Resemblance and difference between occurrences: wording The fundamental pattern of an echo, A A= B, assumes no expectation of recurrence. The first occurrence, A, triggers nothing until the close resemblance of the first recurrence, A=; thereafter, being sensitized to recurrence, we notice the resemblance in B despite its involving a greater degree of variation. In the echoes under consideration (Appendix 3a), however, the play of variable against constant is considerably more intricate. The two core occurrences, the parallel introductions to XLVII-XLVIII, display a fair measure of variation in word choice. In the first verse, the second hemistiches of 1154 and 1185 are inchoatives but worded differently. The relative clauses in the second verse (1155 and 1186) are roughly synonymous and occupy the same final syllables. Both the first and the second verse of the echo occur in an exact repetition elsewhere: XLVII 1155 is repeated in XLIX 1217 (the fourth entry in Appendix 3a), and XLVIII 1185, as we have been observing, appears in L 1317 (Appendices 1c and 3c). The word-for-word repetition between XLVII 1155 and XLIX 1217 links one verse of one core occurrence (we might call it an A occurrence) to a less perceptible (a B) occurrence. (We shall return under item 2b, the weave of echoes, to the recurrence between XLVIII 1185 and L 1317.) Changing perspective and using letters to indicate the order of appearance, looking at the echo as a whole rather than at a single verse, and broadening our scope to include the first, divergent

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occurrence, in XLVI, we could describe the four laisses XLVI-XLIX as A B B= C. The word-for-word repeated verses tie B to C (XLVII 1155 = XLIX 1217) and B= to yet another, a distant D (XLVIII 1185 = L 1317), distant both because it belongs to still another laisse and because it occurs alone, without the second component of the echo, or rather in combination with a different echo (item 2b, below).9 The order in which I have placed the echoes in Appendix 3a emphasizes the resemblance between XLVII and XLVIII in contrast to the greater degree of variation in XLVI and XLIX. As the underlining in the latter two shows, however, the two framing occurrences use elements found in the parallel introductions of XLVII and XLVIII, and we can remark here that the form of presenting Otran=s speeches crystallizes in XLVII and XLVIII, contributing to the movement of intensification in XLVI-XLVIII which we have already noted and to which we shall return in detail below when we review the flow of the scene. The components appear separately from each other in XLVI, they crystallize in XLVII-XLVIII, and then XLIX amplifies them considerably as part of the general amplification in that laisse. That neither of these two framing occurrences appears in initial position of the laisse will bring us back to both when we consider position in the laisse and to XLVI as an aspect of the diffuseness of that laisse. Two second-hemistich constructions require further examination: en apela and the inchoative. The first two entries in Appendix 1c show the pattern {en apela + 2 syllables} in the second hemistich. In fact, the two hemistiches differ by only two phonemes, for they appear in the same laisse. We have already noted the diminishing number of speeches in XLVII-XLVIII and remarked on the contribution to the progressive intensification of Scene 1. Under the current heading, our interest in the resemblance of these two hemistiches has to do with the elaborate crystallization of the two-verse opening of a speech. Verses 1120 and 1134 establish a 9

Other examples of this pattern, in which a single component of a developed echo appears elsewhere in isolation: the hemistich En mi sa voie in William’s two meetings with Bertrand (I 31-34 = XVI 415-418) which occurs in slightly modified form when William meets the vilain in XXXIII 875 (Qu’an mi la voie); the hemistich Encore ne sai in the strongly marked echo finishing off the overture (/I-II 80-87 = 88-93) and then reappearing in the conclusion to the reproach scene (IX 260); the hemistich Dex di(s)t li quens, which occurs in the same echo (second occurrence Dex dit Guillelmes) and then in IV 112.

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potential pattern A A=. The next two speech presentations (Appendix 1a) disrupt the pattern, which, however, resumes at the introduction of the next laisse, verse 1154, in a B form, changing the construction of the second hemistich to use the infinitive apeler instead of the preterit apela. This fleeting similarity in the recurrence of a single word, and a common enough one at that, more akin to the uncertainty of déjà vu than to a clearly perceptible echo two or more verses in length, is quite characteristic of the Charroi. The echo which begins to take shape in laisse XLVI offers an A form in 1120 and 1134; verse 1154, opening XLVII, retains the verb apeler from the A form but puts it into an inchoative construction, which then becomes the norm and crystallizes in the hemistich li conmença a dire. The A form is the preface, the B the main work.10 The inchoative appears, in addition to the three speech presentations of XLVII, XLVIII and L, in XLIX 1207 (the last entry in Appendix 3a), where it governs the infinitive regarder. At first blush, it would seem that 1207 does not belong to the echo, but the entire passage 1207-17 is an amplified lead-in to Otran=s speech. The separation of the inchoative from the verbs of speech (both in distance, seven intervening verses, and in grammatical construction) is part of the amplification, just like the redoubling of the verb of speech into two verses, 1215 (aresoner) and 1216 (apeler).11 In verse 1207 the inchoative construction conveys an anticipation of speech because of past association, an anticipation which remains in abeyance for another ten verses. The details we have examined under this heading show an extraordinary complexity in the play in wording of variables against constants. The construction en apela establishes itself as a component of the echo, fades as the inchoative takes its place, and then reappears 10

The A B B’ formula is a simple example of crystallization. In Appendix 3b, the A form in 1206 puts Guillelmes in the first hemistich along with the 2-syllable adverb conment. The B form (1316, 1353) fills the first hemistich with the adverb confetement and moves Guillelmes to the second hemistich. 11 We may well wonder what to make of the recurrence, not just of the verb but of the construction Si l’en apele. This occurrence is both disguised (by its displacement to the first hemistich, which it fills) and fairly banal. Of 36 occurrences of the form apele in the textbase, over half (19 in the first hemistich and 1 in the second) appear in the construction en apele. I see it as belonging to the network of cross-references but at the very limit of perceptibility (or even beyond).

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in an elaborate, amplified combination with it. The inchoative enters into the presentation of speech, acquires an association with it, and then dissipates it by introducing regarder instead of the verb of speech found eight verses later. The two core occurrences of Otran=s speech presentation (XLVII 1154-1155 = XLVIII 1185-1186) show differences of wording, but one verse from each is repeated exactly elsewhere. The first of those exact recurrences ties the core to a framing occurrence (XLVII 1155 = XLIX 1217), which happens to be in the next scene. The second (XLVIII 1185 = L 1317) links our echo to another one, bringing us to the next item. 2b) Weave of echoes together: Varying associations among echoes Just as a particular construction, phrase, or word will weave in and out of an echo, one echo will weave in and out of associations with other echoes. An underlined hemistich in Appendix 3a on which we have not yet commented, the first occurrence of the verse Tiacre frere (XLVI 1138) introduces a question about his merchandise, and the next three, an oath of sincerity in which the first and third occurrences are identical (A B A=). As we see by looking at the first entry in Appendix 3b, the amplified occurrence of the presentation of Otran=s speech in laisse XLIX (Appendix 3a) appears in combination with another echo, the jongleur=s call to the audience. The one echo, presentation of Otran=s speech, occurs in XLVI-XLIX and the other, the jongleur=s call, in XLIX, L, and LIII; the co-occurrence in XLIX serves to launch the second echo. (And the reader will of course recall the two other occurrences of this second echo in I 1-3 and XLIV 10851090.) Similarly, the second occurrence of the jongleur=s call (Appendix 3b, second entry) serves in L to launch the echo which subsequently becomes the introduction to laisse LI (Appendix 3c). Both XLIX and L open with a double introduction which binds two echoes together. The weave of echoes is the fundamental characteristic of the three short laisses in Scene 2. Laisse L associates Oyez segnor, our speech presentation, and Diva vilains. LI joins our speech presentation, Diva vilains, and William=s muttered threat. And LII repeats William=s muttered threat. No two laisses of this set contain the same

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combination of echoes, but only the second half of L is not built on echo.12 Wording weaving through echoes and echoes weaving associations among themselves combine with yet a third weave, which brings us to the third of our original observations. 3) Position in the laisse We noted that in the series 1154 = 1185 = 1317 the first two verses open the laisse and the third does not. Speech presentation functions as a laisse introduction through most of Scenes 1 and 2, opening XLVII, XLVIII, LI and LII (William speaks) and following immediately upon the jongleur=s call at the beginning of XLIX and L. Taking a slightly different perspective from that of the previous section, we see the speech presentations at the beginning of XLIX and L as occurring in not-quite-initial position, or second in a double initial position, a variation on the dominant mode of initial position. One component of echo, subject to being either a variable or a constant, is the location within the laisse of any particular occurrence. Scenes 2 and 3 are linked by the echoing speech presentations in initial position of the laisse, and XLIX and L offer a variant form with their double-initial position. Position is also a component of meaning, as we saw in the contrast between laisses XLVII and XLVIII, slowly developing from the parallel introductions, through bodies diverging primarily in cohesiveness, to the conclusions opposing the two sides of the story. In contrast to the unifying initial position through the better part of the two scenes, the two occurrences of the echo in laisse XLVI, verses 1120 and 1134, figure in distinctly internal position of the laisse, as do the other two occurrences of presentation of their speech in that laisse, 1137 and 1144 (Appendix 1a). The internal position, the recurrence within the same laisse, and the variation in wording in XLVI, the diffuseness of the laisse, all bring us to a new subject, one to which we have alluded above, namely the flow of the story: concentration and 12

There is a similarity in the way the hemistich Non ferai sire weaves through William’s entries into the palace and his refusals of unworthy offers: see my “Le jeu d’échos associés à l’hémistiche Non ferai sire dans le Charroi de Nîmes,” Romania, 112 (1991), 1-17.

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intensification in Scene 1, followed by explosive amplification at the beginning of Scene 2, a topic to which we shall turn after a partial schematization of the echoes at which we have been looking. It is no doubt an understatement to assert that the patterns we have been examining are intricate, and I fear I have sorely tried the patience of any reader who has followed me this far. Keeping track of the threads of the analysis, however, matters less than recognizing the effects in the poemBfeeling the musicality of the narrative rhythms and the elusive allusiveness. The following rebarbative table sums up five components of Otran=s speech presentations and points out associations to which we have barely alluded (v. 1216: 3a3, apele) or not at all (2, pronoun). P. (Position): 1. Li rois: 2. Pronoun: 3. Verb of speech: 4. Inchoative:

P1a. Initial 1a. Otrans 2a. l=en 3a1. apela 4a. prist

/XLVI/ 1120 /XLVI/ 1134 XLVII/ 1154 XLVIII/ 1185 /XLIX/ 1207 /XLIX/ 1216 /L/ 1317 LI/ 1327

P1b. Initial bis 1b. Harpins 2b. li 3a2. apeler 4b. conmença P2 P2 P1a P1a P1b P2 P1b P1a

1a 1a 1a 1a 1a B 1a 1b

P2. Internal 2c. le 3a3. apele 3b1. dire 3b2. a dit

2a 2a 2a 2b 2c 2a 2b 2b

3a1 3a1 3a2 3b1 B 3a3 3b1 3b2

B B 4a 4b 4a B 4b B

Whether or not we wish to consider verse 1216 part of a poetic pattern, it illustrates the extent to which the Charroi challenges our perceptivity. Both constants and variables function across a broad range from the obvious to the will o= the wisp and, perhaps, beyond. We noted in our rapid summary at the outset that the story comes to a complete halt in XLIV. The narrator calls to the audience and then wanders off into a somewhat irrelevant description of the city of Nîmes. The new chapter begins with the resumption of narrative advance in XLV, simply getting the disguised Frenchmen from the gates of the city to the marketplace, where William pays the guionnache to ensure his protection by city officials. The laisse is short, as if getting a few bits of necessary information out of the way in order to return to the fun, which begins with the series of three decreasing laisses at the heart of the scene.

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Laisse XLVI, the longest of the scene, opens the dialogue between Otran and William. The pagan king asks to have the head merchant pointed out, and then he addresses a series of questions to him: where he is from, whether he has family, what is his name, what merchandise he is transporting. He is making his acquaintance with the merchant Tiacre. These rather leisurely preliminaries conclude with an enumeration of fabulous merchandise which sets the Saracens to laughing in gleeful anticipation, and the acceleration of the action from here corresponds to the shortening of laisse length. The number of speeches crammed into this laisse, both with and without a verb of speech to introduce them, is considerably greater than we have noted so far. In addition to the four verses in Appendix 1a, speeches begin without presentation in 1122, 1124, 1125, 1136, 1139, 1147 and 1148, and two other speech presentations occur: the pagans as a group in 1131 and William in 1145. The short back-and-forth exchanges make for a choppy, diffuse laisse. In the next two laisses, the number of speeches diminishes while their length increases and the length of the laisse decreases, thereby markedly increasing the internal cohesion of the laisse. This concentration takes place alongside the crystallization of the echo presenting Otran=s speeches. The elements of the echo are scattered in laisse XLVI, the echo is diffuse, the speeches are numerous and short. This is, after all, the laisse in which the two kings first make the acquaintance of the supposed merchant. In XLVII the construction {l=en apela + 2 syllables} drops from the echo, and in XLVIII apeler drops as well. The inchoative becomes a component of the echo, taking in XLVIII the form it will have in L. In the interval between the crystallized form and laisse L, the echo occurs in a new form, amplified rather than diffuse as in XLVI, introducing a new element, the Oyez seignor echo as Part 1 of a twopart laisse introduction (the two-part introduction will repeat in L), and recalling the construction prist a from XLVII but, as an element of amplification, in combination with an infinitive other than a verb of speech. The amplification, of course, contributes to the highlighting of the frenzied activity in the laisse: the risk of William=s being recognized and his quick-witted escape, the Saracens= realization that the convoy is interfering with their dinner, the messengers scurrying back and forth, the slaughter of the two lead oxen, William=s promise

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to avenge their deaths, and at the very end of the laisse an ominous gathering of pagans around our hero. Then the recurrence of our echo in the introductions of L and LI creates a bond between the two scenes. Of the eight laisses, five begin with one form or another of our echo, and a sixth (XLVI) puts the elements of the echo into place. Of the two remaining laisses, one (XLV) gets the action under way, neither of the pagan kings having yet made an appearance (although at the end of XLIII they were headed toward the marketplace), and the other (LII) is given over entirely to William. Through an elaborate weave of echo and laisse, the presentation of Otran=s speeches forms the framework of Scene 1 and sets its rhythm, then carrying over into a different role and a different weave in Scene 2. Our analysis casts a curious light on Appendix 1c, where the only verse to name Harpin is 1327, the first of laisse LI. It is twentiethcentury scribes such as McMillan and Lachet who have introduced the apparently lesser brother in this verse. It is true that the modern remanieurs follow the story line (in 1367-1368 William names Harpin as the author of the act performed in laisse LI) and the example of mss C and D, but all the witnesses to the vulgate version of the story put Otran in verse 1327. Was the author of the vulgate obeying the pull of the echo in writing verse 1327? I entertain the hope of someday finding evidence suggesting that the remanieur of the vulgate was the author of genius responsible for the masterpiece we call the Charroi de Nîmes. The vulgate version of the kernel cycle shows brilliant use of echo where D’s use is flat and C seems to avoid it. We have here an echo introduced by the remanieur at the expense of the story line. Was this momentary lapse one of creation or of copying? Whatever the answer, although it certainly is not the case that Otran or Harpin open their mouths to utter words of great import (Appendix 1a), it clearly does seem true that in verses in which Otran and Harpin begin to speak, they do so to great effect (Appendix 1c).

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Initial, medial, and final positions in the laisse are indicated by the slash used with the number of the laisse: LI/ is the beginning of laisse LI, /LI/ internal, /LI the end.

1a. Otran or Harpin, subject of a verb of speech in the same verse (12 occurrences) Li rois Otran Li rois Otrans Dist li paiens Respont Otrans Li rois Otrans Li rois Otrans Dist li paiens Et dist Harpins Li rois Harpins Li rois Otrans Li rois Harpins Et dist Otranz

l=en apela avant l=en apela errant c=est non de pute gent bien vos est marcheant l=en prist a apeler li conmença a dire molt avez fet que ber un grant maill m=aportez lor avoit conmandé li conmença a dire li a dit par contraire de ce ne sai que die

* /XLVI/ 1120 * /XLVI/ 1134 /XLVI/ 1137 /XLVI/ 1144 * XLVII/, 1154 * XLVIII/, 1185 /XLIX/ 1245 /XLIX/ 1271 /XLIX/ 1312 * /L/, 1317 * LI/, 1327 /LVII/ 1448

1b. Occurrences of the hemistich Li rois Otrans (or Harpins) (9 occurrences) Li rois Otrans Li rois Otran Li rois Otrans Li rois Otrans Li rois Otrans Li rois Otran Li rois Harpins Li rois Otrans Li rois Harpins

qui en oï parler l=en apela avant l=en apela errant l=en prist a apeler li conmença a dire le prist a regarder lor avoit conmandé li conmença a dire li a dit par contraire

/XLIII/ 1079 * /XLVI/ 1120 * /XLVI/ 1134 * XLVII/, 1154 * XLVIII/, 1185 /XLIX/ 1207 /XLIX/ 1312 * /L/, 1317 * LI/, 1327

1c. The six verses found in both 1a and 1b and marked with an asterisk (the seventh, XLIX 1317, is an indirect discourse) Li rois Otran Li rois Otrans Li rois Otrans Li rois Otrans Li rois Otrans Li rois Harpins

l=en apela avant l=en apela errant l=en prist a apeler li conmença a dire li conmença a dire li a dit par contraire

/XLVI/, 1120 /XLVI/, 1134 XLVII/, 1154 XLVIII/, 1185 /L/, 1317 LI/, 1327

SPEECH IN THE CHARROI DE NÎMES

2. Graph of laisse lengths, XLII-LII Episode 2: Conquest of the fief Chapter 1: First Stage of the March Toward Spain $$$ Scene 3: Second Stage of the March Toward Spain XLII 23 ››››››››››››››››››››››› XLIII 15 ››››››››››››››› Interruption by the jongleur XLIV 16 ›››››››››››››››› Chapter 2: Capture of the City Scene 1: Arrival at Nîmes XLV 11 ››››››››››› XLVI 42 ›››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››› XLVII 31 ››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››› XLVIII 20 ›››››››››››››››››››› Scene 2: Matters Begin to Turn Sour XLIX 110 ›››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››››› L 12 ›››››››››››› LI 17 ››››››››››››››››› LII 8 ›››››››› $$$

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3. Relevant echoes in the passage 3a. Otran makes acquaintance with Tiacre Li rois Otrans Tiacre frere

l=en prist a apeler par la loi que tenez

XLVII/ 1154 Li rois Otrans 1155 Tiacre frere

Li rois Otrans Conme avez non Biau tres dolz sire Dist li paiens Tiacre frere

l=en apela errant /XLVI/ 1134 beaus amis marcheant 1135 Tiacre voirement 1136 c=est non de pute gent 1137 quel avoir vas menant 1138

Li rois Otran Quant il l=oï Si a veü Lors li remenbre Fill Aymeri Quant il le vit Trestoz li sans Li cuers li faut Cortoisement Si l=en apele Tiacre frere

li conmença a dire XLVIII/ 1185 par la loi dont tu vives 1186 le prist a regarder /XLIX/ 1207 sifaitement parler 1208 la boce sor le nes 1209 de Guillelme au cort nes 1210 de Nerbonne sor mer 1211 a pou n=est forsené 1212 del cors li est müez 1213 a pou qu=il n=est pasmez 1214 l=en a aresonez 1215 con ja oïr porrez 1216 par la loi que tenez 1217

3b. Three of the jongleur=s calls to the audience Oiez seignor por Deu de maiesté Conment Guillelmes fu le jor avisé Oez seignor Confaitement

Dex vos croisse bonté Guillelmes a ovré

XLIX/ 1205 Oez seignor 1206 Confetement

que Dex vos beneïe Guillelmë ataïnent

L/ 1315 1316

LIII/ 1352 1353

3c. One of the parallelisms in laisses L-LII Li rois Otrans li conmença a dire Diva vilains Damedex te maldie Por quoi n=as ore ta mesnie vestie

/L/ 1317 Li rois Harpins 1318 Diva vilains 1319 Por quoi as or

li a dit par contraire LI/ 1327 Mahomez mal te face 1328 si granz sollers de vache 1329

DAVID F. HULT

From Perceval to Galahad: A Missing Link? edieval French Literature conceals many mysteries, both sacred and profane–fragmentation, pseudonymy, anonymity, misattribution–due as much to the vagaries and fragilities of manuscript transmission as to the frequent inscrutability of the medieval author. None of these mysteries, perhaps, is more spectacular that that which surrounds the immense prose cycle of romances usually known as the Lancelot-Grail. What Jean Frappier, following Albert Pauphilet, called some years ago the “enigma” of the LancelotGrail cycle referred to a work that by its very size, scope, diversity and intricacy seemed to defy any attempt to situate its creation in the hands of a single author while at the same time demonstrating a cohesion that could not be the result of mere chance, such as would be the case if a scribe copied formerly discrete romances in sequence to form a narrative continuum (as occurred for instance in the biographically organized chanson de geste manuscript compilations).1 The most important intervention (though not the earliest) in the discussion of the Lancelot-Grail’s authorship is undoubtedly that of Ferdinand Lot, who in his 1918 Etude sur le Lancelot en Prose, made an argument which is still considered by many to be the definitive statement on the work’s authorship. As he announces his thesis in the introduction to this lengthy monograph: “Le corpus Lancelot-Graal, déduction faite du Merlin et de ses suites, qui sont certainement postiches, est dû à un seul auteur. Il présente sous une diversité apparente une unité de conception et de plan certaine.”2 One of Lot’s principal targets was H. O. Sommer, editor of what remains the only complete edition of the entire Lancelot-Grail, whose discussion of the

1 See “The Vulgate Cycle” in Arthurian Literature in the Middle Ages: A Collaborative History, ed. R. S. Loomis (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1959), pp. 295-318 [316]; and “Plaidoyer pour l’‘Architecte’, contre une opinion d’Albert Pauphilet sur le Lancelot en prose”, Romance Philology, 8.1 (1954), 27-33 [33]. 2 Quoted from Ferdinand Lot, Etude sur le Lancelot en Prose, Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études, fasc. 226 (Paris: Champion, 1954 [orig. 1918]), pp. 7-8 (italics in text).

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issue of unity is less often referred to these days.3 Based upon his manuscript studies, Sommer had posited that there was a first version of the prose cycle which brought together the story of Lancelot and a Perceval-Quest. At one point in the development of this cycle, When Syr Lancelot’s popularity had overshadowed that of Syr Gawain and of all the other companions of the Round Table, some other unknown writer was of opinion that the moment had arrived for Perceval to cede his place—not to Lancelot, for his association with Guenever had disqualified him—but to Lancelot’s son Syr Galahad. The Galahad-Quest and the Estoire then made their appearance. (Sommer, vol. 1, p. xvi)

In order to address the material Sommer had adduced, which Lot termed globally “contradictions” within the work, to which we will return in a moment, the latter had recourse to the rather unexpected idea that the single author had not initially determined all the details of what would follow, hence explaining how certain statements made at the very beginning of the Lancelot could be contradicted by plot developments in much later parts of that romance: “Il faut admettre que l’auteur du tome Ier [referring to Sommer’s seven-volume edition of the Lancelot-Graal, hence to Sommer III, which is the first volume of the Lancelot] est l’auteur des volumes suivants et de l’Estoire. Mais, quand il écrit le tome Ier il n’a pas encore arrêté son plan dans tous les détails” (Lot, p. 122). It is intriguing to consider that these thoughts about authorial evolution in the process of writing a massive work are published in 1918, the same year that Marcel Proust’s A la Recherche du temps perdu resumes printing at Gallimard, after having been substantially expanded and reconceived during the fortuitous hiatus imposed during the war years. Some twenty years later, Jean Frappier, in his study on the Mort Artu, while remaining convinced of a certain type of unity connected to a single authorial plan (“De toutes les hypothèses, la moins soutenable est certainement celle d’une pluralité 3

H. Oskar Sommer, ed., The Vulgate Version of The Arthurian Romances, edited from Manuscripts in the British Museum, 7 volumes plus index (Washington: The Carnegie Institution, 1909-1916). The Bibliothèque de la Pléiade has undertaken a new edition/translation of one of the early cyclical manuscripts, Bonn 526, originally planned by the late Daniel Poirion and now under the general direction of Philippe Walter. To date, only the first two volumes, going from the Estoire to the first part of the Lancelot, have appeared, under the title Le Livre du graal (Paris: Gallimard, 20012003).

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indéfinie d’auteurs. Avec elle on explique tout et on n’explique rien”), could not countenance Lot’s idea of a single author bringing his work rapidly (within four to five years) to completion.4 Among other issues for Frappier was the extreme difference in the mysticism of the Queste which, even if it could be accounted for by a transformation in the single author’s outlook, does not explain why the final romance, the Mort Artu, would revert to exclusively worldly preoccupations. Frappier thus formulated the now widely accepted idea of the “architect” who would have been responsible for the plan of the entire work but who would not himself have in fact executed it in its entirety. The latest avatar in the debate between unity and diversity in the genesis of the Lancelot-Grail is represented by the editorial interventions and manuscript studies published over the past forty years by Elspeth Kennedy and Alexandre Micha. Kennedy, following upon observations already made by Lot, has posited the existence of a first version of the Lancelot (and edited what she believes to have been that version) that would have ended with the death of Galehaut and would not have comprised a Grail quest. Subsequently, in more than one stage, the author would have conceived a Grail quest, invented the character of Galahad and expanded the section extending from Lancelot’s second voyage to Sorelois, through the False Guenevere episode, to Galehaut’s death, in order to join it to the prose adaptation of Chrétien’s Charrette. Micha’s breezy refutation of Kennedy tends to avoid the question of inconsistencies in favor of the solid links which constitute the cycle. For him, debates about the authorship of the work(s) are nothing but “vaine curiosité d’érudits.” The incontrovertible fact is that “Le cycle est là,” so, as he would put it, let’s deal with it.5 Such a stance is certainly practical for the average reader, but unconscionably neglects all the unresolved questions surrounding how the cycle got to be “there” (wherever “there” is) in the first place. In essence, the problem presented by the manuscripts of the Lancelot-Grail resides in the fact that the few references to the Grail Quest in the sections preceding the Charrette episode predominantly Jean Frappier, Étude sur la Mort le Roi Artu, roman du IIIe siècle, 3rd ed. rev. and augm. (Geneva: Droz, 1972 [orig. 1936]), p. 122. 5 Alexandre Micha, Essais sur le cycle du Lancelot-Graal (Geneva: Droz, 1987), p. 306. 4

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seem to refer to Perceval as the Grail hero: This is what Lot referred to judiciously as a “contradiction interne” of the work (and what had led Sommer to his hypotheses regarding the work’s genesis). But given the bewildering multiplicity of readings available among the manuscripts, arguments can be made for one side or the other, it seems, depending upon how one interprets the data. To take only one well-known example, an early passage describing the most beautiful women in the world refers to the daughter of Pellés (whom we know from much later in the romance to be the mother of Galahad) and in that context makes a reference to the Grail hero. Following is the passage as edited by E. Kennedy, from BnF, fr. 768:6 Et l’autre fu fille au roi mehaignié, ce fu li rois Pellés qui fu peres Perlesvax, a celui qui vit apertement les granz mervoilles del Graal et acompli lo Siege Perilleus de la Table Reonde et mena a fin les aventures del Reiaume Perilleus Aventureus, ce fu li regnes de Logres. Cele fu sa suer […]

In Alexandre Micha’s edition, for which he used British Museum Add. 10293 as base, following is the text corresponding to that passage:7 et l’autre fu fille au Roi Mahaignié, che fu li rois Pellés qui fu peires a Amite, meire Galaat, chelui qui vit apertement les grans mervelles del Graal et acompli le siege perillous de la Table Reonde et mena a fin les aventures del roialme perelleus et aventureus, che fu li roialmes de Logres. Cele fu sa meire […]

Now as it turns out the 30-odd manuscripts containing this passage are split: upwards of twenty indicate Perceval or Perlesvaus as the Grail hero, as in Kennedy’s text; many fewer, about ten, contain the Galahad reading.8 Is it more likely, as Micha would have it, that scribes, not recognizing the name of Galahad, consciously or unconsciously substituted Perceval/Perlesvaus? Or, as in the discussions by Kennedy and F. Mosès, that Perceval/Perlesvaus would have been the original reading in the first version of the Lancelot, prior to it being attached to 6 Elspeth Kennedy, ed., Lancelot do Lac: The Non-Cyclic Old French Prose Romance, 2 vols. (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1980). Quotation taken from vol. 1, p. 33. 7 Alexandre Micha, Lancelot: Roman en prose du XIIIe siècle, 9 vols. (Geneva: Droz, 1978-83). Quotation taken from vol. VII, p. 59 (VIIIa, 8). 8 Micha has provided the version of this passage from every manuscript known to him in an appendix to vol. VII, pp. 462-76.

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a Grail quest, and that certain scribes would have corrected Perceval to Galahad in order to make it agree with the Queste?9 Whichever way you take it, in this case philological analyses are used to support convictions of another order. Likewise, and though they try to defend their judgments through stylistic means, will we ever know whether Kennedy’s short version of the end of the Galehaut section came first or whether it represents a condensation of the earlier long version found in most of the manuscripts, as Micha has argued? The debate continues and will continue, for manuscript evidence can always be invoked to support one side or the other. I have recently completed an edition of a text that, though scholars are well aware of its existence, has until recently received almost no attention.10 It has never previously been edited nor does it appear that any scholars have closely scrutinized this portion of the three manuscripts in which it is found, even though two of them are wellknown and represent among the few extant manuscripts containing the complete cycle, from the Estoire to the Mort Artu.11 The text in question is the derhymed version of Chrétien de Troyes’ Chevalier de la Charrette, found in lieu of the vulgate version of the Charrette, which is in fact an adaptation quite distant from the letter of Chrétien’s text and has appeared numerous times in print.12 As far as I can tell, 9 Kennedy, vol. 2, p. 90; and François Mosès, ed., La Fausse Guenièvre (Lancelot du Lac III), (Paris: LGF [Lettres Gothiques], 1998), pp. 18-21. 10 Nearing completion of my edition, I came across the recently published doctoral thesis of Annie Combes, Les Voies de l’aventure: Réécriture et composition romanesque dans le Lancelot en prose (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2001), in which she provides an analysis of the versions of the Conte de la Charrette and a brief discussion of one of our manuscripts, BnF, fr. 122, from which she prints a few excerpts. Combes confirms my statement about the lack of attention paid to this text: “à ma connaissance, personne ne l’a véritablement examiné jusqu’à ce jour” (p. 241). 11 As per the indications in Brian Woledge’s Bibliographie des romans et nouvelles en prose française antérieurs à 1500 (Geneva: Droz, 1975; p. 72), there are nine extant complete manuscripts of the entire Lancelot-Grail: one from the middle of the 13th century (BnF, fr. 344); four from the late 13th or early 14th century (Bonn, Univ. 526, Geneva, Bodmer [former Phillipps 1046], BnF, fr. 110, British Library Add. 10292-94); two from the late 14th century (Arsenal 3479-80 and BnF, fr. 117-20); and two from the fifteenth century (BnF, fr. 98 and 113-16). 12 Editions of the " redaction are: Gweneth Hutchings, Le Roman en Prose de Lancelot du Lac: Le Conte de la Charrette (Geneva: Slatkine, 1974 [orig. 1938]), pp. 1-112 (Edition of Cambridge, Corpus Christi College ms. 45); Alexandre Micha, Lancelot: Roman en prose du XIIIe siècle, 9 vols. (Geneva: Droz, 1978-1983), vol. 2,

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the existence of this version of the Charrette was first revealed by Gweneth Hutchings in her 1938 edition of the prose Charrette, for it is not mentioned by any of the earlier scholars: Paulin Paris, Gaston Paris, Oskar Sommer, Ferdinand Lot, J. D. Bruce, Albert Pauphilet, Jean Frappier. Hutchings devoted a brief few pages to the derhymed Charrette which, undoubtedly because of her rather dismissive characterization of it, failed to provoke subsequent scholars’ curiosity. The three manuscripts containing this version are relatively late: Arsenal 3480 (Hutchings’s siglum Ac) and BnF, fr. 119 (Aa), closely related manuscripts both dating to the late fourteenth century or perhaps the very early fifteenth century; and BnF, fr.122 (Ab), the second volume of a Lancelot-Grail dated 1344 in its colophon. Certainly swayed by the age of the manuscripts, Hutchings proposed a dating of this derhymed version that would make it more or less contemporary with the earliest of these manuscripts, thus placing it in the first third of the fourteenth century. She provided additional reasons for this late dating: Que nous soyons ici en présence d’une rédaction assez tardive, me semble fort probable. La servilité de l’imitation de Chrétien fait croire que son poème n’était pas très connu des lecteurs du roman en prose. Une allusion au Merlin donne lieu à supposer que le roman de ce nom était déjà écrit au moment de la composition de cette version, qui, probablement, prit naissance au quatorzième siècle, avec, ou peu avant, les trois manuscrits qui sont parvenus jusqu’à nous. Cette rédaction ne contient aucune allusion aux autres parties du corpus Lancelot-Graal. Elle doit, donc, représenter ou l’état de l’histoire de la Charrette avant d’être incorporée dans le cycle, ou l’essai fait par un raconteur du quatorzième siècle pour introduire un peu de variété dans une histoire déjà trop bien connue. […] Les liens qui rattachent le Conte de la Charrette dans la version ordinaire du roman en prose, à la Queste del saint Graal, et à d’autres parties du Lancelot sont détruits. Il semble, donc, que cette rédaction soit postérieure à la composition du tout […]. (Hutchings, pp. xlvixlvii)

pp. 1-108 (ed. also based upon the Cambridge ms.); and Yvan G. Lepage and M.-L. Ollier. L’Enlèvement de Guenièvre: Lancelot du Lac V (Paris: LGF [Lettres Gothiques], 1999), pp. 64-261 (edition of BL ms. Royal 20 D IV). Editions of the ß redaction are W.J.A. Jonckbloet, Roman van Lancelot, (XIIIe EEUW.) Naar het (Eenig-bekende) Handschrift der Koninklijke Bibliothek, 2 vols. (Copenhague: W.P. Van Stockum, 1849), vol. 1, pp. lxxvii-cxxxii (edition of BnF fr. 339); Sommer, ed. cit., Vol. IV, pp. 155-226 (edition of BL Add. ms. 10293); Hutchings, pp. 1-112 (edition of Oxford, Bodelian ms. Rawlinson Q. b. 6); Micha (extracts), vol. III, pp. 253-330 (ed. of BnF, fr. 110).

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This passage raises numerous questions, both in terms of literary judgments and in terms of the characterization of the text itself. As far as the former is concerned one must simply say that one person’s slavishness (“servilité de l’imitation”) could be another person’s faithfulness. And one is hard pressed to figure out how here the fidelity to Chrétien is a sign of the text’s late composition when earlier Hutchings had claimed quite the contrary, that the version closest to Chrétien is likely to be the earliest (“la version qui s’accorde le plus avec Chrétien est la plus proche de son récit, et peut être acceptée comme représentant le texte le plus proche de l’original” [Hutchings, p. xxxiv]). Her statements about the redactor’s motivations, the desire to add variety to a well-known tale by seeking out an unfamiliar version, are themselves quite suspect, indeed highly uncritical. But ultimately Hutchings’s characterization of the derhymed Charrette is misleading, if not flatly erroneous, for she claims that it contains no references to the other parts of the prose Lancelot and therefore destroys any links with the rest of the cycle. She mentions only a reference to a Merlin, but does not explain why that would be a sign of the work’s lateness. She seems to assume that it refers to the complete Merlin including the Suite-Vulgate du Merlin, which is generally agreed to be the last part of the prose cycle to have been written, but this is scarcely a necessary or even likely inference. The allusion is as follows: “Et la Vie Merlin, qui fu de la Prophecie aux Anglois, le tesmoingne.” Now, many early possibilities are available for this reference. To begin with, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Prophetia Merlini and Vita Merlini date to the twelfth century, but even in the French canon Robert de Boron’s Merlin was certainly known to the author(s) of the prose Lancelot, who moreover undoubtedly used the prose trilogy as a model for what would become a much more ambitious undertaking. But the author need only have known the titles of these works, for the episode which is being referred to here, Merlin’s instruction of the Dame du Lac in the art of magic, is recounted at the beginning of the Lancelot (Micha, vol. VII, pp. 38-43 [VIa, 1-10])— where, moreover, Merlin is referred to as the “prophete as Englois” (p. 38). Following is a brief description of the contents of the derhymed version of Chrétien’s Charrette contained in these three manuscripts. The romance itself is attached to the prose cycle at the beginning and

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the end by passages taken from one of the redactions of the vulgate Charrette, so the derhymed text only begins at the moment when the dwarf leaves Gauvain and Lancelot at the castle of the Lit Périlleux, thus starting at around line 426 of Chrétien’s text.13 The version contained in mss. Aa and Ac reverts to the vulgate at the moment Meleagant’s sister comes to rescue Lancelot (breaking off at line 6374), while Ab continues with an abbreviated version of Chrétien’s text up to the beheading of Meleagant.14 Hutchings was correct in emphasizing the closeness of the prosification to Chrétien’s original but, contrary to her accusation of the text’s lack of connection to the cycle, the redactor has taken considerable care in finding ways to make connections with it. For instance, at a few points he incorporates portions of the vulgate Charrette: The reasons Guenevere gives for having treated Lancelot poorly upon his arrival in Gorre are those provided by the vulgate (Lancelot’s departure from London without requesting her leave, and the loss of the ring she had given him through Morgan’s trickery) and not Chrétien’s, thus connecting to previous events in the prose cycle; during the night Lancelot spends with Guenevere, which is otherwise faithfully recounted according to Chrétien’s text, Guenevere tells Lancelot of Galehaut’s death, as in the vulgate version. The scenes of the return of the cart with Bohort and, later, the king’s and queen’s mounting on the cart, are likewise included from the vulgate version. However, more significant are the numerous passages in which the redactor, independently from the vulgate, subtly alters Chrétien’s text in order to make connections with the previous passages of the Lancelot. In the second discussion between Baudemagu and Meleagant, during which the former is attempting to dissuade his son from insisting on the combat with Lancelot, he speaks of Lancelot’s numerous exploits:

13 My references to, and quotations from, Chrétien’s Chevalier de la Charrette are from the edition by Charles Méla as found in Chrétien de Troyes, Romans (Paris: LGF [La Pochohèque], 1994). 14 The first third of the Charrette is missing from Ab, because the first volume of the two-volume set is lost; it would be interesting to know whether the part of the vulgate version leading from the death of Galehaut to the derhymed version of Chrétien in that manuscript likewise differs from that found in AaAc.

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Mais pour Dieu, beau filz, destourne le de combatre a toy, car il est merveilleux chevalier et de haute prouesce, si ameroye mieulz l’amour et la compaingnie de toy et de lui, car tu en pourroyes mieulz valoir. Et tant saches tu vrayement que ce est Lancelot le bon chevalier, le seur, cil qui conquist la Douleureuse Garde, cil qui desconfist les assemblees du roy Artus et de Galehot, et tant ennuy lui fist; et Galehot, si comme tu as oÿ dire, lui fist tant d’onnour qu’il s’appaisa au roy Artus pour avoir sa compaingnie, et lui clama quitte toute la terre de Bretaingne qu’il eüst sur lui conquise, et devint homs au roy Artus pour l’amour de Lancelot, qu’il n’eüst fait pour riens se ne feust pour la compaingnie Lancelot avoir. Et Galehot l’ama tant qu’il fist oultreement son plaisir de toutes les choses qu’il lui requist. N’as tu oÿ parler de la grant merveille qu’il fist a la roche aux Saisnes, quant il delivra le roy de prison? Et a cil faites toutes les proueces du monde. Dont n’a il occis Carados le grant et passés les destrois de Gorre par puissance?

This passage inserted in the midst of Chrétien’s narrative provides a veritable resumé of Lancelot’s entire career from the Douloureuse Garde up to his arrival in Gorre. In the prosified version of the cemetery scene, which in the initial moments closely follows Chrétien’s account, the redactor makes one small but not insignificant change. We recall that the names on the tombstones provided by Chrétien are Gauvain, Looys and Yvain. In the prose redaction, they are Gauvain, Agravain, Girflez le fils Do, Mordred and Yvain. Clearly, an attempt has been made to recontextualize the Cimetière Futur so as to accommodate some of the major knightly protagonists of the prose romance. During the romance’s final scenes, even as the redactor continues to derhyme Chrétien, he substitutes Bohort (a character first introduced in the Charrette and possibly even a prototype for Galahad) for Gauvain as the knight willing to challenge Meleagant in Lancelot’s absence. One final example shows the redactor’s close attention to detail even as he is “slavishly” following Chrétien’s text. In the course of the dialogue between Baudemagu and Meleagant regarding the latter’s insistence on the combat with Lancelot, Meleagant makes an angry retort to his father: –De folie vos esmaiez, Fet Meleaganz a son pere, Ja par la foi que doi saint Pere Ne vos cresrai de cest afeire. Certes l’an me devroit detreire A chevax se je vos creoie. (Char, 3450-55)

Following is the way our redactor renders this passage:

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–De grant follie vous esmayés, fait Meleagant a son pere, ne ja, par la foy que je doy a Nostre Seigneur, de cestui affaire ne vous croirray je ja. Et aussi m’aïst Dieux, de sa compaingnie n’ay je soing, et je ne sui mie Galehoz, qui pour paour s’acorda a lui, et bien me devroit on detraire a chevaulz se je vous creoye de si fait affaire.

I have italicized the portion the redactor has inserted, which subtly anchors the text to the earlier portion of the Lancelot, recalling the themes of friendship and compagnonnage as chivalric values, but considered by the anti-courtly Meleagant to be signs of weakness. However, most astonishing of the prosifier’s innovations are the references made within the text to the Grail quest for, unlike the vulgate version of the Charrette, not only is there no indication that Galahad will be the Grail hero but it is explicitly stated that he will not be. As I mentioned, the cemetery scene starts out following Chrétien up to the point when Lancelot raises the cover of the special tomb, a feat reserved for the liberator of the prisoners of Gorre. Then the redactor adds a second tomb scene similar to the encounter with Symeu in the vulgate version, one which likewise will issue in Lancelot’s failure because he is not destined to be the hero of the Grail. But what the voice coming from the tomb tells Lancelot is very different from what we learn in the vulgate version. The voice identifies itself as Salan, brother of Moÿs. The two knights failed to achieve the Grail quest at the castle of the Fisher King and were made prisoners, Salan in this tomb and Moÿs in the Forest of Darnantes (incidentally, the place where the Dame du Lac imprisoned Merlin). Salan states that their liberation will occur only when “cil […] qui l’aventure du graal pourra eschiever” arrives. He goes on to say a bit about who that will be: Et je sçay bien que je seray delivrés par temps, car le vassal si est néz qui de ceans me gectera. Et est de tel aage que il pourra par temps chevalier estre. Ycelluy achievera les douleureuses aventures qui sont espandues par le monde. Il conquerra tous les chevaliers qui erent encontre lui. Il achievera tous les perilz. Cil est sires du graal.

The Grail hero is already born, so cannot be Galahad. Nor of course will it be Lancelot, who has failed. Although the message does not specify the identity of the Grail hero, it does suggest a very different direction for the quest within Lancelot’s story. It should be added that

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in this account any condemnation of Lancelot’s behavior is totally lacking, unlike the vulgate version, in which Symeu accuses not only Lancelot of sin but also his father. The redactor does not leave us in suspense for too long. Soon thereafter he comes to the scene of Lancelot and the two unnamed companion knights being trapped between the two sliding doors of the castle where the prisoners from Logres are staging a revolt. We recall that at this point Chrétien has Lancelot look at the ring given to him by the Lady of the Lake in order to determine whether this is the result of some kind of magic: L’anel met devant sa veüe, S’esgarde la pierre, et si dit: “Dame, dame, se Dex m’aït, Or avroie je grant mestier Que vos me poïssiez eidier.” Cele dame une fee estoit Qui l’anel doné li avoit, Et si le norri an s’anfance […]. (2340-47)

This is the only mention Chrétien makes of Lancelot’s past. His reference to the fairy who brought up Lancelot is clearly of great importance for later traditions. But our redactor apparently felt the need to explicate this reference and so he inserts the following remarkable passage: Et le compte nous tesmoingne que au temps le roy Artus, en quel temps les aventures perilleuses furent trouvees, ne fu femme de sa science. Et la Vie Merlin, qui fu de la Prophecie aux Anglois, le tesmoingne. Et celle dame reclama Lancelot moult souvent, car elle l’avoit gardé et nourri ou lac, si comme vous avés ça arriere oÿ ou compte, aprés la mort le roy Ban son pere, qui Claudas desherita. Et ce desheritement estoit Lancelot souvent bien pres du cuer, mais il estoit tant seur du vengier que il sueffre l’attente sans grant travail. Dont il avient souvent en cuer d’omme vigueureux qu’il sueffre plus de vengier l’ennuy quant on lui a fait, et il s’en pense bien a vengier, que donc s’il n’en cuidoit avoir vengence. Et il si fist, si comme ly comptes tesmoingne ça avant. Il emprist la plus merveilleuse vengence avant sa mort, dont nulz homs oïst oncques parler, si tint puis son filz Galaad, dont li comptes vous dira ça avant, en aprés la mort Lancelot son pere toutes les marches de Galonne et le royaume de Benoyc, et toute la terre deserte Claudas, et si tint les Estranges Yslez Galeod. Et cil Galaad fu filz de la fille au roy Pelléz, qui fu oncles au Bon Chevalier et au seur en qui toutes guises de chevaleries furent espendues, si ot nom Perchevaus ly Galoys, et fu filz au roy Alain des vaulz de Camaalot. Et les pluseurs l’appelloient Pellesvaus pour l’amour du roy Pelléz son oncle, qui il ressembloit mieulx que nulle creature humaine. Icil Perchevaulx acheva les

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aventures que nul ne peüst achiever se il non. Et il fu puis courounés en la grant Babiloine, si comme ly comptes nous diront. Et ot puis tout son vivant le precieux vaissel que on appelle Graal.

This passage is astonishing, for it demonstrates a direction for the balance of the romance that not only differs totally from the LancelotGrail as we have come to know it, but also from any other extant account. Most important for our purposes is the specification of Perceval ‘ly Galoys’, son of King Alain des Vaux de Camaalot, as the future hero of the Grail. This is a reference that, as we mentioned earlier, accords with Grail references in the earlier part of the romance.15 More significant perhaps is the evocation of Galahad as son of Lancelot, but in a terrestrial rather than celestial (or mystical) role inasmuch as he will not only inherit Lancelot’s territories, from which he had been disinherited, but unite them with others, including the Estranges Ysles of Galehaut.16 Now this passage, left unmentioned by Hutchings,17 seriously calls into question her characterization of this prosification of Chrétien’s romance and its place in the tradition of the Lancelot-Grail. Contrary to what she had indicated, as I have attempted to sketch out in these brief remarks, the romance as it is found in these three manuscripts very carefully adapts the verse text to the context provided by the prose Lancelot. It makes numerous references to episodes and plot details in the latter but, as Hutchings had correctly indicated, does not seem to display any awareness of the vulgate version of the Queste del Saint Graal. On the other hand, it clearly does project forward to a Grail quest and demonstrates the influence of romances telling of a Perceval quest: namely, the Didot Perceval and the Perlesvaus, in addition, of course, to Chrétien’s Conte du graal. Alain le Gros is the father of Perceval in the Didot Perceval and his name is specified as ‘Alain le Gros des Vaus de Camaalot’ in both the Perlesvaus and the later Chevalier as deus espees. The narrator’s comment on the 15 Except for the question of Perceval’s father, who is Pellés in the passage from the Lancelot quoted above, though one manuscript containing that passage calls Pellés “lo oncle Parcevau” (quoted by Micha from London, BL, Royal 19.C.XIII). 16 See the brief remarks of Combes, pp. 245-46. 17 She was familiar with it, however. Nitze prints a portion of this passage from our base ms., Ac, provided to him by Miss Hutchings, in the second volume of his edition of Perlesvaus (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1932-37), p. 38, and again on p. 195.

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277

divergent naming of Perceval, including an explanation of the variant version Pellesvaus, suggests a knowledge of several versions of the text. In short, the texts of which our redactor shows awareness are all ones that predate the completion of the prose cycle: Chrétien’s Charrette (a copy of which was necessarily being used, given the closeness of the prose rendering); The pseudo-Robert de Boron trilogy; Perlesvaus; the Prose Lancelot up to the death of Galehaut18. Furthermore, it makes no reference to any of the subsequent plot elements regarding the Grail quest as the vulgate version of the Lancelot-Grail will develop it. This certainly calls for a serious reconsideration of the possible dating of the derhymed Charrette as well as its place in the tradition. As Hutchings claimed, we recall, an early fourteenth century scribe/redactor would for the sake of variety have rendered Chrétien’s romance into prose and inserted it in place of the vulgate version that had been circulating for a century. Given what I have just sketched out, this hypothesis seems highly improbable. Why would someone so very familiar with the Lancelot-Grail cycle and for whom the character of Galahad would have been inextricably linked to the quest have inserted a revision of the text which specifically denied him that status, while at the same time transforming him into a terrestrial hero, representing Lancelot’s long-awaited revenge upon Claudas, a plot development to my knowledge unheard of elsewhere? Why, on the other hand, would he have retained certain portions of the vulgate redaction if he wanted to tell a completely new version of the story? As a corrective to the flawed reasoning of Hutchings, which has prevailed up to now since no one seems to have scrutinized the text or manuscript contexts since her work, I would suggest a very different hypothesis to account for the particulars of this derhymed version.19 The provenance of the various elements of the hybrid version as it is now extant in our three manuscripts is as follows: Chrétien’s verse 18

This can be specified as the cyclical version of the Lancelot, inasmuch as Caradoc, who is mentioned in the passage detailing Lancelot’s exploits quoted above, does not appear in the non-cyclic Lancelot. 19 Combes, for instance, since she only looked at one of the manuscripts, itself incomplete, accepts Hutchings’ dating and her characterization of the other two manuscripts.

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romance (the derhymed portion of our prose text represents about twothirds of the total); passages from the ββ redaction of the vulgate Conte de la Charrette at the beginning and the end and a few inserted at various points in the middle (representing about one-fifth of the total); and sections such as those discussed above, that have no known provenance (representing a maximum of about one-tenth of the total). Because of the closeness to Chrétien’s text, to the extent of repeating entire lines verbatim, the redactor of the derhymed portions would have had to have been working directly from a manuscript of the Chevalier de la Charrette. It seems unlikely that, in the process of derhyming Chrétien’s text so closely, he would simultaneously have been interpolating extraneous elements from other texts or from his own imagination. This would suggest that the version we now have was accomplished in several stages, a hypothesis that is supported by the different endings for the romance in Ab and AaAc, the former being much closer to Chrétien’s original. What these different endings suggest is that the model for AaAc would have substituted the ending from the vulgate redaction, perhaps finding it a more satisfying transition to the Suites de la Charrette. I would posit the following stages in the development of the derhymed Charrette as we have it: 1) A first derhymed version of Chrétien’s text in its entirety (which might never have circulated). 2) A second version which would have included the interpolations relating to the Perceval Grail quest, backward references to the earlier sections of the Lancelot, and possibly some sort of transition at the beginning to connect it to the portion of the Lancelot ending with the death of Galehaut. 3) A third version which would represent a revised insertion of the Charrette into the Lancelot by borrowing certain portions of the ββ version of the vulgate Charrette, thereby bringing it further into line with the prose Lancelot but without altering any of the material that is incompatible with a Galahad quest (version found in Ab).

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4) A final version which would have lopped off the ending (as found in Ab) and grafted to the already hybrid text the ending as it was transmitted in all of the vulgate versions (version found in AaAc).20 If our hypothesis regarding the genesis of our derhymed version is correct, stages (1) and (2) could have taken place at the moment of the cyclical Lancelot’s first composition, simultaneously with or even prior to the composition of what became the vulgate versions of the Charrette. There is no reason to posit any significant amount of time between Stages (1) and (2). Stage (3) would of course represent the conflation of two concurrent versions (hence correcting the idea advanced by Hutchings that our prosification “belongs” to the ββ redaction). We might ask why the allusions to a Perceval quest were not removed when the adjustments drawn from ββ were made. The answer is simple: whereas it is often assumed that the cemetary scene in the vulgate Charrette, in which Symeu tells Lancelot that he will not accomplish the Grail quest but in turn alludes to the Grail champion, is a first adumbration of the Galahad quest (as one could for instance gather from Micha’s edition), nothing of the sort is necessarily involved. Indeed, as F. Mosès has recently argued, not only does the manuscript evidence not support the conclusion that Galahad is being referred to in this section of the vulgate Charrette, but it suggests instead that it is a question of Perceval. Micha’s text, drawn from the Cambridge ms., which he considered the best representative of the α redaction, is as follows: “[…] et sera de vostre lignage cil qui de ci me getera et acomplira le siege perillos et les aventures de Bretaigne metra a fin. […] Et se ce ne fust, ce sachiés vos bien, vos acomplissiés les merveilles que vostre parens acomplira […].” This is in itself ambiguous, but as Mosès points out, five other manuscripts of the α 20 An intriguing explanation for this final alteration, apart from any desire to alter the content of the original ending, is suggested by F. Mosès’s recent discussion of the manuscript divisions of the Lancelot, and in particular of incipits which are often mistakenly used to name sections but which do function as organizational tools. As it turns out, the section of the Lancelot often referred to as the Meleagant, begins at precisely this spot, with the words “Meleagant avoir une suer […],” frequently demarcated by an initial or even, as in Aa anc Ac, a miniature. It is not difficult to imagine that a compiler or simply a scribe, having been given a new chapter to copy beginning with this episode, would have attached it to the Charrette text he was in the process of copying, suppressing the corresponding final section in order to avoid redundancy.

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redaction (which has only been transmitted by a total of eight manuscripts) contain the following version: “[…] tu ies cousins a celui ki de chi me gietera […] Et se che ne fust, bien sachiés ke vous acomplesissiés les grans miervelles ke vostre cousins acomplira […].”21 The β redaction is even more vague, as Symeu tells Lancelot, “Et saches que cil qui de ci me delivera iert mes cousins, et iert si pres tes charnex amis que plus ne porroit” (Hutchings, p. 49). Symeu is Lancelot’s cousin, but so is Perceval. The fact that portions of the ββ version of the vulgate Charrette were grafted onto our derhymed version, containing a very clearly delineated Perceval quest, would seem to argue for a very early conjoining of the two, before the formulation of the Galahad quest would have made our version manifestly inconsistent with the rest of the cycle. For those who might consider these conclusions fanciful or unconvincing, wondering why such an outright contradiction of the Queste would have been tolerated in a cyclical manuscript, suffice it to say that the sheer variety of cyclical manuscripts tells many stories of many different scribal attitudes to the text: Some scribes left contradictions intact while others made a careful effort to correct inconsistencies in the models they were transmitting.22 A circular logic often imposes itself here, though, for the latter exemplars are inherently more appealing to modern textual scholars (e.g., Micha) and consequently become the basis for critical editions and the like, precisely because these scholars take the most consistent manuscript for the one closest to the original. But this association between consistency and original intention is belied by a text that might have been developed in multiple stages by several writers, the question of an overarching architect notwithstanding. Clearly, for the scribes of our three manuscripts, the derhymed Charrette contained in their models did not raise an eyebrow. Judging from the carefully respectful copying habits of Aa and Ac (the two manuscripts are as close as could possibly be, twins as it were, though undoubtedly the one is not a copy of the other), these scribes were not about to knowingly alter their model. It could be added that the tradition which these two manuscripts transmit has a further particularity which has never, as far 21

Quoted from Lepage and Ollier, p. 136. See the groundbreaking discussion by Elspeth Kennedy, “The Scribe as Editor,” in Mélanges […] Jean Frappier, 2 vols. (Geneva: Droz, 1970), vol. 1, pp. 523-31. 22

FROM PERCEVAL TO GALAHAD

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as I know, been connected to their incorporation of the derhymed Charrette. The model for both of these manuscripts cycles (BnF, fr. 117-120 and Arsenal 3479-80) interpolates Branch I and the opening lines of Branch II of the Perlesvaus as a prologue to the Queste; they are in fact the only Lancelot-Grail manuscripts that incorporate thus a portion of the Perlesvaus. In so doing, they suppress the passage that details the lineage and birth of Perceval, so as to deflect its vision to Galahad as Grail hero. Is it possible that certain sections of Aa and Ac, including the derhymed Charrette, derive ultimately from an early redaction in which, as Sommer had posited, a version of Perlesvaus followed the Lancelot story, but was excised in order to make way for the Queste del Saint Graal, with the exception of the opening branch which was turned into a prologue to the Galahad quest?23 The answer to this we will never know, but the undeniable interest of the derhymed Charrette copied in our three manuscripts does appear to provide a new and unexpected element to consider within the troubled question of the enigma of the Lancelot-Grail.24

23

See also the interesting discussion by Jessie L. Weston, “Notes on the Grail Romances: The Perlesvaus and the prose Lancelot,” Romania, 46 (1920), 314-29. In addition to a brief discussion of these two mss., she suggests that the Perlesvaus originally ended with an “account of Lancelot’s recovery of his kingdom,” basing herself on the epilogue contained in the Brussels ms. (Bibl. Roy. 11145): “Apres iceste estoire conmence li contes si conme brians des illes guerpi li rois artus por lanc’ que il namoit mie et conme il laseura li rois claudas qui le roi ban de benoic toli sa terre. Si parole cist contes conment il le conquist et par quel maniere et si com galobrus de la vermeille lande vint a la cort le rois artus por aidier lanc’. Quar il estoit de son lignage. Cist contes est mout lons et mout auentureus et poisanz. Mes li liures sen tera ore atant trusqua vne autre foiz.” (Nitze, v. I, p. 409). The derhymed Charrette’s mention of Lancelot’s vengeance and his son Galahad’s worldly triumph goes precisely in this direction. 24 In this, we are heartened rather than discouraged by Frappier’s statement regarding the Lancelot cycle’s composition: “Unless future editors turn up more significant facts, it is unlikely that we shall ever know more of the circumstances which surrounded the making of this literary monument.” (“The Vulgate Cycle,” p. 317).

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TONY HUNT

Wordplay before the “Rhétoriqueurs” n the celebrated anthology of works by the Franciscan William Herbert, MS London, BL Add. 46919,1 compiled in Herefordshire ca.1340, is found (ff. 92r-93r) a substantial poem, boldly exploiting grammatical rhymes, which is attributed in the rubric to Walther of Bibbesworth and labelled dytee. Some responsibility for the neglect of this piece2 must be ascribed to Paul Meyer’s unfortunate description of it as "cette ridicule composition.”3 A contributory factor is probably a residual unease about the attribution and the feeling that, in the light of his other Marian compositions, some of them contained in the same manuscript, the piece may well be by Bozon.4 Certainly, the poem that follows it (ff. 93r-95v), De bone femme la bounté, which presumably in tandem with the Bibbesworth piece justifies the use of dytees in the plural (Les dytees moun syre Gauter de Bybeswurthe), is now generally attributed to the Dominican author.5 A third encouragement to caution is that in MS Cambridge, Corpus Christi 450 1

See Tony Hunt, “Insular Trilingual Compilations,” in Codices miscellanearum: Brussels Van Hulthem Colloquium 1999, ed. R. Jansen-Sieben & H. van Dijk (Brussels: Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique, 1999), pp. 51-70, here pp. 65-6. 2 It receives a very brief mention in M. D. Legge, Anglo-Norman Literature and its Background (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963), p. 348. 3 P. Meyer, “Notice et extraits du MS 8336 de la Bibliothèque de Sir Thomas Phillipps à Cheltenham,” Romania, 13 (1884), 497-541, p. 532. 4 It must be admitted that Bozon’s paraphrase of the Ave Maria on f. 50r (ed. Meyer, art. cit., pp. 508f) written in quatrains which rhyme successively on the words of the Ave Maria, is singularly insipid and uninspired. There is a ten-line Ave on f. 85v (ed. Meyer, art. cit., p. 527) followed by a second in two tailed couplets (Meyer, ibid.). His other Marian compositions comprise a prayer of supplication (ff. 50v-51r; Meyer, art. cit., p. 509), an Annunciation (f. 75v; Meyer, art. cit., p. 519), and a Plainte Nostre Dame (survives in three manuscripts). The attribution to Bibbesworth of the dytee and of the poem which follows it in the London manuscript was accepted by Annie Owen, Le Traité de Walter Bibbesworth sur la langue française (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1929; rpt. Geneva: Slatkine, 1977)), p. 24. 5 For example, by Sister M. Amelia Klenke O.P., ed., Three Saints’ Lives by Nicholas Bozon (St. Bonaventure, N.Y.: The Franciscan Institute, 1947), p. xxxvi and in the description contained in The British Library Catalogue of Additions to the Manuscripts 1946-50, pt. 1 (London: British Library, 1979), pp. 197-206. The poem was edited as a work of Bozon by P. Meyer and L. Toulmin Smith in Les Contes moralisés de Nicole Bozon, frère mineur (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1889), pp. xxxiii-xli.

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ff. 132v-33v the poem is headed by a red rubric “Uncor autre rime,” is written out as prose, is unattributed (though the manuscript contains a copy of Bibbesworth’s Treitiz), and forms part of a sequence of poems constructed around grammatical rhymes.6 Otherwise, Bibbesworth’s only known poetic composition is a playful debate-poem or tençon with Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln (1249-1312) concerning the crusade of 1270. It is found in MS Oxford, Bodl. Libr., Fairfax 24, ff. 19r-20v, and consists of six twelve-line stanzas.7 The dytee–perhaps “poetic composition”8–in honour of the Virgin Mary is made up exclusively of a display of annominatio, the play on like-sounding words, polyptoton, the play on flexional variations on a common etymological stem, and traductio, derivatives (via prefixes, suffixes, etc.) from such a stem. 9 Three sections are clearly discernible. 6

Here again Meyer, “Mélanges de poésie anglo-normande,” Romania, 4 (1875), 370-97, p. 376 dismissively reports “Les trois pièces qui suivent sont copiées sur les pages 264 à 266 du MS. Elles sont précédées de vers équivoques qui ne m’ont pas paru mériter d’être transcrits.” The pieces mentioned by Meyer are transcribed in N. Wilkins, Catalogue des manuscrits français de la bibliothèque Parker (Parker Library), Corpus Christi College, Cambridge (Cambridge: Parker Library Publications, 1993), pp. 130ff. He transcribes (pp. 134-5) only the first eight and the last fifteen lines of the Bibbesworth poem even though no edition of it has ever been made. Wilkins’s description of the whole manuscript occupies pp.127-38 of his catalogue. The manuscript was rebound by John P. Gray in December 1955. See Appendix below. 7 The text is edited by J.-C. Thiolier as an appendix (pp. 305-7) to S. ThiolierMéjean, “Croisade et registre courtois chez les troubadours,” in J.M. D’Heur & N. Cherubini, eds., Etudes de philologie romane et d’histoire littéraire offertes à Jules Horrent (Liège: [s. n.], 1980), pp. 295-307. See for a brief discussion D. A. Trotter, Medieval French Literature and the Crusades (1100-1300) (Geneva: Droz, 1988), p. 210. 8 For the possible senses of the term see M. Léonard, Le Dit et sa technique littéraire des origines à 1340 (Paris: Champion, 1996), pp. 44f. 9 Cf. R. Dragonetti, La Technique poétique des trouvères dans la chanson courtoise (Brugge: De Tempel, 1960), pp. 407-8; N. B. Smith, Figures of Repetition in the Old Provençal Lyric (Chapel Hill: Univ. of North Carolina Dept. of Romance Languages, 1976), pp. 131-34 and 175-81; S. Kay, “Derivation, Derived Rhyme, and the Trobairitz,” in W. D. Paden, ed., The Voice of the Trobairitz: Perspectives on the Women Troubadours (Philadelphia: Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 1989), pp. 157-82. Illustrations from Old French narratives will be found in G. Biller, Etude sur le style des premiers romans français en vers (1150-1175) (Göteborg, 1916; rpt. Geneva: Slatkine, 1974), E. Faral, Les Arts poétiques du XIIe et du XIIIe siècle. Recherches et documents sur la technique littéraire du moyen âge (Paris: Champion, 1924; rpt.

WORDPLAY BEFORE THE “RHÉTORIQUEURS”

285

The first and last play on the various meanings and forms of (des)chanter (to descant, embellish; to bemoan) and rimer (to compose in rhyme, to row or navigate) respectively. The central section treats the opening words of the Annunciation (the first five beads of the rosary) in a manner reminiscent of Gautier de Coinci’s Li Salus Nostre Dame, including the traditional play on the reversal of Eva in Ave. The last section puns on the word rimer, signifying both to rhyme and to sail. Thematically, the first section of the poem celebrates the abandonment of that type of song (“que n’est chançoun nette”) which is about secular love (“Maryot”), the type of song which imperils the souls of those who sing it, in favour of a new source of inspiration, love of the Virgin Mary. In the second section the “new” song is contrasted to the old through the text of the Annunciation, which is incorporated in the poem, and the commonly exploited contrast of Ave and Eva. The old songs are “dirty” songs and should be relinquished in order to sing of the Virgin. In the final section for the sustained play on the two senses of rimer the “Ave maris stella” provides a convenient link, supporting a satisfying conclusion in which rhyme becomes a metaphor for the port: “[…] quant nous bien la rymons, / Tut dreyt ver le port rymouns” (114-15). Before commenting further I give the text of Bibbesworth’s poem below (and see Appendix): [f.92r] Cy comencent les dytees moun syre Gauter de Bybeswurthe. Regardez, lysez, apernez. Amours m’ount si enchaunté Qe jeo ay tutdys deschaunté Tut quancke jeo chauntoye, Qar touz jours deschauntoye. Pur ceo tieng mon chaunt a deschaunt Qaunt jeo enchauntaunt chaunt chaunt Par qey j’enchaunte La chaunte qe jeo chaunte, Chaunçoun ou chaunçounette, Qe n’est chaunçoun nette, Qar la mieuth chauntaunte Sy est deschauntaunte Qaunt ele chaunte tel chaunz Qe n’ad en sey ly douz chaunz,

4

8

12

Geneva: Slatkine, 1982), pp. 351-56, and V. Bertolucci-Pizzorusso, “La Retorica nel Tristano di Thomas,” Cultura Neolatina, 6/7 (1959), 25-61.

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Qar par lour chauns deschaunteez Unt les genz sy enchaunteez Q’yl quydent estre chaunteours, Mes yl sunt tut deschaunteours, Qar lour ames deschauntent Touz les chaunz q’yl chauntent. Ore, par une suy sy enchaunté De qy j’ay mes chauns chaunté, Qe ly plusours y vount chauntaunt. Mes ore dy en mon chaunt taunt Qe ja plus ne chaunteray De Maryot, mon chaunt terray, Qar de Marye voyl chaunter, Pur le chauntour enchaunter Qaunt sovent me enchauntoyt Par Maryot qe chauntoyt. Ha ! Dame Eve, mal chaunt chauntas Qaunt Adam taunt enchauntas Q’yl manga vos chaunçonz Qar tolu nous [s]ount douz chaunçouns Par toun mal enchauntement – Qy autrement chaunte yl ment. Ne fust ly chaunt douz dount chaunta Ave qe Gabriel chaunta, Jamés ne chaunteroyes Nul chaunt qe chaunter eies. Adam e tu chaunterez Taunke ly maufee enchaunterez, Car Eva deschauntames E par Ave countrechauntames. Qaunt nous Ave ben chauntoms, Touz maufeez enchauntoms E ja ne deschaunterons Taunt com Ave bien chaunteroms. E ledement yl chaunte Eva Qy Ave lest pur Eva, En touz ses jours ad ve Qy volunters ne dyt Ave [A] la treduce Maria, Qe fiz e pere e mary ad, Qar qy est plena gratia, Ou k’ele seyt, graunt grace y ad, Qar Dominus est ové ly, Q’en eubrew ad noun Hely. Qaunt vient a benedicta tu In mulieribus es tu, Del haut salu te esmayas,

16

20

24

28

32

36

[f.92v] 40

44

48

52

56

60

WORDPLAY BEFORE THE “RHÉTORIQUEURS” Donk dyt ly angle ne timeas, E aprés taunt te conforte, Qe respoundis com forte: “Auncele suy, veiez me cy, Solom ton dyt fiat michi, A toun message bien m’acord.” E ensi comença nostre acord Par la duce Ave Marie Le corps a la suye Marie Qe volunters ne chaunt e lyt Ave al mouster e al lyt E Maria, qe chaunt emende; Par ly fu fete l’amende A Deu de nos grant trespas, Vous savez touz qe jeo ne trespas. Lesons donks les chaunçouns sales Qe ceus faus chauntent en sale[s], Qar les chauntauns ensalysent Sovent eyns qe [de] la sale yssent, E chauntoms de la Pucele, Qar unkes nule puys cele Ne fu de sy noble afere, S’amour m’aprent de chaunt affere. En novel compas de ryme En la mer la ou jeo ryme Me fet chaunçouns rymer E en la mer myeuth rymer D’assez q’avaunt ne rymoye Qaunt jeo de foles rymoye Dount les fous y vount rymaunt Par quey yl serchent rymaunt E en la mer ou yceus ryment Qe touz jours saunz ryme ryment. Pur ceo sagement rymez Vous qy les beaus motz rymez, Qar si vos chaunçouns rymees Meynent en orde rymeez La lasse alme al rymour, Jeo le tiens a mal rymour. Hey ! las ! taunt longes rymay Q’a poy qe jeo rymay En cele oscure ryme Ou meynte alme ad mal ryme Pur ceo qe le mal rymeyent Taunt com en siecle rymeyent. Jamés mes ne rymeray Fors les chauntz q’a rymer ay De ma Dame a qy rymoyt

64

68

72

76

80

84

88

92

96

100 [f.93r]

104

108

287

288

TONY HUNT

L’aungele quant de Cel rymoyt Vers Nazareth ou yl ryma L’Ave Marie ou tel ryme a Qe quant nous bien la rymons, Tut dreyt ver le port rymouns. La ou ly bons seyntz rymerunt Pur ceo qe Ave rymerunt Ou il touz jours rymerunt Loenges a qy rymer unt. Gabriel, bone ryme as E ta chaunçoun ben rymé as, Qar qy [bien] la rymera En Paradys rymera Ou nous trestouz rymeroms Par Ave qe nous cryeroms. Ore vous ay, Dame, rymee, Veyez si jeo ay bien rymé.

112

116

120

124

The opening section of the dytee and its elaborate play on (des)chaunter can be compared to Gautier and a number of the chansons he inserts in his Miracles de Nostre Dame. Here, for example, is the beginning of one of these Marian songs: Amors, qui seit bien enchanter, As pluisors fait tel chant chanter Dont les ames deschantent. Je ne veil mais chanter tel chant, Mais por celi novel chant chant De cui li angle chantent. Chantez de li, tuit chanteür. S’enchanterez l’enchanteür Qui sovent nos enchante. Si de la mere Dieu chantez, Tous enchantanz iert enchantez. Buer fu nez qui en chante.10

10 V. F. Koenig, ed., Les Miracles de Nostre Dame par Gautier de Coincy, 4 vols. (Geneva: Droz, 1955), vol. 1, p. 24, ll. 1-12. See also J. Chailley, Les Chansons à la Vierge de Gautier de Coinci (Paris: Heugel, 1959), p. 163. It should be noted that the long awaited index and glossary, planned as vol. 5 of Koenig’s edition, has now been supplied by O. Collet, Glossaire et index critiques des œuvres d’attribution certaine de Gautier de Coinci (Vie de sainte Christine et Miracles de Nostre Dame) (Geneva: Droz, 2000).

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This poem is preceded by a prologue which concludes as follows: Je ne veil pas chanter tex chans, Car trop i a pleurs et deschans: L’ame sovent pleure et deschante Dou chanteür qui tex chans chante. Qui l’anemi velt enchanter De la grant dame doit chanter Dont jor et nuit li angle chantent. Dyable endorment et enchantent Tout cil qui chantent sen doz chant. Or escoutez comment j’en chant.11

There is a comparable example in a Provençal poem, based on rims equivocs, by Arnaut Catalan (fl. 1220-53): Als entendens de chantar Ai fach un novèh chantar; E sapchatz qu’ieu non chantèra; E, pus que mon chantar ai Fach, ieu eis lo’m chantarai, E vos, chantador, chantatz Qu’ieu chant, qui sui enchantatz. Dreitz fora, qui ben chantès, Qu’autrui chant non deschantès. Mas lo meu non tem deschant, S’om no’i met dels motz del chant, E nulhs om ben non deschanta, S’en la rima, en qu’om chanta, Non èra faitz lo deschans, Per qu’e ben esgurs mos chans.12 11

Ibid., pp. 22-3, ll. 65-74. See P. Bec, Burlesque et obscénité chez les troubadours: pour une approche du contre-texte médiéval (Paris: Stock, 1984), pp. 214-6 who translates as follows: Pour les experts dans l’art du chant J’ai composé un nouveau chant et ne désire point chanter; Mais ma Dame veut que je chante, Et puisque j’ai fini mon chant, Moi-même me le chanterai. Et quant à vous, chanteurs, chantez, Car je chante tout enchanté. 12

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In the first section of his poem Bibbesworth contrasts the religious subject of song, Marie, with a secular subject, “Maryot.”13 Here, too, he seems to imitate Gautier, who deplores the attachment of many clerics to the world and secular affairs: “Comme li lai, au mal s’eslaissent / Et por Marot Marie laissent.”14 And in one of the chansons following this prologue we read: N’a pas Marot, mes Marie Cele a non que represent. Maros l’ame mesmarie, Marie en fait Dieu present.15

In another song (reverdie) the writer declares: “Qui que chant de Marïete, / Je chant de Marie,” and in the refrain observes: “Mar voit, mar ot / Qui lait Marie pour Marot.”16 In the story of the mésalliance of a young clerk who, having sworn his allegiance to Our Lady, neglects his commitment, marries his sweetheart only to renounce their union (the marriage is unconsummated) on being reminded of his earlier obligation, Gautier concludes the miracle, as is his habit, with a long passage, exploiting traductio, on the theme of mismarriage and the injunction: “Laissons Maros et Marïons, / Se nos marïons a

Il siérait à qui bien chantât Que sur nul chant ne déchantât. Mais le mien ne craint nul déchant Si l’on n’y met les mots du chant, Et personne bien ne déchante Si sur la rime dont on chante N’était pas construit le déchant: C’est pourquoi est si sûr mon chant. 13 Cf. the forms Marot, Marote, Marotain, Marotele used in the Jeu de Robin et de Marion (Jean Dufournet, ed. [Paris: Flammarion, 1989], p. 135, n. 10) and Maroie which appears in the Jeu de la Feuillée. On Gautier de Coinci’s use of the forms Maret, Mariete, Marion, Marot, Maroye to evoke the secular love of the pastourelle see O. Collet, Index des noms propres. 14 Ed. cit., t. III, p. 279, ll. 381-2. Cf. “Maret” and “Maroye” (var. Marot, Marote, Mariete, Marete, Marote), p. 277, l. 330. Cf. C. Page, The Owl and the Nightingale: Musical Life and Ideas in France 1100-1300 (London: Dent, 1989), pp. 118-9. 15 Ibid., p. 290, ll. 23-6 and Chailley, ed. cit., p.179. 16 Ed. cit., p. 292, ll. 20-21 and 18-19; Chailley, ed. cit., p.180.

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Marie.”17 The second part of Bibbesworth’s dytee is devoted to the contrasting roles of Eve and Mary and the words of the Annunciation. Here is Gautier again on the Eva / Ave play which he makes the central theme of the prologue to his Salus Nostre Dame, making full use of “broken rhyme”: Quant a sa douce mere envoia Diex ave, Livrez ert tous li mondes a tristrece et a ve. Pour salüer sa mere fist Diex ave d’Eva. Marie a recouvree quanque perdu Eve a. [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] Ave mout est dous moz, mout biaus et mout aysius, Mais Eva plus est aigres que ne soit nus aysius. Quant Eva voi venir, trop en sui a malaise; Mais quant ave revient, luez rendue m’a l’aise. Durement cist dui mot sont contraire et divers, Car li uns est estez et li autres yvers. Eva l’iver aporte, la tristece et l’esmai. Ave l’esté nous donne et les fleurs et le mai. Ave dous est et sades, Eva plainz d’amertume. Ave vers le ciel vole, Eva vers enfer tume. Ave a ses amis dou ciel wevre la porte, Mais Eva, li chaitis, en enfer les siens porte. Li ave tous nous sauve, tous nous pert li Eva. Tous li cors me fremie quant devant li E va. Soit toz tanz par derriere, se laist a l’A la voye; Ja Dieu ne plaise mais qu’ele devant l’A voie. Eva par sa folie nous fist ja tel levain Qu’ainz que levé soions, en flairons nous le vain. Laissons donques l’Eva, si detenons l’ave, Car par l’ave sons tuit dou mal Evain lavé. Par ave tous li mons de tous maus fu lavez. Ave si lavanz est, s’en la bouche l’avez, De tous maus, de toz vices tous vous eslavera. Buer fu nez qui en bouche et en cuer l’avera.

17

Ed. cit., vol. 2, p. 204, ll. 194-95.

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Eva le ciel noz clot, mais ave le nous wevre. Laissonz Eva tout coy; noz n’en ferrommes wevre. Ave en bouche aiez, mais Eva vos devé, Car toz est plainz de fiel, de tristrece et de ve.18

The incorporation of the words of the Annunciation is also a device employed by Gautier, naturally in the Salus: Ave a cui li angeles dist: "Plena gracia." Dame, en toy tant de bien et tant de grace i a Par toy nous pardona son mautalent et s’ire Cil qui diex est des diex et des rois maistre et sire. Ave a cui li angeles dist: "Gracia plena." Ave. N’est honz vivanz, se cuer forsené n’a Et s’en enfer ne vielt glacier et eslüer, Jour et nuit ne te doie a genous salüer. Ave qui plena fus de sancto spiritu. Se je ensi ne le croi, mon las d’esperit tu!19 [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]

Continuing further into the Vulgate text: Ave a cui li angles dist: "Dominus tecum." He ! Diex, com cis moz est dous et plaisanz ! He ! com Le dyable engingnaz et com le deceüs ! Quant tu creïs cest mot, l’amour Dieu de c’eüs. Ave a cui li angeles "Dominus tecum" dist. Au voloir Dieu parfaire tes cuers ne s’escondist. Mout t’ama quant a toy envoia tel message, Et tu, virge senee, respondis comme sage. Ave dame. En tes flans se dormi Dominus. En si honeste chambre ainz mais ne dormi nus.20 [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] Ave a cui li angeles dist: "Benedicta tu." Dame, li biaus diteres ce biau dit dit a tu.

18

Ed. cit., t. 4, pp. 545-6, ll. 17-20, 29-56. Ed. cit., t. 4, pp. 553-4, ll. 185-94. 20 Ibid., pp. 558-9, ll. 305-14. 19

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Si volentiers l’oïs quant l’angele aperceüs Qu’en tes flanz le fil Dieu de joie conceüs. Ave virge Marie. In mulieribus Soies tu benoïte. Il n’est certes si bus Bien ne voie en apert que sos est et chalevres Cil qui souvent n’arrouse de ton salu ses levres.21

Gautier’s treatment of the Ave Maria, including, unlike Bibbesworth, fructus ventris tui, corresponds to the beads of the rosary. This material is reworked in the first five stanzas of a chanson which has as refrain: Eve a mort nous livra Et Eve aporta ve, Mais tous nous delivra Et mist a port ave.22

These, of course, are just a few examples from the corpus of Ave Maria poetry in Old French.23 A signal example can be found in Baudouin de Condé’s Li contes du Pellicam: Eve si mal nous atourna, Quant Dieus ce mot nous retorna, L’A devant et derrière l’E, Par qui nous fumes rapielé; C’est Avé qui tout acieva, Ci nos fist mius Avé k’Eva, Car Eve fist l’ome abuscier, Dont il nos covint trebucier En tenebres et en fumiere, Avé nous rendi la lumiere. Tous devons honerer l’Avé; Par là nous fumes tout lavé De l’ort infier, qui nous orda Par Eve, qui tout descorda; 21

Ibid., p. 564, ll. 425-32. Ibid., pp. 575-6, ll. 1-40; Chailley, ed. cit., p. 184. 23 See M. L. Arcangeli Marenzi, Aspetti del tema della Vergine nella letteratura francese del medioevo (Venezia: Libreria universitaria, 1968), pp. 224-8 and refs. in A. Långfors, “Notice du Manuscrit Français 24436 de la Bibliothèque Nationale,” Romania, 41 (1912), 206-46, p. 209, n. 2. See also H. R. Jauss, La Littérature didactique, allégorique et satirique, GRLMA VI/2, 2 vols. (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1968-70), pp. 39-40 and (for “saluts”) pp. 40-43. 22

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Mais Avé fist tout racorder. Dont por voir vous puis recorder Que s’Avé Maria ne fust, N’ississiés de voie marie. Mais li haus salus de Marie, C’on apiele Ave Maria, Par coi Dieus en la Marie a Prise char en humanité, Par celi fumes aquité [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]24

Baudouin’s own Li Ave Maria25 combines the Latin text with complex annominatio but with only a single instance of the play Eva / Ave. A similar composition is the more extensive version by Huon de Cambrai26 and the ambiguous Ave Maria composition of Watriquet de Couvin.27 In the third section Bibbesworth’s word-play centres on rimer. Here one might compare Baudouin de Condé: On ne doit mie mettre en rime Choze qui puist a la gent nuire, Mais rimer pour la gent deduire; Ainsi doit on par droit rimer. Qui fait la nef a droit rimer ? Li boins vens et li boin rimeur; Ains est il du boin rimeur: Quant il doit une rime faire, Il pourvoit si bien son afaire, Que bien coumence et bien define. Si est sa rime bone et fine, Dont le puet dire en toutes cours. Ainsi con la nés a bon cours Quant a bon vent est bien rimee,

24

A. Scheler, ed., Dits et contes de Baudouin de Condé et de son fils Jean de Condé, 3 vols. (Bruxelles: V. Devaux, 1866-67), t. 1, pp. 38-9, ll. 195-218. 25 Ed. Scheler, t. 1 (1866), pp. 183-6. 26 A. Långfors, ed., Li ‘Ave Maria’ en roumans par Huon le Roi de Cambrai, Mém. de la soc. néo-philol. à Helsingfors IV (1906), pp. 319-62. 27 See G. Gros, Le Poète, la Vierge et le Prince: étude sur la poésie mariale en milieu de cour aux XIVe et XVe siècles (Saint-Etienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Etienne, 1994), pp. 35-7.

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Ausi a rime a droit rimee, Qui de bone matere est faite.28

Thus Bibbesworth’s poem provides an interesting Insular intermediary between the word-play of the troubadours,29 Gautier de Coinci’s inspiring exploitation of annominatio, which is really central to the development of wordplay before the “Rhétoriqueurs,”30 and the complex, punning rhymes and word-games of late-medieval poets31 and the Rhétoriqueurs themselves.32

28 Ed. Scheler, vol. 1, pp. 234-5, ll. 40-55 (“Li Contes de l’olifant”). Immediately following this passage there is a further virtuoso demonstration of annominatio exploiting traire and its compounds in a variety of forms, see ll. 59-74. 29 See some of the striking examples printed in Bec, pp. 207-31. 30 See my forthcoming study, Miraculous Rhymes: the Writing of Gautier de Coinci. 31 See G. Gros, Le Poète marial et l’art graphique. Etude sur les jeux de lettres dans les poèmes pieux du Moyen Age (Caen: Paradigme, 1993). 32 L. Kendrick, The Game of Love. Troubadour Wordplay (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1988); P. Zumthor, Le Masque et la lumière: la poétique des Grands Rhétoriqueurs (Paris: Seuil, 1978); F. Cornilliat, “Or ne mens.” Couleurs de l’Eloge et du Blâme chez les “Grands Rhétoriqueurs” (Paris: Champion, 1994), pp. 173-253, “La Rime équivoque: définitions”; C. J. Brown, The Shaping of History and Poetry in Late Medieval France: Propaganda and Artistic Expression in the Works of the Rhétoriqueurs (Birmingham, AL: Summa Publications, 1985); L. W. Johnson, Poets as Players: Theme and Variation in Late Medieval French Poetry (Stanford, CA: Stanford Univ. Press, 1990).

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Text-critical notes (including readings from the Cambridge MS [C]) 1. In C line 1 is preceded by a red paragraph mark, the only case in the text. 2. MS deschauntee. 3. chauntey C. 4. des jourz deschauntey C. 5. a om. C. 6. second chaunt om. C. 7. jeo enchaunt la chantaunce C, seems to incorporate a corruption of the next line, which is otherwise omitted. 9. Qi chaunt chaunceon ou chaunceonet, C. 10. Q’est, C. 11. Qe lui meuz chauntaunt, C.12. Deschauntaunt, C. 14. Ou y n’i a folie en chaunz, C. 15. par chaunz deschauntaunz, C. 16. Vount les fous enchauntaunz, C. 19. Qe les followed by a blank before deschauntent, C. 21. Car un fuy enchauntez, C. 22. MS chauntee. 26. De mort, C. MS trerray. 29. qe tant me unt enchaunte (with superscript correction oit over the last letter), C. 30. Marot, C. 31. Hay Eve, C. 33. chaunceouns, C. 34. Tolu nous est chaunz suns, C. 36. Qe autre chaunt ment, C. 39. chauntereys, C. 40. chaunter oysse, C. C now adds two lines: Mes par tel chaunt chaunteras / Li chaunz qe a chaunter as. 42. MS faufee; tant qe maufez, C. 43. Par, C. 44. MS Eva; chauntames, C. 45. lui chauntames, C. 49. C compresses 49-51 into two lines: Soulement chant Eva qi Ave lesse / Pur Eva e en tuz ses jourz a ve. 55. Par quey, C. 58. MS enbreu. 63. conforta, C. 64. tu r. cum forta, C. 65. Auncel Dieu v.m.c., C. See Luke 1,38. 69. Above par a superscript q has been inserted. C has Par. 70. Le c. al alme m., C. 71. Qe for Qi. 73. le chaunt amend, C. 74. le amend, C. 75. MS vos. 76 ne om., C. 78. fous, C. 84. chauntz a fair, C. 87. E me, MS & C; fet om., C. 91. les musarz v., C. 92. il serront, C. 94. rive (?). 96. MS rymeez. 101. longement, C. 102. jeo me rymaie, C. 104. alme om., C. 106. en le secle, C. 111. Nazar, C. 112. un tel, C. 116. rimerent, C. 117. rymerount, C. 118. qe a rimer unt, C. 119. ben rime as, C. 120. E en ta ch. bon rime as, C. 125. ay de ave r., C.

CATHERINE M. JONES

Polyglots in the chansons de geste1 ultural difference figures prominently in the Old French chansons de geste, often in the guise of a highly formulaic exoticism. Scholars such as Paul Bancourt and Norman Daniel have catalogued the various markers of the epic adversaries’ otherness, including the enumeration of foreign names and titles, the evocation of Oriental marvels and decors, and the depiction of pseudo-Muslim religious practices.2 Daniel notes as well that the Old French epic frequently makes mention of linguistic difference, listing real or imaginary languages spoken on the battlefield and noting potential language barriers between Frankish heroes and their “Saracen” foes (pp. 56-59). When warriors sound the battle cry in a bewildering array of languages, the post-Babel cacophony furnishes a thrilling yet sinister backdrop to military encounters with the Other. As an antidote to the problem of linguistic diversity, however, the texts also furnish examples of linguistic virtuosity, for certain privileged figures possess an extraordinary mastery of foreign tongues. Polyglots in the chansons de geste appear in three principal narrative contexts. First, professional interpreters (drugements or latiniers) figure in both Christian and Saracen courts, where they participate in the dynamics of mediated communication and diplomacy.3 Secondly, multilingualism4 is often found in conjunction with the disguise motif, 1

A preliminary version of this essay was presented at a national conference of the Société Rencesvals, North American Branch (“Romance Epic in the Americas”), Baltimore, October 6, 2001. I am grateful to Sarah Kay for her helpful suggestions. 2 Paul Bancourt, Les Musulmans dans les chansons de geste du cycle du roi (Aix and Marseille, Univ. de Provence, 1982); Norman Daniel, Heroes and Saracens: An Interpretation of the chansons de geste (Edinburgh: Edinburgh Univ. Press, 1984). See also Catherine M. Jones, “Les chansons de geste et l'Orient,” in L'épopée romane. Actes du XVe Congrès international Rencesvals. Civilisation médiévale 13. 2 vols. (Poitiers: Université de Poitiers, Centre d'études supérieures de civilisation médiévale, 2002), vol. 2, pp. 629-645. 3 On messengers and diplomacy in the chansons de geste, see Jacques Merceron, Le Message et sa fiction (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1998) and Jean-Claude Vallecalle, Messages et messagers dans les chansons de geste françaises, thèse de doctorat d’Etat, Université de Provence (1992). 4 Although some linguists make distinctions between “multilingualism” and “polyglottism,” for the purposes of this essay, I shall use the two terms

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as foreign language competence permits certain epic heroes or their spies to penetrate enemy lines for strategic purposes. Finally, a third and smaller group of polyglots–mostly female–have acquired foreign languages as part of their general upbringing. This expertise contributes to a general aura of cultivation, and affords the characters a latent advantage in cross-cultural exchange. The present discussion will focus primarily on the second and third categories, as the passages in question generally involve protagonists and accord significant textual space to foreign language acquisition and proficiency. At least eight chansons de geste feature extended accounts of multilingualism: Aiol, Aliscans, La Chanson de Guillaume, L’Entrée d’Espagne, Gaufrey, Girart de Roussillon, Guy de Bourgogne and La Prise d’Orange. An examination of these polyglot sequences will reveal first of all that they constitute a readily identifiable rhetorical motif displaying recurring semantic and syntactical components. Secondly, I shall analyze the polyglot motif as it operates within specific textual contexts, where it participates in the genre’s slippery representations of identity and alterity. Although not as stereotypical as single lance combat or the “prière du plus grand péril,” the polyglot motif follows a rather consistent discursive pattern. Not surprisingly, the core pattern involves verbs of speaking (parler, estre enparlez, aparler, saluer), and/or verbs of knowing (savoir, entendre), and/or a combination of the two (savoir parler). The core is frequently amplified by verbs of learning (aprendre, estre endoctrinez, estre enlatinez). These verbal constructions may be conjoined initially to a single specific language, such as Greek, to which other tongues are subsequently added; they may precede a list of exotic languages; they may introduce an impressive number of languages (twelve, fourteen); or, even more hyperbolically, a character may be said to know or have learned “all languages.” The following lines from Aliscans are representative of the typical polyglot language shift: “Grezois parole, qu’il en fu doctrinez; / Sarrazinois resavoit il assez; / De toz langages ert bien enlatinez.” 5 The interchangeably. I make a distinction between polyglottism and polyglossia, as sociolinguists use the latter term to refer to situations involving an entire society. See Tom McArthur, ed., The Oxford Companion to the English Language (Oxford; New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1992), pp. 312-13 and 794. 5 Aliscans, ed. Claude Régnier (Paris: Champion, 1990), 1730-32.

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description of the Saracen princess Mirabel in Aiol is characteristic of passages that focus on competence rather than performance: Ele sut bien parler de .xiiii. latins: Ele savoit parler et grigois et hermin, Flamenc et borgengon et tout le sarrasin, Poitevin et gascon, se li vient a plaisir.6

Finally, in both the Chanson de Guillaume and Aliscans, (and, to my knowledge, in these two texts alone), the core motif is further augmented by formulas that call attention to the process of language change. The Chanson de Guillaume introduces a polyglot scene with “Muat sa voiz et changat son latin.”7 Corresponding passages in Aliscans likewise focus on the moment of linguistic transformation: “Sa langue torne, ses latins est müez” (1729); “s’a sa langue tornee” (2460); “s’a sa reson müee” (2461). Since this convergence occurs in one of the parallel episodes linking Guillaume and Aliscans, it may well be attributed to a common source. In both cases, the “mutation” of language accompanies a “mutation” of cultural identity, as the hero shifts his speech in order to impersonate a Saracen. The polyglot motif thus features descriptive and performative characteristics. Because it does not figure in the primary works studied by Jean-Pierre Martin in his monumental study of motifs, he does not include the cliché in his otherwise very thorough catalogue. Martin distinguishes between narrative motifs, recurring sequences on the diegetic level that significantly modify the relationships between principal characters, and rhetorical motifs, recurring sequences on the level of expression that render action, description, or discourse.8 Both narrative and rhetorical motifs are further subdivided into structural and functional categories. In view of its frequency and discursive coherence, polyglottism clearly has a place in Martin’s motif index. In 6

Aiol, ed. Jacques Normand and Gaston Raynaud (1877; New York: Johnson Reprint, 1966), 5420-23. 7 Recherches sur La Chanson de Guillaume: Etudes accompagnées d’une édition, ed. Jeanne Wathelet-Willem, 2 vols. (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1975), 2169. It must be noted that the manuscript gives voie, which modern editors have quite reasonably emended. 8 Jean-Pierre Martin, Les Motifs dans la chanson de geste: définition et utilisation (Lille: Centre d’Etudes Médiévales et Dialectales de Lille III, 1993).

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itself a rhetorical motif, it may be actualized in conjunction either with the “motif narratif modalisateur” of disguise or with the “motif rhétorique descriptif” of the portrait.9 As Martin emphasizes, however, the isolation and classification of epic clichés is but a preliminary step. The poetic and narrative potential of multilingualism in the genre is revealed by an examination of its role in individual texts, where it is linked to other forms of discourse, knowledge, and skill. The majority of the passages in question present multilingualism as a tactical advantage in the concealment of a knight’s identity. The character’s hitherto unmentioned knowledge of foreign tongues is disclosed abruptly as he slips into the role of hero-trickster. Language maps10 are generally limited to Oriental languages–the catch-all “sarazinois” and imaginary foreign tongues–all of which, by metonymic extension, are virtually interchangeable as languages of the Muslim adversary. In Aliscans, Guillaume d’Orange dons the arms of the Saracen Aarofle and speaks Greek and “sarrazinois” in order to return to Orange unnoticed (1710-34). The corresponding passage in the Chanson de Guillaume has him speaking “Salmoneis […] tieis e barbarin, / Alemandeis, grezeis, aleis, hermin / E les langages que il out ainz apris” (2170-72)11 The Prise d’Orange attributes multilingualism not to Guillaume, but to Guillebert, who has spent time in a Saracen prison, where he learned “turquois / Et aufriquant, bedoïn et basclois.”12 Armed with Guillebert’s language proficiency, the two knights blacken their faces, chests, and feet and manage to gain admission to Orange. In the Entree d’Espagne, Roland is able to circulate with ease in “tere alïenor” thanks to his knowlege of “le 9 Martin defines a motif narratif modalisateur as one that endows the subject with a specific competence by means of one of four modalities (devoir, pouvoir, vouloir, savoir) in view of accomplishing a task or épreuve. The motif rhétorique descriptif encompasses portraits and stylized descriptions (p. 368). 10 The expression is used by Terence Cave in his essay “Panurge, Pathelin and Other Polyglots,” in Lapidary Inscriptions: Renaissance Essays for Donald A. Stone, Jr., ed. Barbara C. Bowen and Jerry C. Nash (Lexington: French Forum, 1991), pp. 171-82. 11 Wathelet-Willem’s glossary defines aleis as a “langue étrangère” and salmoneis as “hébreu?” 12 La Prise d’Orange, ed. Claude Régnier, 2nd ed. (Paris: Klincksieck, 1969), 32728. Godefroy defines basclois as a “nom qu’on donnait indifféremment à tous les peuples étrangers.” Régnier’s glossary gives “langue des Basques (peuple sarrasin).”

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langaje de Perse et l’Aufricaine, / La Greçoise, la Hermine, e […] la Suriaine.”13 In Gui de Bourgogne, Charlemagne disguises himself as a pilgrim in order to penetrate Aquilant’s castle, where he glibly greets the enemy “En langage grejois, que tous les latins set.”14 In Gaufrey, the clerkly knight Tierri (who speaks twelve languages “courtoisement”) disguises himself as a Saracen by stealing armor and clothing and speaking Greek. He then assures the unsuspecting enemy that he can easily disguise himself as a Christian, for he speaks French well.15 Here, then, multilingualism participates in both the comic and strategic functions of the disguise motif. Credulous adversaries are temporarily deceived, and crafty Christian heroes obtain vital information or military advantage. At the same time, as François Suard has written, the disguise motif invites us to reflect upon the identity of the epic hero.16 The Frankish knight is never able to conceal his identity for long, as he is discovered either by a flaw in his disguise or by his own revelation. The Guillaume of Aliscans is recognized by the clothing under his Saracen armor; Charlemagne is spotted by an interpreter who has seen him before; Tierri scornfully reveals his own identity when he has obtained the information he was seeking. Cursing his unwitting informant, he demands: “‘Fix a putain paien, Dex vous puist mal donner! / Cuidiés vous que je soie Sarrasin et Escler?’”(Gaufrey, 4087-8).17 It is perhaps significant, however, that the hero is never unmasked because of a language mistake. His oral proficiency is implicitly so impeccable that he can “pass” as a native speaker. Blackface and Saracen armor, external signs of Oriental identity, are quickly abandoned, while the knowledge of language is represented as a permanent and desirable trait. Without retaining the

13

L’Entrée d’Espagne, ed. Antoine Thomas (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1913), 11466-67; see also 11523. 14 Guy de Bourgogne, ed. François Guessard and Henri Michelant (Paris: Jannet, 1858), 1372-73. 15 Gaufrey, ed. François Guessard and P. Chabaille (Paris: Vieweg, 1859), 3758, 4146, 4176. 16 François Suard, “Le motif du déguisement dans quelques chansons du cycle de Guillaume d'Orange,” Olifant 7 (1980), 343-58, here 343. 17 Later his identity is discovered by other Saracens only when someone recognizes the dead messenger whose armor he appropriated (4203 ff.).

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racial characteristics of the Other, the Western masquerader assimilates his language in order to deceive and dominate him. When multilingualism is not linked to episodes of disguise and espionnage, it is generally depicted in the context of cross-cultural communication between the sexes. The two most noteworthy examples occur in Aiol and Gaufrey, both of which involve Saracen princesses whose extraordinary education has prepared them for their eventual encounters with Christian knights. I shall begin with the song of Aiol. Toward the beginning of the text, Aiol himself is said to have undergone language training as part of his general upbringing. Although the passage in question is lacunary, it is clear that the youthful hero learns to speak “latin et romans” and a sufficiently large number of languages to permit him to travel in any land: Et Moisès l’ermite l’ot doctriné, De letres de gramaire l’ot escolé, Bien savoit Aiols lire et enbriever Et latin et romans savoit parler18 Ne en tere u il sache ja tant esrer. (273-7)

More spectacular, however, is the expertise attributed to the daughter of the Saracen King Mibrien, whose linguistic portrait is cited above. 18 Normand and Raynaud believe that there is a lacuna after this line (p. 9, note). See also Wendelin Foerster, who proposes the following interpretation: “Lücke; Sinn: er wusste so viele Sprachen, dass mochte er in noch so ferne Länder ziehen, er überall durchkam,” Aiol et Mirabel und Élie de Saint Gille; zwei altfranzösische Heldengedichte, eds. Wendelin Foerster and Jacob Verdam (1876-82; Wiesbaden: M. Sändig, 1967), p. 428, note. This passage is similar to the education of the romance hero Blancandrin: “De primes fu a letres mis Par le conseil de ses amis; Aprés le fist bien ensaignier Le pere a un sien latinier. Li latiniers par fu tant saiges Qu’il li aprist de toz langaiges; D’eschés, de tables, de deuiz, De chiens et d’oiseax bien fu duiz. Mais li rois si ne voloit mie C’on li monstrast chevalerie.” (35-44) Blancandrin et l’Orgueilleux d’Amour, ed. Franklin P. Sweetser (Geneva: Droz; Paris: Minard, 1964).

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Mirabel knows how to speak fourteen languages, including Greek, Armenian, all Saracen tongues, Flemish, and three Romance dialects (“borgengon […] poitevin et gascon,” 5422-23). According to Paul Bancourt, Mirabel’s remarkable erudition functions primarily to create a certain “exotic atmosphere” (p. 599). However, her foreign language proficiency also appears to serve a very practical function in the text. Having been kidnapped by Aiol in the course of a long journey, she is so hungry and thirsty, the narrator assures us, that she will die if she does not soon find something to eat and drink (5418-19). It is in the very next line that we learn of her multilingualism. After listing all of the languages in Mirabel’s repertory, the narrator reports that she takes the reins of Aiol’s horse and begs the knight courteously to find sustenance. The text does not specify what language she uses to make her request, but the combined erudition of Aiol and Mirabel has prepared both characters for this Berlitz moment. Aiol has nothing substantial to offer the maiden, but he does manage to locate a fountain and a place to rest. Soon after these shared experiences in the forest, Mirabel witnesses Aiol’s extraordinary prowess in battle, and although she has taken a bit more time over it than most Saracen princesses, she predictably falls in love with the knight, converts to Christianity, and becomes Aiol’s wife. The song of Gaufrey, named for the eldest son of Doon de Maïence, recounts (among its many narrative threads) the predicament of Doon and Garin de Monglane, who have been captured and imprisoned in the “Tour Barbel” by the Saracen King Machabré. There the two aging heroes are predictably plagued by the usual toads and snakes, but most of all, they suffer from starvation and thirst. Doon and Garin ultimately receive help from Machabré’s daughter, Flordespine, who has eavesdropped on their conversation and discovered that Doon is the uncle of Berart du Mont Didier, whom she has long loved from afar. Here the poet inserts a portrait of the fourteen-and-a-half-year-old Flordespine, the most beautiful maiden “en toute paiennie” (1799) and surely the most accomplished. Her linguistic erudition is somewhat less impressive than Mirabel’s, as she appears to be only trilingual (“Bien sot parler latin et entendre rommant,” 1794). In addition, however, she is able to play chess and backgammon, and she is the most able female astronomer in the world (1795-97). Flordespine, who speaks “francheis” to the prisoners, promises to have them fed generously if they will help unite her with Berart. True to her word,

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she surreptitiously has them fed four copious meals a day. Thanks to the mediation of Doon and Garin (but not before innumerable battles, voyages, captures and rescues), she meets Berart in person, is baptized and marries him. Thus, Mirabel and Flordespine apply their linguistic training in the context of both bodily necessities (their own or others’) and love. Clearly, their proficiency and exploits are no less exaggerated than those of Guillaume d’Orange and Charlemagne. Although embedded in a conventional context, these examples of multilingualism in the chansons de geste nonetheless signal a preoccupation with the utilitarian dimension of foreign language learning. In this regard, the polyglot motif forges a poetic link with medieval travel accounts, some of which contained basic vocabulary and conversation patterns for travellers (including how to ask for food, lodging and even sex, although this last one is in a fifteenth-century guide), thus paving the way for modern-day series such as “Getting By in French.”19 Closely related to the multilingual belle Sarrasine is the Byzantine princess Berthe, wife of Girart de Roussillon, whose training includes not only Greek, Latin, and Romance Languages, but also Hebrew and Chaldean: Sos paire li a fait les ars parar; Sat caudiu e gregeis e romencar, E latin e ebriu tot declarar. Entre sen e beltat e gent parlar, Ne pout nus om el munt sa par trobar.20

Unlike Mirabel and Flordespine, Berthe does not deploy her linguistic ability (implicitly or explicitly) in the text. Rather, as Alain Labbé has demonstrated, her philological erudition heightens the celebrated contrast between Berthe and her sister Elissent, the latter having been preferred by the emperor for her superior beauty. Although Berthe is portrayed as a paragon of feminine submission and resignation, she is also valorized for her intellectual and spiritual gifts. Her extraordinary education also reflects the prestige accorded by the West to Byzantine

19 See Bernhard Bischoff, “The Study of Foreign Languages in the Middle Ages,” Speculum, 36 (1961), 217-19. 20 Girart de Roussillon, ed. W. Mary Hackett (Paris: Picard, 1953-55), 237-41.

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civilization, an exotic realm of both material and scholarly treasures.21 The emphasis on language is not limited to Berthe, but rather participates in this Occitan epic’s general consciousness of linguistic difference, even among Christian combattants. Within Charles Martel’s army, knights are distinguished by their Germanic and Romance tongues: “L’un parle tiois, l’autre romanç” (1859).22 This is exceptional in a genre that typically assumes an unproblematic intercomprehension among representatives of the diverse peoples united against the Saracen foe.23 Polyglots in the chansons de geste, then, may serve either to widen or to bridge the gap between civilizations. Indeed, the motif displays the same ambivalence as other forms of exoticism in the genre. On the one hand, multilingualism is presented as a desirable and admirable skill, associated with other kinds of ingenuity and competence. On the other hand, the ability to switch codes is linked with other forms of double language, including betrayal. A character who speaks French, Greek, sarrazinois, and all other languages is also more apt to equivocate when speaking aloud, while expressing true sentiments “entre ses dents.”24 In the case of Flordespine, foreign language learning is implicitly linked to a change of heart and allegiance. When the jailer discovers her in conversation with the Christian prisoners, he admonishes her for keeping her father and Saracen fiancé waiting, and suggests that her feelings for the latter have already changed. The jailer sarcastically berates Flordespine not only for talking too much (“‘trop alés sarmonnant,’” 1844) but also for crossing the language barrier (“‘Aprendrez vous francheis?’” 1845). 21 Alain Labbé, “La comtesse Berthe dans Girart de Roussillon: ‘l’amour et la vie d’une femme,’” in Charlemagne in the North, Proceedings of the Twelfth International Conference of the Société Rencesvals, ed. Philip Bennett, Anne Cobby and Graham Runnells (London: Grant & Cutler, 1993), pp. 319-33, here 323-24. 22 See also 1870 and 7101. The text also distinguishes between Northern French and Occitan characters (92), a question Simon Gaunt explores in “Desnaturat son li Frances: Language and Identity in the Twelfth-Century Occitan Epic,” Tenso, 17.1 (Spring 2002), 10-31. 23 This has been noted as well by Micheline de Combarieu du Grès and Gérard Gouiran in their bilingual edition of Girart de Roussillon (Paris: Librairie Générale Française, 1993), p. 49, note. 24 See, for example, Flordespine in Gaufrey, 6550; Charlemagne in Gui de Bourgogne 1442; Guillaume in the Prise d’Orange, 608.

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It is true that from the narrator’s perspective, such “traitors” are most often sympathetic figures, either Christian knights in peril or Saracen princesses on the brink of conversion. At the same time, however, the polyglot motif does convey a certain cultural anxiety about language in the post-Babel world. In this respect, polyglottism opens up onto the more troublesome problem of polyglossia, in the sense of multiple and competing systems of discourse. The link between the two finds its fullest expression in the fourteenth-century Entrée d’Espagne. Nancy Bradley-Cromey’s insightful study traces the multilingual Roland’s spiritual and discursive journey “to remove the polyglossia of other doctrines throughout the world, beyond the erroneous discourse of Islamic Spain and the Middle East to ‘strange countries’ settled by the descendants of Nimrod.”25 At the end of his Middle Eastern odyssey, Roland defers conquest of the Tower of Babel, for he “is now sufficiently competent in the use of language to correct the confusion of human communication which is the source of global disorder” (Bradley-Cromey, p. 19). Paradoxically, polyglot individuals in the epic appear to be particularly well-suited to the task of silencing discourses that compete with Christian supremacy. The polyglot motif thus provides further evidence, if any were needed, that the chansons de geste display only the most superficial interest in cultural diversity. The enumeration of varied and colorfulsounding languages may be likened to the collections of real and invented foreign alphabets that began to appear in the West at the beginning of the twelfth century.26 In addition, this popular curiosity with regard to exotic languages anticipates the beginning of institutional Orientalism, which Edward Saïd dates to the Council of Vienne in 1312. In creating a series of chairs in Arabic, Greek, Hebrew, and Syriac in major European universities, the Council did not seek to deepen the West’s knowledge of Islam, but rather to discover new means of converting Muslims to Christianity. 27 Finally, it must be noted that while some epic polyglots prefigure such eminent 25

Nancy Bradley-Cromey, Authority and Autonomy in L’Entrée d’Espagne (New York and London: Garland), 1993, p. 259. 26 See Bischoff, p. 213. 27 Edward Saïd, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books, 1978), pp. 49-50. See also Philippe Sénac, L’Image de l’autre: l'Occident médiéval face à l'islam (Paris: Flammarion, 1983), pp. 136-37.

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tricksters as Pathelin and Panurge, Guillaume d’Orange and Roland are distinguished from their later counterparts, whose proficiency (limited, in the case of Pathelin) is dramatized in direct discourse.28 Polyglots in the chansons de geste are merely declared to have spoken or to be capable of speaking different languages.29 The textual ellipsis of actual utterances in a foreign tongue is testimony not only to the probable monolingualism of most jongleurs, but also to the ideological underpinnings of a genre that sought to represent other cultures only to translate and contain them.

28 See Terence Cave, op. cit. Pathelin speaks seven different languages, of which four are regional forms of French (limousin, picard, normand, and lorrain); two others, Flemish and Breton, are distinct languages but spoken within or on borders of French at the time; and “latin de cuisine.” Cave notes, however, that Pathelin’s speech is always garbled, meant to be connotative rather than denotative. In Pantagruel IX, Panurge speaks nine modern languages, seven Western European and two invented tongues (Antipodean and “Lanternois”), as well as Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. 29 A minor exception from the song of Gaufrey concerns the converted Saracen princess Fauqueite, wife of the treacherous Grifon and mother of Ganelon. She is not explicitly presented as a polyglot and does not participate in the motif such as I have described it. However, she does make a brief appearance as a linguistic and cultural interpreter. When one of the Christian knights is grievously wounded, Fauqueite heals him with an herb and proceeds to relate its history, in which she blends the legend of l’herbe de la Saint Jean with that of the griffon. The marvelous plant had its roots in the Garden of Eden just after the revolt of the fallen angels, but was removed, she declares, by a certain bird: “En sarrazinois est Durginas appelez / Et si est en francheis aussi Grifon nommés”(3970-72). Like Marie de France, this bilingual storyteller pointedly translates the name of a key figure in her tale. Whereas other characters are merely declared to have spoken or to be capable of speaking different languages, Fauqueite’s ability is actualized in direct discourse. To be sure, both sarrazinois and its representative word are as fanciful as the tale she tells.

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How Did Guiolete Come to Court? Or, the Sometimes Inscrutable Paths of Tradition he question in the title refers to a passage in the Perceval Continuations on variant versions of Guiolete’s arrival at Arthur’s court. Si vos recont por voir et di Que si con vos l’avez oï Vint l’amie au bon chevalier A cort. Ce poëz tesmoingnier A ceus qui par faux jugement Tesmoingnent qu’el vint autrement; Et Dex honte lor [en] tramete, Que einsi i vint Guiolete. (16801-08)1

The implied audience in “Ce poëz tesmoingnier” in verse 16804 presumably recognized the “amie au bon chevalier” immediately, and was aware of other, rejected versions of how she came to court. What those audiences knew we do not know, and, short of some unlikely discovery, we can never know. The passage in which Guiolete’s name appears points to variant traditions, either oral or written, like those referred to by Thomas d’Angleterre in choosing the Breri version over others that he consulted in writing his Tristan. Entre ceux qui solent cunter E de le cunte Tristran parler, Il en cuntent diversement. Oï en ai de plusur gent, Asez sai que chescun en dit E ço que il unt mis en escrit. Mé sulun ço que j’ai oÿ, Nel dient pas sulun Breri.2 1 The Continuations of the Old French ‘Perceval’ of Chrétien de Troyes. Vol. 2: The First Continuation: Redaction of Mss ‘E M Q U’, ed. William Roach and Robert H. Ivy (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1950). 2 In Tristan et Yseut: les premières versions européennes, ed. Christiane MarchelloNizia et al. (Paris: Gallimard, 1995), pp. 184-85 (2267-74). On the interpretation of this so-called en uni dire passage, see my “En uni dire (Tristan Douce 839) and the Composition of Thomas’s Tristan,” Modern Philology, 66 (1969), 9-17, and, for its

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The notion of tradition illustrated in this passage sets the context for answers to the question about Guiolete’s arrival at court. Observing the use of the word tradition in modern scholarship, one scholar has noted that “the term ‘tradition’ is often and perhaps inevitably used loosely, as a post-facto gathering together of works in the mind of a critic rather than a collection of works perceived as such by any other authors themselves.”3 This perceptive observation is important. It has major implications for our views on medieval genres, of audience reception in the Middle Ages, and of intertextuality. The Guiolete passage points to ways by which medieval invention can shed light on them. Scholars often define medieval genres by adopting the vocabulary of the time; this is especially true for lyric.4 In the case of romance and chanson de geste, we do have a vocabulary for different kinds of writing, but it is far more difficult to define that vocabulary in a generally suitable way–suitable, that is, for identifying generic features that characterize romances and chansons de geste. The lack of medieval theories of genre tends to make their use of this vocabulary less precise or compelling than what we tend to expect and look for today.5 Other approaches to the problem of medieval genres include Jauß’s notion of historical genre. By this he means that awareness of a genre constituted a horizon of expectation in medieval audiences based on

place in the context of medieval romance invention, my The Art of Medieval French Romance (Madison: Univ. of Wisconsin Press, 1992), pp. 129-33. 3 Ardis Butterfield, “Aucassin et Nicolette and Mixed Forms in Medieval French,” in Prosimetrum: Crosscultural Perspectives on Narrative in Prose and Verse, ed. Joseph Harris and Karl Reichl (Cambridge: Brewer, 1997), pp. 67-98, here p. 69; cf. Sarah Kay, The ‘Chansons de geste’ in the Age of Romance: Political Fictions (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 1. 4 For typical and authoritative overviews, see Pierre Bec, Etudes, vol. 1 of his La lyrique française au moyen âge (XIIe-XIIIe siècles): contribution à une typologie des genres poétiques médiévaux, 2 vols. (Paris: Picard, 1977), and Medieval Lyric: Genres in Historical Context, ed. William D. Paden (Urbana, Chicago: Univ. of Illinois Press, 2000). 5 See my Art of Medieval French Romance, pp. 94-99.

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what they knew.6 But more often than not this becomes our horizon of expectation based on what we, or I, know, or what he or she knows– precisely the kind of problem Butterfield notes in her observation on tradition. Statements by authorities may prevail for a time because of their “authority,” but not necessarily on the basis of what the surviving manuscript evidence allows us to presume. For example, the medieval audiences knew something about Guiolete that we do not know. Although horizons are presumed to be ever growing along much the same lines, the Guiolete passage shows that they may not. The First Perceval (or Gauvain) Continuation’s audiences presumably heard tell of ways she came to court that are different from its version. We do not know those sources or what they had to say that was different. There are, therefore, different, individual horizons of expectation, today as in the Middle Ages.7 Allusions to such versions are not infrequent in romance. Thomas d’Angleterre tried to bring together those he knew in his retelling of the Tristan story, but he excluded whatever does not make sense to him (Tristan, pp. 184-85 = 2261-65, 2278-90). His authority, Breri, is lost today; other versions, both oral and written, are also lost, at least in part, if he had Beroul in mind, although this version is usually dated after Thomas, or, again, the lost French version of Eilhart von Oberg=s German adaptation.8 In any case, we have here an insurmountable obstacle to the identification of genre today by the theory of a universal, or even general medieval 6 Hans Robert Jauß, “Theorie der Gattungen und Literatur des Mittelalters,” Généralités, ed. Maurice Delbouille, in vol. 1: Grundriß der romanischen Literaturen des Mittelalters, (Heidelberg: Winter, 1972), pp. 107-38. 7 The Perceval Continuations illustrate this. Only the Long Version gives the name Guiolete in this episode. Verse 16808 is repeated in M; Q reads “Guignolete.” See the variants to this line on p. 504 of the edition. In the two Short Versions, she is anonymous or, as in the Mixed, named in variants, suggesting that some copiests did not recognize her name. See episode IV, 6 in Continuations, vol. 1: Redaction of Mss ‘T V D’, 12671-78, and vol. 3, Part 1: Redaction of Mss ‘A L P R S’, in L, 6739-42, and A S P U, 6721-27 and variants: “Galoïete” (AU), “Agaloete” (S), and “Gloriete” (P). On the problems with her name in the different versions and manuscripts, see Pierre Gallais, L’imaginaire d’un romancier français de la fin du XIIe siècle: description raisonnée, comparée et commentée de la “Continuation-Gauvain” (première suite du “Conte du Graal” de Chrétien de Troyes), 4 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1988-89), vol. 1, p. 387, and vol. 2, pp. 709-10. 8 These versions are now available in French translation in the Pléiade edition referred to in note 2, above.

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horizon of expectation. Indeed, each critic, like each member of medieval audiences, is bound to have a different horizon, as the references to Guiolete in the different Perceval Continuations suggest. One way around the problem suggests expanding our horizons by reading intently a greater number of works belonging, it would appear, to a perceived genre in order to bring our horizons into line with that of medieval audiences. Recent explorations into currently noncanonical romances follow this lead.9 Yet, as the Guiolete and Breri allusions suggest, it is entirely possible, and, indeed, likely, that the knowledge of any given modern critic cannot coincide with that of any medieval person who ever existed. There may even be resistance to certain works widely known in the Middle Ages. For example, this passage in the Roman de Hem has not inspired enthusiasm for the Roman de Troie by Benoît de Sainte-Maure, Chrétien de Troyes’s and Marie de France’s great contemporary:10 “Oï avés des Troïiens / Et du remant que Crestïiens / Trova si bel de Perceval.”11 This brings me to reception. Audience reception in the Middle Ages is also a vexed issue. There are many ways a given audience can know what we may or may not 9 Beate Schmolke-Hasselmann, Der arthurische Versroman von Chrestien bis Froissart: zur Geschichte einer Gattung (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1980), including Keith Busby’s “Foreword” to the English translation: The Evolution of Arthurian Romance: The Verse Tradition from Chrétien to Froissart, trans. Margaret and Roger Middleton (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1998); Richard Trachsler, Disjointuresconjointures: étude sur l’interférence des matières narratives dans la littérature française du Moyen Age (Tübingen, Basel: Francke), and Kay, Chansons de geste. 10 Benoît was better known and more widely appreciated than they were, judging by the number of surviving manuscripts and the length of time during which he continued to be read. The codicological basis is now available in two recent publications: Les manuscrits de Chrétien de Troyes–The Manuscripts of Chrétien de Troyes, ed. Keith Busby et al., 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993); and Marc-René Jung, La légende de Troie en France au moyen âge: analyse des versions françaises et bibliographie raisonnée des manuscrits (Basel: Francke, 1996). 11 Sarrasin, Le Roman du Hem, ed. Albert Henri (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1939), 47577. For similar allusions to what audiences knew, see Ulrich Mölk, Französische Literarästhetik des 12. und 13. Jahrhunderts: Prologe–Excurse–Epiloge (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1969), §§14, 90-114; 29, 841-54; 51, 7-28; 61, 1-15; 62, 1-13 (cited as an example by Jauß, p. 127); 64, 2309-12; 75, 33-35; 76, 13-19; 80, 99-102. Note also §§ 30, 1-7 (Chrétien’s reference in Cligés to his earlier writings) and 54, 5-7 (Adenet le roi’s reference in Cleomades to his earlier writings). See also Mölk, p. 114 s.v. ‘Kritik’ for criticism of others.

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know today. Generally, reception implies reading a work or hearing it read aloud. But this simple dichotomy turns out to be more complex and indeterminate in the medieval context. Reading may be individual or occur in a group; in both cases it may also imply reading aloud, to oneself in the former instance, or to oneself and others in the latter. Furthermore, manuscript transmission like that apparent for the Guiolete passage suggests that a given work could be edited or scripted for reading to meet specific, even unique demands of time, place, and audience predilections.12 Such adaptation could be ad hoc; it could also occur prior to reading and lead to revised copy or even a new, variant manuscript. Since Paul Zumthor=s major publications on orality and vocality,13 there has been important work on oral reception that suggests new possibilities for performance such as memorization and improvisation by jongleuresque as well as clerical readers or storytellers.14 There is also evidence that others–knights, for example–related stories they had heard to their companions when there was no other pastime available.15 Something like this is illustrated by flashbacks knights 12 Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book: The Poetics of Writing in Old French Lyric and Lyrical Narrative Poetry (Ithaca, NY: Cornell Univ. Press, 1987); Frank Brandsma, “The Presentation of Direct Discourse in Arthurian Romance: Changing Modes of Performance and Reception?” in The Medieval “Opus”: Imitation, Rewriting, and Transmission in the French Tradition, ed. Douglas Kelly (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1996), pp. 245-60; and Keith Busby, Codex and Context: Reading Old French Verse Narrative in Manuscript, 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002). 13 La poésie et la voix dans la civilisation médiévale (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1984); La lettre et la voix: de la “littérature” médiévale (Paris: Seuil, 1987). 14 On performance, see Evelyn Birge Vitz, Orality and Performance in Early French Romance (Cambridge: Brewer, 1999). But what do or can we know about how such performances were staged? For example, a group of students in Madison staged a performance of a highly truncated Romance of the Rose a few years ago; it was successful, although no one knew whether the performance corresponded to the ways medieval students, jongleurs, or mimes might have spoken, gestured, danced, dressed, or otherwise moved about during performances. 15 Marie-Luce Chênerie, Le Chevalier errant dans les romans arthuriens en vers des XIIe et XIIIe siècles (Geneva: Droz, 1986), p. 61; W. P. Gerritsen, “Een avond in Ardres: over middeleeuwse verhaalkunst,” in Grote Lijnen: syntheses over Middelnederlandse letterkunde (Amsterdam: Prometheus, 1995), pp. 158-61. On performances in Flamenca, see Vitz, pp. 197-201; and in Jacques Bretel, Le tournoi de Chauvency, ed. Maurice Delbouille (Liége: Vaillant-Carmanne, Paris: Droz, 1932), see 4181-4456, and n. 19, below.

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insert from lays into Guiron le courtois.16 Such storytelling is analogous to what one could hear if I were to tell the story of Lancelot or Little Red Riding Hood as I remember them. Rhetoric too is an art of oral delivery and even of improvisation, although this has not received due attention in these studies.17 Clerical sources report how readers might be accompanied by mimes acting out what they recite. An influential twelfth-century commentary on Horace=s Art of Poetry, one of the sources for the medieval arts of poetry, refers to such performances. This commentator translates the word scaena in verse 125 of Horace’s poem as the curtains from behind which mimes emerge to act out the actions related by a recitor.18 Although the commentator is referring to Latin-language, scholastic publics, such performances, including recitation and pantomime, are possible in aristocratic milieus. For example, there are accounts of them in the thirteenth-century Tournoi de Chauvency as part of evening entertainment.19 The reconstruction of medieval reception, given these kinds of documented reading and hearing, becomes as problematic as medieval notions of genre, especially given what medieval audiences knew and modern scholars do not, and, inversely, what the modern scholar knows and what medieval audiences did not. There are just too many variants. 16

Roger Lathuillère, Guiron le courtois: étude de la tradition manuscrite et analyse critique (Geneva: Droz, 1966), pp. 154-55; on these “epicycles,” cf. Kelly, Art of Medieval French Romance, pp. 204 and 363, n. 245. 17 But see Tony Hunt, “Chrestien and the comediae,” Mediaeval Studies, 40 (1978), 120-56; Thomas Haye, Oratio: mittelalterliche Redekunst in lateinischer Sprache (Leiden: Brill, 1999). 18 “Scenon obumbraculum; inde scena quidam locus in theatro iuxta recitatorem, ubi erant cortine extente infra quas latitabant persone, que prodibant ad suos gestus representandos, et inde scena theatrum uel recitatio uel scriptura recitanda appellatur,” in Karsten Friis-Jensen, “The Ars Poetica in Twelfth-Century France: The Horace of Matthew of Vendôme, Geoffrey of Vinsauf, and John of Garland,” Cahiers de l’Institut du Moyen-Age grec et latin, Université de Copenhague, 60 (1990), 319-88, here p. 353; for other references in this commentary, see my The Conspiracy of Allusion: Description, Rewriting, and Authorship from Macrobius to Medieval Romance (Leiden: Brill, 1999), p. 112 n. 123. 19 Delbouille, ed., Chauvency, pp. lxxi-lxxii. The tournament related in the Roman de Hem is a vast pantomime, with the participants and spectators assuming the roles and names of knights of the Round Table.

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This brings us to the modern notion of intertextuality.20 The term intertextuality, however one understands it, has proven highly serviceable for interpreting medieval literature in the contexts of genre, reception, and imitation, because it suggests or reveals interrelationships among works, whether oral or written. But it also must confront the problem raised above: how can we be sure what writers and publics actually knew about these intertextual relations? The answer cannot be monumental and all-embracing. The numerous factors mentioned above influence medieval textuality and a fortiori intertextuality in ways that do not impinge on writing nearly so much since the printing press–for example, mouvance. Mouvance is not only changes made in passing from one manuscript to another,21 and, thus, the uncertainty as to what an author=s sources may have been, and, when only one or two manuscripts survive, uncertainty as to whether the survivals were modified in transmission. Let us look at some varieties of mouvance and determine how we, today, can use them to interpret our editions in the context of intertextuality. To do so, let us turn to a useful term in discussing intertextuality: the model. Thomas Haye confronts the problem of genre by proposing the term “model” (“Schreibmuster”) in its various applications for the interpretation of medieval writing and rewriting.22 I am also including model in Michael Riffaterre=s sense of both real and potential intertextuality23–what Geoffrey of Vinsauf calls the status archetypus of a work as suggested by that materia’s potential for original rewriting.24 Since, for the reasons set out above, genre is a cumbersome, if not anachronistic notion when applied to medieval 20 See Intertextualités médiévales, ed. Daniel Poirion, in Littérature, 41 (1981), 1118; Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner, “Intertextuality,” in The Legacy of Chrétien de Troyes, ed. Norris J. Lacy et al., 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1987-88), vol. 1, pp. 223-65; Friedrich Wolfzettel, ed., Artusroman und Intertextualität (Gießen: Schmitz, 1990); Intergenres: Intergeneric Perspectives on Medieval French Literature, ed. Sara Sturm-Maddox and Donald Maddox, in L’Esprit créateur, 33:4 (1993). 21 See Rupert T. Pickens’s edition of Jaufré Rudel, The Songs (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1978). 22 Das lateinische Lehrgedicht im Mittelalter: Analyse einer Gattung (Leiden: Brill, 1997), pp. 1-4. 23 Michael Riffaterre, “L’intertexte inconnu,” Littérature, 41 (1981), 4-7. 24 See my The Arts of Poetry and Prose (Turnhout: Brepols, 1991), pp. 37-38, 6468.

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texts, and may even be an impediment to understanding how epic and romance were performed and read, it seems to me that “model” is a more useful term in describing medieval intertextuality, rewriting, and performance. The model includes these activities since they all, in the medieval context, suppose an antecedent. Today, the antecedent is usually called a source, but medieval usage suggests that the source was construed as a model with potential for rewriting. We must also distinguish between author-focused and audiencefocused rewriting of models. Author-focused rewriting gives insight into an author=s rewriting of a model, but implies nothing about the audience’s knowledge of that model. For example, Benoît de SainteMaure refers to medieval Latin versions of the Trojan War, but states that he is writing for French-speaking audiences who cannot read them.25 His audiences cannot, therefore, be expected to appreciate Benoît=s art of rewriting his models as we can if we read his sources. On the other hand, when Thomas d=Angleterre in Tristan, Chrétien de Troyes in Erec, and our Guiolete passage refer to multiple versions of their stories, they seem to expect their audiences to perceive and appreciate the differences between these models and their rewrites: D’Erec, le fil Lac, est li contes, Que devant rois et devant contes Depecier et corronpre suelent Cil qui de conter vivre vuelent.26

Chrétien goes on to contrast his conjointure with the allegedly shredded and incomplete versions his audiences may have known (but about which we know no more than he says). Such passages show that contemporary medieval audiences knew versions of these stories that are lost today.27 Thomas=s choice of Breri as model is analogous to Benoît=s preference for Dares and Dictys over Homer. That is, Benoît=s 25

Benoît de Sainte-Maure, Le roman de Troie, ed. Léopold Constans (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1904-12), 33-44. 26 Erec et Enide, ed. Peter F. Dembowski, in Chrétien de Troyes, Œuvres complètes, ed. Daniel Poirion (Paris: Gallimard, 1994), p. 3 = 19-22; cf. p. 1075 n. 6, and n. 2, above. 27 Barring discovereries like the Carlisle Tristan fragment; see Michael Benskin, Tony Hunt, and Ian Short, “Un nouveau fragment du Tristan de Thomas,” Romania, 113 (1992-95), 289-319–or, better yet, a manuscript containing the whole romance.

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preferred sources are models that offer what he thinks is a more credible version of the Trojan War. For example, Dares and Dictys do not show the gods fighting with men (Troie, 60-70).28 Similarly, Breri does not have Governal try to deliver a message to Iseut because he thinks Governal would have been recognized at Marc=s court (p. 185 = 2278-2306). These examples show the interest of examining works whose models are extant because we can see how the rewriter remodeled his or her model. Obvious examples are works adapted from one language to another like the so-called romans antiques. There is evidence for such remodeling in both medieval vernacular and Latin traditions. My illustrations are only suggestions: they may open space for more general or specialized discussion and interpretation. An art of poetry by Gervase of Melkley provides a point of departure. Gervase claims that Matthew of Vendôme=s Ars versificatoria offers a full treatise on the art of composition, but that Geoffrey of Vinsauf=s Poetria nova is fuller.29 Moreover, Gervase names a third author who, he asserts, provides the fullest treatment of the art of composition in both prose and verse: Bernardus Silvestris. Bernardus wrote no known art of poetry. Attempts to find it have turned up nothing in manuscript or in medieval library catalogues that corresponds to such a full treatment. But Gervase also states that Bernardus, like a number of other authors he names, is an excellent model for the poetic art. He himself studied under the tutelage of one of those authors, Jean de Hauville. Jean de Hauville=s contemporary Architrenius can, Gervase claims, teach the aspiring student writer all he or she needs to know about composition. So can Bernardus Silvestris=s Cosmographia. We now have a scholastic program for imitation of models that can very well explain the progression of aspiring and talented authors writing in Latin and, by analogy, the vernacular. The evidence leads to the plausible conclusion that 28 This does not mean that Benoît excludes them in other, more decorous circumstances; see my “The Invention of Briseida’s Story in Benoît de Sainte-Maure’s Troie,” Romance Philology, 48 (1995), 221-41, here pp. 224-25. 29 Ars poetica, ed. Hans-Jürgen Gräbener (Münster/W.: Aschendorff, 1965), p. 1, ll. 9-11. On what follows, see my Arts of Poetry and Prose, pp. 57-64. Cf. also JeanYves Tilliette, Des mots à la Parole: une lecture de la “Poetria nova” de Geoffroy de Vinsauf (Geneva: Droz, 2000).

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Bernardus Silvestris=s Cosmographia, a prosimetrum–that is, a work in both verse and prose–is a full and complete model of the art of composition as Gervase describes it. But there are problems. Chrétien, Thomas, Marie de France, and Benoît all refer to multiple sources and, thus, multiple models. The amalgam of such material and its remodeling into what Chrétien may well have meant by the expression bele conjointure requires the kind of adaptations referred to in the Thomas and Benoît interventions noted above. Indications in the text can be helpful, as when Chrétien writes that his conjointure, which he thinks is bele, is so because it eliminates the defects of the allegedly shredded, lacuna-infested contes d=aventure hawked about by storytellers in royal and other high courts. We can test whether his romance on Erec and Enide is depecié or corrompu even if we cannot now know the versions that he castigates. Perhaps we see two of them, darkly, through the two vers, or narrative sequences, that make up the first part of Erec.30 Written sources offer other perspectives. For example, Francine Mora-Lebrun and Raymond Cormier have shown that the Eneas relied not only on Vergil=s epic but also on glosses of the Aeneid that are worked into the French romance,31 whether the anonymous Eneas poet thought of such glosses as integral to the Aeneid or as multiple sources. The Ovide moralisé also amalgamates Ovidian narrative and glosses. Perhaps such “conjointures” account for the unidentified or apparently erroneous allusions to Dares and Dictys in the Roman de Troie: they too may refer to glosses incorporated into rewrites of Dares and Dictys, as in Joseph of Exeter=s Ylias (another of Gervase’s model authors) and the anonymous De bello troyano. Both these twelfth-century poems are called “Dares” in some manuscripts and in allusions like Gervase’s (p. 140, l. 18); the author of the De bello troyano even refuses to name 30

Kelly, “The Source and Meaning of conjointure in Chrétien’s Erec 14,” Viator, 1 (1970), 195-98. 31 Francine Mora-Lebrun, L’“Enéide” médiévale et la naissance du roman (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1994), ch. 9; Raymond J. Cormier, “Qui détient le Rameau d’Or devant Charon? (Enéide, VI 405-407),” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, n.s. 131 (1988), 151-56; and his “An Example of Twelfth Century Adaptatio: The Roman d’Eneas Author’s Use of Glossed Aeneid Manuscripts,” Revue d’histoire des textes, 19 (1989), 277-89 + plates VI-IX. Cf. Rita Copeland, Rhetoric, Hermeneutics, and Translation in the Middle Ages: Academic Traditions and Vernacular Texts (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1991).

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himself because he is merely rewriting his source rather than doing something original with it.32 In French we have Chrétien imitating Ovid in Philomena. Yet Philomena survives as incorporated into the Ovide moralisé, along with glosses; we cannot say whether it has altered Chrétien’s version, since no separate manuscript of this poem attributed to Chrétien is extant. Other interventions distinguish between first or primary source authors and other secondary ones.33 In order to suggest how this art of invention and therefore of original rewriting was practiced we need studies that identify its features so we can actually observe both models and rewrites. Then we may begin to see whether, and to what extent, various theories of the medieval literary art are applied. Let me illustrate with a simple specimen text: the adaptation of Perceval’s stay at Beaurepaire in that part of the Post-Vulgate Roman du graal called the Folie Lancelot. Since Fanni Bogdanow has identified the major adaptations made by the Post-Vulgate author on Chrétien=s version,34 we can confine ourselves here to appreciating the prose=s adaptations in the context of this article. Perceval’s niceté is absent, but his virginity remains intact. In Chrétien=s version Perceval’s niceté is explained by his lack of a chivalric upbringing and, more specifically, his failure to understand other than literally and absolutely Gornemant=s injunction not to talk too much. In the Vulgate cycle, Perceval may be nice, but he is so only in a perfunctory way. In the Queste, one of God’s representatives thinks so,35 which casts a different, moral light on the topic. However, he is most certainly a virgin, albeit an unchaste one, and is to remain so. The Post-Vulgate author adapts Chrétien’s Conte du Graal while 32

Kelly, Conspiracy, pp. 128-29, 147-48. Kelly, Art of Medieval French Romance, pp. 77, 92-93. 34 “The Transformation of the Role of Perceval in Some Thirteenth Century Prose Romances,” in Studies in Medieval Literature and Languages in Memory of Frederick Whitehead (Manchester: Manchester Univ. Press, 1973), especially pp. 55-62. On similar adaptations of Gauvain, see Schmolke-Hasselmann, ch. 4; Keith Busby, Gauvain in Old French Literature (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1980), and his “Diverging Traditions of Gauvain in Some of the Later Old French Verse Romances,” in Legacy of Chrétien, vol. 2, pp. 93-109. Cf. Frank Brandsma, “Opening Up the Narrative: The Insertion of New Episodes in Arthurian Cycles,” Queeste, 2 (1995), 31-39. 35 La Queste del saint graal, ed. Albert Pauphilet (Paris: Champion, 1949), p. 112, ll. 25-26. 33

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modifying the Beaurepaire episode according to the model of Perceval’s moral character in the Vulgate Queste. Shifting emphases and rewriting are obvious. Rather than sit silently and wait for Blancheflor to speak, Perceval presses her with questions, in effect adding what Chrétien left out and, at the same time, changing Perceval from a nice to a chevalier courtois. He asks for lodging, asks Blancheflor how he can help alleviate her poverty, advises her to trust in God=s help, and inquires into the causes and effects of Anguingueron’s and Clamadeu’s siege. Further on, Perceval defeats them on the same day rather than on two separate days. Finally, Perceval’s silence in Chrétien becomes the prose author’s own silence when he eliminates Blancheflor=s nocturnal visit to Perceval’s bed, incompatible as it is with his virginity and chastity. This adaptation removes an ambiguity some find in Chrétien=s account of the nights Blancheflor spends with Perceval at Beaurepaire–did they or did they not lose their virginity?–making it conform to what Bogdanow calls “the ascetic and anti-courtly atmosphere of the Post-Vulgate Roman du Graal.”36 We have here a conjointure of material and topical themes, some from Chrétien and others from the Lancelot-Grail cycle, reminiscent of the art of en uni dire. Contradictions with the Continuations also evaporate: Perceval loses his virginity, if not in Chrétien, then certainly in the Second Perceval Continuation=s Chessboard Maiden conclusion, although he is again a virgin in Gerbert de Montreuil.37 This example shows the use of models and their coherent adaptation to suit a new, as it were, ‘archetypal’ understanding of those models. Eugène Vinaver recognized that original invention in medieval romances derives from an interrogatory mode of reading and writing. This mode questions a source, culling answers to its sequence in order to get at its hidden or latent surplus de sens, in Marie de France=s 36

Fanni Bogdanow, ed., La Folie Lancelot: A Hitherto Unidentified Portion of the Suite du Merlin Contained in MSS B.N. fr. 112 and 12599 (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1965), p. 271; the episode referred to is on pp. 141-47. 37 Continuations, vol. 4: The Second Perceval Continuation, ed. William Roach (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1971), 28132-41; Gerbert de Montreuil, La Continuation de Perceval, ed. Mary Williams and Marguerite Oswald, 3 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1922-75), 6558-64. Cf. Bogdanow, “Transformations,” pp. 4950 and n. 8.

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words, or the status archetypus, or mental conception of the work to be written that Geoffrey of Vinsauf insists on. This is the potential I referred to above that the new author realizes in rewriting the source model. This mode of invention seems to have been practiced in early romance and to have become common procedure for invention in later romances. Although the elementary treatises present formal lists and illustrations of topical questions, practice could lead to a “habit of conception,”38 whether in writing or oral invention. We can catch glimpses of it in the Post-Vulgate=s version of the Beaurepaire episode of Chrétien=s Perceval when its author eliminates Blancheflor’s nocturnal visits to Perceval’s bed but makes the young knight a loquacious guest when he arrives at Beaurepaire. This process, topical invention, is relatively simple, although genius and talent are required for its success. I believe I can best explain this kind of invention by a striking conformity between feminist and medieval theories of rewriting a conventional topical gradus. “We can develop a feminist discourse on rape by displacing the emphasis on what the rape script promotes–male violence against women–and putting into place what the rape script stultifies and excludes–women’s will, agency, and capacity for violence.” This “strategy” will “disrupt and revise traditional thinking about rape”39 and, indeed, other “scripts” like gradus amoris or gradus aetatis. That is, it revises common topical sequences by implicitly following a traditional medieval strategy for rewriting a given gradus, or script. As Geoffrey of Vinsauf puts it, “ne moremur ubi moram faciunt alii; sed, ubi moram faciunt, transeamus, ubi transeunt, moram faciamus.”40 In his 38

Eugène Vinaver, “From Epic to Romance,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, 46 (1964), 476-503, here p. 493. 39 Quoted from Sharon Marcus by Diane Wolfthal, ‘“Douleur sur toutes autres”: Revisualizing the Rape Script in the Epistre Othea and the Cité des dames,” in Christine de Pizan and the Categories of Difference, ed. Marilynn Desmond (Minneapolis, London: Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1998), pp. 41-70, here p. 58. 40 Geoffrey of Vinsauf, Documentum, p. 309, § 133, in Edmond Faral, Les arts poétiques du XIIe et du XIIIe siècle: recherches et documents sur la technique littéraire du moyen âge (Paris: Champion, 1924). The idea derives from Horace’s Art of Poetry and its medieval commentaries, see Karsten Friis-Jensen, “Horace and the Early Writers of Arts of Poetry,” in Sprachtheorien in Spätantike und Mittelalter, ed. Sten Ebbesen (Tübingen: Narr, 1995), pp. 360-401; Kelly, Conspiracy, pp. 99-100; and, more generally, Alexandru N. Cizek, Imitatio et tractatio: die literarisch-rhetorischen Grundlagen der Nachahmung in Antike und Mittelalter (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1994).

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Poetria nova he is somewhat more elaborate: “Quod minus est supple, quod plus abrade, quod hirtum / Come, quod obscurum declara, quod vitiosum / Emenda. Curis istis sunt omnia sana.”41 What means are available for such rewriting? The prescription to abbreviate what is lengthy and amplify what is brief may be perfunctory in classroom exercises. It is not unlike learning a new language if one is required, for example, to stress one grammatical principle such as the subjunctive rather than another such as the indicative, stringing together sentences that illustrate the subjunctive mode. Yet such exercise forms a habit useful when one becomes fluent in the new language. Like the interrogatory mode Vinaver notes in invention, the intent of the principle is to correct the subject-matter so as to express a new conception of it. This imposes on the rewriter an intention and the invention of the means to express that intention. To understand this goal better, let us turn to Matthew of Vendôme. The author reflecting on where to dwell and where to pass on might ask him- or herself the following commonplace questions about the proposed script: “Quis, quid, ubi, quibus auxiliis, cur, quomodo, quando.”42 To be sure, this script for invention is commonplace, but it is also easily remembered, even if not in the same words, or with fewer or more questions. D. W. Robertson, Jr., noted this fact when he studied its use by confessors in analyzing sin and determining penance, as it were “on the spot.”43 The seven-part circumstances underwent modification beginning in the twelfth century, but never disappeared from use.44 Some are potential in the rape script as revised above. My illustrations suggest the interest and utility of models for the invention of these works. Their topoi are not reductiones ad absurdum but places common to certain persons or activities, places with a 41

Poetria nova, 1758-60, in Faral, Arts poétiques, p. 251. Ars versificatoria, in vol. 3: Mathei Vindocinensis opera, ed. Franco Munari (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1988), §1.116. 43 D. W. Robertson, Jr., “A Note on the Classical Origin of ‘Circumstances’ in the Medieval Confessional,” Studies in Philology, 43 (1946), 6-14; see also Johannes Gründel, Die Lehre von den Umständen der menschlichen Handlung im Mittelalter (Münster/W.: Aschendorff, 1963). 44 A. J. Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages (London: Scolar Press, 1984), pp. 16-17; Gründel, pp. 25-39; Robertson, p. 7. 42

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potential for original adaptation. Thus, to describe a beautiful woman or man is to draw out from the usual constituents of human beauty an ideal representation coherent within the context in which the description is located. Similarly, a gradus amoris may be elaborated according to a variety of features: the character of the love depicted, the social, moral, and other status of the lovers–making, incidentally, the gradus aetatum, or ages of life, a potentially relevant and variable topical scheme. All of these are commonplace, yet all can be related in new and original ways as one author reconfigures a source understood as model by reemphasis. The question posed by this paper=s title is itself reconstrued in the light of what a writer might do. When the question was first asked, we looked for answers in what authors might refer to and what their sources might contain or their audiences might know. Now we can also see it as a topical question rewriters might well have answered for us, using whatever models their sources or their own interrogations of those sources might construe. Si vos recont por voir et di Que si con vos l’avez oï Vint l’amie au bon chevalier A cort.

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Huon de Bordeaux in its Manuscripts or all practical purposes, there remain just two manuscripts of the chanson de geste, Huon de Bordeaux. The first, traditionally identified by the siglum M, is No. 936 of the Bibliothèque municipale of Tours; the second, P, is manuscript 22555 of the fonds français of the Bibliothèque Nationale, formerly Sorbonne 450. A third manuscript, T (L-II-14 of the National Library of Turin), was largely destroyed in the fire that ravaged the Turin Library in 1904; from what remains, however, we can see that it is close to the Tours manuscript in both language and content. In addition to these more or less complete manuscripts, there are several fragments preserved in the library of the Historical Society of Massachusetts, described and edited by Keith V. Sinclair.1 These fragments total 384 lines and correspond, given additions and omissions, to lines 3709 to 4079 of Pierre Ruelle’s edition of manuscript M,2 or to lines 3692-4074 of our edition of manuscript P.3 Sinclair’s study places them closer to M and T than to P. Huon de Bordeaux is not one of the oldest chansons de geste. Even before Marguerite Rossi’s plausible dating of the poem in the 1260s,4 it was recognized that, in spite of having been composed in decasyllables like the earliest chansons, it came from the second or even third generation of epic production, due to its content and literary techniques. An epic of revolt, like Girart de Vienne, Renaut de Montauban, or the Chevalerie Ogier—to which it alludes in great detail—Huon is the first chanson de geste to give itself over extensively to the charm of the merveilleux in the person of the diminutive fairy king, Auberon. As Anne Berthelot has been only the 1

“Un nouveau manuscrit de la version décasyllabique de Huon de Bordeaux,” Le Moyen Age, 85 (1979), 445-64. 2 Huon de Bordeaux, Université Libre de Bruxelles, Travaux de la Faculté de Philosophie et Lettres, 20 (Brussels: Presses Universitaires de Bruxelles, and Paris: PUF, 1960). 3 Huon de Bordeaux. Chanson de geste du XIIIe siècle, publiée d’après le manuscrit de Paris BNF fr. 22555 (P), ed. and trans., William W. Kibler and François Suard (Paris: Champion, 2003). 4 Huon de Bordeaux et l’évolution du genre épique au XIIIe siècle (Paris: Champion, 1975).

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most recent to point out, Huon is strongly marked by romance motifs and structures, and is in many ways a hybrid text.5 Nonetheless, Huon de Bordeaux has benefited, until recently, from good critical reception. It was first published in 1860—barely twenty years after Francisque Michel’s pioneering edition of the Chanson de Roland—by François Guesssard and Charles Grandmaison in the venerable “Anciens poëtes de la France” collection. Exactly one hundred years later, in 1960, it was accorded an excellent modern scholarly edition by Pierre Ruelle, and found a prominent place in Alfred Adler’s Rückzug in epischer Parade6 as well as in William Calin’s pioneering work on the chansons de geste, The Epic Quest: Studies in Four Old French Chansons de Geste.7 In 1975 it was the object of the best study yet devoted to any late epic, Marguerite Rossi’s thèse de doctorat.8 But since 1975 things have been relatively quiet. Articles have been few and far between,9 and it is not even mentioned in any of the more recent general studies of the Old French epic: Dominique Boutet’s La Chanson de Geste: Forme et signification d’une écriture épique du Moyen Age,10 Sarah Kay’s The Chanson de geste in the Age of Romance,11 nor John Grigsby’s The Gab as a Latent Genre in Medieval French Literature.12 Huon’s almost uniformly positive early critical reception is matched by its popular reception. Our mid-thirteenth-century poem influenced nearly every later chanson de geste, from Gaufrey through the Chevalerie Ogier, to Tristan de Nanteuil and Lion de Bourges. It also 5

“De la chanson de geste au roman, le cas de Huon de Bordeaux,” in Heldensage– Heldenlied–Heldenepos. Ergebnisse der II. Jahrestagung der Reineke-Gesellschaft Gotha. 16.-20. Mai 1991, ed. Alain Kerdelhué (Amiens: Publications du Centre d’études médiévales, Université de Picardie, 1991). 6 Frankfurt am Main: V. Klostermann, 1963. 7 Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1966. 8 See note 4 above. 9 According to data culled from the Bulletin Bibliographique de la Société Rencesvals, Berthelot’s article (see note 5 above) is the only one on Huon proper in the past quarter century. There have been a half dozen on the Huon continuations and later versions (especially the count of Tressan’s eighteenth-century adaptation and the earlier prosification), as well as brief mentions in general articles on lutins, fairyland, voyages, automats, ambushes, and the like. 10 Paris: PUF, 1993. 11 Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995. 12 New York: MLA, 2000.

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gave birth in the late thirteenth century to a mini-cycle of poems about Huon and its other major figure, the fairy Auberon;13 to an alexandrine remaniement in the early fifteenth century (in BnF, fr. 1451); to a prosification in the mid-fifteenth century;14 to a first printed edition from Michel Le Noir in 1513; to additional printed versions (11 in the sixteenth century, 12 in the seventeenth, and 8 in the eighteenth), culminating in several Bibliothèque Bleue printings in the nineteenth century, entitled Histoire de Huon de Bordeaux, pair de France, duc de Guienne, contenant ses faits et action héroïques aussi beaux et divertissans que jamais on ait lu.15 Three adaptations for young audiences were prepared in the early twentieth century, the best one by Gaston Paris; finally, in 1983, François Suard produced the first full translation.16 The poem was adapted into English prose by Lord Berners in 1534 and inspired a theatrical production by “Sussex’s men” entitled Hewen of Burdoche in 1593, but more famously influenced Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which immortalized Oberon (1590-98). Huon de Bordeaux was likewise played upon the French stage, by the confrères de la Passion in Paris in December 1557 and, more remarkably, twenty times by Molière’s troupe between August 1660 and July 1661. Christoph Martin Wieland’s German epic Oberon (1781), strongly influenced by Shakespeare, is the source of subsequent lyrical and operatic versions, of which Carl Maria von Weber’s Oberon or the Elf King’s Oath, first played in London in 1826, is probably the most famous. Recently, Caroline Cazenave has

13 See François Suard, “Le cycle en vers de Huon de Bordeaux,” in La Chanson de Geste et le mythe carolingien. Mélanges René Louis, ed. René Louis (Saint-Père-sousVézelay: Musée archéologique régional, 1982): 1035-50; and William W. Kibler, “The P Continuation of Huon de Bordeaux,” in Studies in Honor of Hans-Erich Keller, ed. Rupert T. Pickens (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1993), pp. 11749. 14 Appeared in 1454, but no copies are known to survive. 15 For the printed versions, see Caroline Cazenave, “Huon de Bordeaux au théâtre (les temps modernes),” Études médiévales (Amiens), 1 (1999), 71-102. 16 Histoire de Huon de Bordeaux et Aubéron roi de Féerie, chanson de geste du XIIIe siècle (Paris: Stock/Moyen-Age, 1983).

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unearthed a veritable plethora of nineteenth- and twentieth-century stage adaptations of Huon de Bordeaux.17 In view of this wide popularity of the poem, it is a little surprising that it has been out of print now for nearly forty years. The limited print run of Ruelle’s excellent critical edition of 1960 was perhaps adequate for large research libraries and a few devoted scholars, but it did nothing to reintroduce the poem to a wider, popular audience. Now, however, with the advent of relatively inexpensive bilingual editions of Old French texts, the time is ripe to reedit and reconsider this important poem. Since the Tours manuscript has already been the subject of Ruelle’s excellent edition, editing the only other complete manuscript seems warranted. P, the Paris version, is a large-format manuscript on paper in a late, bastard Gothic hand. The manuscript, copied by a Lotharingian scribe in the mid-fifteenth century, has 253 folios, with each page containing two columns of between 40 and 43 lines. Huon de Bordeaux, which occupies 64 folios numbered 184 to 247, is preceded here by the late epic Lion de Bourges (fol. 1-183) and followed by three short continuations, Huon, roi de Faerie (439 lines), the Combat de Huon contre les géants (402 lines), and Huon le dervey (about 163 lines, only partially preserved on a ripped folio).18 Ruelle characterizes the hand as “fort négligé” and says of the scribe’s spelling, “le manque de logique surprend à tout instant” (12). Given his disparaging view of P, it is no surprise that Ruelle chose to edit M, an altogether more attractive manuscript at first sight. 19 It is

17 Details on the theatrical versions of Huon are found in two important articles by Caroline Casenave, “Huon de Bordeaux au théâtre (le XVIe siècle)” in Plaist vos oïr bone cançon vaillant? Mélanges offerts à François Suard, ed. Dominique Boutet et al. 2 vols. (Lille: Edition du Conseil Scientifique de l’Université Charles-de-Gaulle-Lille 3, 1999), vol. 1, pp. 171-81; and the article mentioned above in n. 15. 18 These were first edited by Hermann Schäfer, Über die Pariser Hss. 1451 und 22555 der Huon de Bordeaux-sage, Ausgaben und Abhandlungen aus dem Gebiete der romanischen Philologie, 90 (Marburg: N. G. Elwert’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1892); reedited by W. Kibler in Studies in Honor of Hans-Erich Keller (see note 13 above). 19 Now in the Bibl. munic. of Tours, M originated in the library of the abbey of Marmoutier, whence its siglum. Its 173 folios, divided into 22 quires, contain only Huon de Bordeaux. It is a single column manuscript of small format (160 x 95 mm), the type that has sometimes been referred to as a “manuscrit de jongleur.” There are thirty lines to a column. The parchment has frequent holes, rips and repairs, all prior to

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the oldest of the three major manuscripts and its language is closest to that of the original, as Ruelle has cogently argued. Nonetheless, P is both more complete and closer to the archetype than M or T, as Ruelle himself acknowledges: “Le manuscrit P offre incontestablement le texte le plus complet. Les vers qui lui manquent, par rapport à M et T, sont rarement indispensables au sens des passages considérés” (14-15), and Ruelle’s stemma, as completed by Sinclair, confirms P’s proximity to the original: O M1 M

b

P T

Ruelle did not choose P because of its late date and unconventional Lotharingian dialect. Nonetheless, in light of its completeness and its relative proximity to the original, it deserves serious consideration as an important witness to the Huon tradition. The differences between the two manuscripts are not great: no plot elements are added or omitted, no new characters are introduced, no novel themes appear. Our edited text of P has 10,797 lines, compared to the 10,553 of Ruelle’s edition of M. This does not mean, however, that there are simply 244 additional lines in P. To complete his edition of M, Ruelle was obliged to borrow 436 lines from the other manuscripts, including a passage of some 342 lines between laisses 85 and 90 (our lines 10166 to 10507) from P.20 By comparison, in our edition of P, we have used just 113 lines from M and/or T, which we judged as essential to

the transcription of the poem. The text was prepared by a relatively conscientious Picard scribe in the mid-thirteenth century. 20 When a line was in both P and T, Ruelle regularly chose that from T to complete his text, since T is demonstrably closer to M and its orthography is more compatible. Nonetheless, these lines are nearly all found in P as well—and some are found only in P, notably the 342-line passage at the end of the poem—so we have counted them among P’s contributions to M.

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complete the meaning of our version.21 By extrapolating the borrowed lines, one finds that the Paris manuscript version contains some 567 lines more than that of Tours. But this again does not tell the entire story. We have calculated that there are actually about 9475 lines common to both versions. M contains approximately 612 lines that are not represented in P, while P has some 1236 lines not found in M.22 Calculating of lines here is not 21

These are indicated by square brackets in the text of our edition, which makes them easy to locate and evaluate. 22 The following lines of P (the numbering follows that of our edition) are not represented in M. The numbers in boldface were used by Ruelle to complete his edition, although usually his immediate source was T rather than P; A or B after a number indicates a hemistich : 1-79, 82, 176, 189, 190, 259, 313, 328, 349-51, 373-76, 410, 446-50, 510, 517-18, 537-38, 551-52, 555, 586-87, 612, 698-99, 783, 812-13, 825, 935, 949, 1041, 1079, 1117, 1236, 1239, 1244-45, 1253, 1255, 1270, 1363, 138283, 1409, 1433-35, 1448-51, 1495, 1515, 1520-21, 1529, 1576-83, 1584-86, 1618, 1629, 1669-70, 1753, 1773, 1775-76, 1797, 1809, 1866, 1868, 1922, 1941-43, 1993, 2040-41, 2050-51, 2063, 2068, 2103-04, 2141, 2181, 2210, 2217, 2260, 2283, 2319, 2355-57, 2372-83, 2419-20, 2488B-89A, 2499, 2630, 2638, 2660, 2849, 2862-63, 2914, 2921, 2932-33, 2960-61, 2963, 2967, 3005-07, 3009-10, 3027, 3054, 3084-85, 3107, 3166-67, 3245, 3253, 3292, 3339, 3351-52, 3364, 3370, 3380, 3419, 3448, 3482, 3540, 3560, 3577, 3595, 3606, 3623, 3631, 3647, 3651, 3652, 3653-54, 3678, 3712, 3714, 3717, 3719, 3725, 3796, 3809, 3811, 3816, 3819, 3923, 3933, 3960, 397172, 3975, 3981, 3991, 4013, 4125, 4133, 4141-42, 4168-69, 4172, 4199-200, 4229, 4235, 4247, 4262-65, 4299-300, 4359, 4368, 4378, 4405, 4417, 4453, 4559, 4568, 4620, 4644, 4655, 4674, 4678-79, 4704, 4706, 4714, 4762, 4796-97, 4805, 4849, 4904, 4916, 4980, 4991, 5011, 5018, 5021-23, 5027-29, 5031, 5060, 5062, 5073, 5100, 5108, 5142, 5164, 5194-287, (430) 5289, 5335, 5352-53, 5389, 5398-33, 5455, 5458, 5467-68, 5481-83, 5518-19, 5536-37, 5541B-42A, 5556-59, 5562, 5569, 5578, 5581, 5588, 5591-92, 5602, 5623-25, 5635-36, 5641B-42A, 5649-50, 5655, 5690-91, 5695B-96A, 5705-08, 5711, 5715-17, 5723, 5726-28, 5739, 5741-44 (replace R563839), 5746-48 (replace R5641-42), 5759-60, 5775, 5777-79, 5782, 5808-13, 5831B32A, 5841, 5856, 5890, 5922, 5928-57, 5985-86, 6031-33, 6052-53, 6082, 6098-99, 6111B-13A, 6148, 6172, 6185, 6194, 6211, 6217B-18A, 6232, 6236, 6238, 6258-59, 6270, 6286-90, 6296-300 (replace vv. 6136-40 de M), 6347-51, 6363B-64A, 6374, 6379-81, 6391, 6394-96, 6400-02, 6411-14, 6419-23 (replace 6246 of M), 6430, 6434, 6523, 6560B-61A, 6562, 6567, 6572, 6579, 6581, 6591-92, 6596-600, 6603-05, 674748, 6758-830, 6834, 6838-39, 6871-72, 6879, 6890, 6892, 6898, 6915, 6929B-30A, 6932, 6946-47, 6957-60, 6981-83, 7043, 7062, 7075, 7115, 7141, 7174, 7188, 7227, 7238, 7255, 7284, 7318, 7339-40, 7419-22, 7443, 7458, 7470-76, 7521, 7533, 7536, 7592, 7615, 7662-64, 7818, 7848, 7849B-50A, 7924-27, 7968, 8009, 8014, 8066-67, 8187, 8205, 8271B-72A, 8281, 8336, 8342B-43A, 8350, 8366, 8389-90, 8404, 8466, 8480-81, 8487, 8531, 8612, 8621, 8634, 8683, 8722B-24, 8771, 8876, , 8780, 8946, 8957, 8961, 8979, 9013, 9015, 9026, 9029, 9043-46, 9057-60, 9186, 9272-75, 9325,

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an exact science, as sometimes only half lines are involved or some lines may replace equivalent lines in the other manuscript, rather than being completely different. The relative numbers, nonetheless, are revelatory: about twice as many “new” lines are added to P as are omitted from M. Those lines are mostly single lines, or groups of two 9478, 9484, 9492-93, 9514, 9517, 9541, 9569, 9688, 9707-08, 9711-15, 9727, 982122, 9825, 9885-86, 9918-21, 9971, 10121-22, 10151, 10159, 10166-507, 10532, 10545, 10568, 10577, 10588, 10592, 10595, 10600, 10607-08, 10609, 10633, 10637, 10761, 10784, 10794-97 (replace10550-53) The following lines of M are not found in P; those in boldface were used by us in our edition. The line numbers given are those of Ruelle’s edition followed, in the case of lines used, by the equivalent in ours : 104, 153, 254, 285, 296, 298-99, 303, 312, 353-56=387-90, 362, 367, 369-70, 372-73, 381-82, 464, 486, 508, 523, 538-39, 596, 613-15, 621, 648-49, 689, 694-95, 735, 750-51, 752=773, 764, 794, 816, 861, 933, 1011-12, 1014, 1025-26, 1028, 1031=1045, 1049, 1152, 1165, 1220, 1254, 1260, 1518, 1524, 1527, 1533, 1557, 1586-88, 1622, 1628-30=1654-56, 1661, 1693, 1716, 1791-92, 1814=1846, 1864, 1873, 1879, 1931-33, 1938, 1945, 1958-59, 2016=2043, 2060=2091, 2092, 2113, 2154, 2156, 2160-61, 2164, 2173, 2178-79, 2199, 2242, 2287, 2318-20, 2351, 2394-96, 2417=2455, 2430, 2491, 2528, 2545, 2557=2589, 2584-85, 2588, 2657, 2730, 2746-49A=2777-80A, 2751, 2754-56, 2765, 2767, 276975, 2783-84, 2797, 2803-04, 2834, 2845, 2847, 2893, 2930-32, 2934, 2938, 2963, 2998-99, 3005-09, 3011-12, 3018, 3052, 3114, 3118-47, 3174, 3204-07, 3293-94, 3297, 3311-14, 3421=3399, 3446-50=3425-29, 3486, 3504, 3538, 3552=3530, 3565, 3588, 3612, 3651, 3819, 3895-97, 4058, 4258=4260, 4332, 4618, 4662, 4696, 470405, 4712, 4715, 4742, 4793, 4917=4935, 4960, 4963-64, 4966=4981, 4969, 4971-72, 4976-96, 5018-21, 5098=5098, 5108-09=5110-11, 5140=5140, 5158-59, 5161-62, 5182-89, 5195-98, 5201-04, 5207-08, 5212, 5214, 5221, 5225=5296, 5227-30=5298301, 5238-55, 5261-64, 5269-70=5317-18, 5294= 5343, 5335=5385, 5357, 5389-90, 5392, 5406=5493, 5407, 5409, 5416-18=5501-03, 5439-41, 5470=5563, 5487, 550320, 5562, 5564=5653, 5569, 5591, 5626, 5638-39, 5641-42, 5724=5845, 5726-27, 5760, 5766=5885, 5783=5903, 5799-5800=5919-20, 5825=5976, 5829, 5866=6018, 5877=6029, 5909, 5913, 5917-18, 5947-50, 5965, 6001, 6003, 6011, 6028, 6042, 6122, 6128-29, 6136-40, 6166, 6211-15, 6240, 6246, 6255, 6275-80=6453-58, 6290, 6311, 6382, 6405, 6501=6682, 6502-05, 6534, 6675-77=6936-38, 6682, 6795-96, 6812-14, 6820, 6835, 6850=7114, 7013, 7036, 7065-66=7334-35, 7096-97, 7109, 7205, 7215-17, 7260, 7345, 7382=7650, 7445, 7484=7754, 7665, 7731-32, 8111, 8195, 8254, 8281, 8352, 8356, 8429-30, 8559-60=8848-49, 8636, 8709, 8723-26, 8761, 8771-73, 8811, 8825, 8875, 8891, 8897, 8901, 8907-08, 8911, 9035-36, 9044, 9048-49, 9053-54=9341-42, 9089, 9142, 9318=9609, 9438-39, 9477=9774, 9674=9977, 9725=10028, 9759, 10218, 10220-22, 10232-37, 10257-61, 10272, 10279-80, 10286=10573, 10290-92, 10306-07, 10314, 10332=10619, 10332-36, 10356-57=10639-40, 10359-67, 10369, 10378-85, 10394, 10397, 10407-10, 10415-16, 10420, 10427-28, 10438-62=10692-716, 10472, 10482, 10494-99, 10504-09=1075055, 10513, 10515=10760, 10518, 10533, 10550-53.

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or three. However, in addition to the long passage toward the end already alluded to, P contains five passages of between thirty and ninety-four lines that have no equivalent in M:23 the initial 79 lines of the poem; 94 lines after v. 5216 of M; 36 lines after v. 5347; 30 lines after v. 5806; and 73 lines after v. 6581. Were these lines added to P by its redactor, or omitted by the M redactor as he copied from his model, M1? It is, of course, impossible to know for certain without recovering the model, but an examination of the longer passages in question from both manuscripts might prove illuminating. P begins with an alternate, lengthier prologue in alexandrines. The seventy-ninth and final line of this alexandrine prologue, “Li roy ait appellez lez baron chevalier,” corresponds roughly to Ruelle’s decasyllabic line 53: Li rois apele ses barons chevaliers, and beginning with the next line the two texts are essentially identical. We will never really know what inspired the scribe to begin in alexandrines and then shift to decasyllables, but it is at least possible that, having previously copied the 34,298 lines of Lion de Bourges in alexandrines, he began Huon with the intention of rewriting the poem in that meter, then quickly tired of the effort involved and reverted to copying what he found before him.24 In effect, the two prologues offer the same outline: both begin with an invocation to the audience and praise of the poem to follow; both then name the principal actors (Charles, Huon, Auberon) and discuss Auberon’s lineage (Julius Caesar + Morgan la Fée); both end by evoking Charlemagne’s Pentecost court in Paris that Huon fails to attend. P, however, provides considerable supporting material. As an example, M’s three lines, “Et de Huon ki tant ot vaselaige / Et d’Auberon, le petit roi sauvaige / Que tout son tans conversa en boscage” (5-7), become ten in P : Signour, c’est d’un noble homme qui fuit de grant linaige Et que fuit prous az arme et de grant vasselaige Et souffrit moult de mal oultre la mer salvaige. Signour, c’est de Huelin de Bourdialz l’eritaige, Le filz dou duc Seguin qui fuit cortois et saige, Qui fist tant de biaulz fait en tempz de son eaige, Mais ancor en fist plux Huelin per son bernage, 23

These are all reproduced by Ruelle among his notes. It is interesting to note in this respect that a remanieur finally completed this task in the fifteenth century. See BnF, fr. 1451. 24

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Ainsi que vous orés ains que moult loing estaige, Car il fut d’Aberont, le petit nain savaige, Aidez et confortés en maint perilleux passaige. (6-15)

P continues with information about Auberon’s stature and the background to the quarrel that caused Charlemagne to exile Huon, which serves to pique readers’ interest and prepare them for the opening action. The first two lines of laisse 2 in M, “Segnour, oiiés, que Diex vous puist aidier! / Si faites pais et laissiés le noissier” (20-21), are expanded to seven in P, with essentially empty content: Signour, or escoutez, que Dieu vous puist aidier, Et vous orés chanson qui moult fait a prisier, Qui est de noble histoire c’on doit auctorisier, De Huelin de Bourdialz le nobille guerrier, Que tint toute Bourdelle et le noble heritier, Et d’Auberon le roy, qui bien le volt aidier, Ensi que vous orez s’on laixe lou noisier. (44-50)

Both M and P go on to enumerate those in attendance, including eleven of the twelve peers: only Huon de Bordeaux is missing. But where M describes the food and the service (47-52), P enlivens the dinner with a conversation among the attendees: Quant il furent assis a la tauble au mengier, D’unne chosë et d’aultre se volrent desraignier; Li ung disoit a l’autre: «Ou est Huelin le fier? C’est ung dez .xii. per; on se doit esmaier Qu’i n’est point avec nous venus pour courtoier. Se Charle le savoit, s’an poroit coroucier. —Vous dite voir, dit l’un qui estoit lozangier; Aprés diner l’irait az roy Charle noncier.» Signour, ainsi fist il, saichiez lou san cuidier, De quoy il esmeut Charle et le fist corroucier, Ensi que vous orés s’i vous plait acoisier. (66-76)

Had the P redactor continued elaborating so liberally in this manner, it seems likely that his poem would have run to over 20,000 lines. However, it is immediately after this conversation that P abandons his attempt at alexandrines and the two versions begin to coincide more closely.

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Following verse 5216 of M, P adds 94 lines that are part of a major reworking of Huon’s battle with the giant Orgueilleux at Dunostre (our 5194-5287). In M, as Huon is about to awaken the giant from his slumber in order to fight him man to man, rather than simply behead him in his sleep, as Huon’s cousin Sebille, a captive of Orgueilleux, had suggested, the poet interrupts with a celebrated appeal to the audience for money (laisse 43), saying that he will resume on the morrow following dinner, if properly rewarded. P omits this, in effect joining laisses 42 and 44 (both in –é).25 The P redactor more than makes up for this omission, however, by adding colorful details to the arming of Orgueilleux (5020-29), considerable action to the combat itself (5194-5240), and a lengthy epic prière du plus grand péril (5241-84). Scarcely a hundred lines later, as Huon is leaving Dunostre to continue his adventures, he finds himself stranded on the side of the Red Sea, with no way to cross. In M, he suddenly sees a marvelous sea creature approaching, which will carry him across on its back. We learn later that its name is Malabron and that it was sent by Auberon. The P redactor, however, imagines a colorful conversation between Auberon and Malabron (our lines 5398-5433), in which Auberon laments the fate of Huon, Malabron offers to go to his rescue, and Auberon “punishes” Malabron by requiring him to spend an additional twenty-eight years as a luiton. About five hundred lines later, when Huon is being attacked in the emir Gaudisse’s palace by the latter’s men, P adds 30 lines after verse 5806 of M, wherein Huon first slays a Saracen who had miss-aimed a would-be fatal blow, and then eventually another fourteen or more of his assailants (our 5928-57). The final lengthy passage found only in P concerns Huon’s battle against Agrapart, a Saracen giant and Orgueilleux’s brother (73 lines after Ruelle’s 6581; our lines 6758-6830). This follows the pattern established in the combat vs. Orgueilleux and the fight in Gaudisse’s palace: the P redactor provides detail that heightens the excitement of his narrative for his audience. After Huon successfully dodges a potentially fatal attack, Agrapart attempts to bribe him to convert to the Muslim faith. This naturally enrages Huon, who strikes the giant a 25

For a more complete consideration of this omission, see below.

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mighty clout, but a following blow from Agrapart elicits a short prière du plus grand péril (6809-15). The giant attempts a final time to convert Huon, but that only stiffens our hero to fight more furiously. With the exception of the initial laisses, in which the P redactor seems intent upon reworking a decasyllabic model into alexandrines, the major additions to the poem in this version are all intended to highlight the action and increase the interest and pathos of the poem. Although we have spoken up to now of additions, it is just as easy, and perhaps more correct, to conceive of the M redactor shortening his poem by omitting developments in his model that he did not consider essential to the action. Neither scribe is particularly creative or careful, so the possibility of either intentional or unintentional abbreviating of the poem by the M scribe seems somewhat more likely than the invention of new developments by the P redactor. This theory is supported as well by the omission of 342 lines toward the end of M (Ruelle’s lines 9863-10204), which Ruelle attributes to a lacuna in M’s model,26 but which could as easily have resulted from the M scribe’s inattention. The nearly 100 other lines borrowed from T or P to complete M’s text provide further examples of the M scribe’s inattentiveness. But this is not to argue that the P scribe is necessarily more attentive than that of M. As we have noted above, M contains some 612 lines not found in P, and we have borrowed 113 of them to complete our own text. Again, as was the case with the additional lines found in P, those in M are largely in groups of one to three lines, although there are five passages of between eighteen and thirty lines in M that are not found in P : lines 3118-47, 4976-96, 5238-55, 5503-20, and 10438-62. In the last passage, Auberon explains to Charlemagne the fairies’ gifts to him at his birth; although this material essentially repeats an earlier passage (our lines 3497-3512), it seems necessary that Charlemagne learn about Auberon’s mysterious background in order to accept the deus ex machina ending he produces, so we have incorporated these lines into our text as verses 10692-716. 26 “Une lacune de 342 vers, comptés dans P, entre le dernier vers du folio 167v o et le premier du folio 168ro, ne peut résulter de la disparition d’un cahier, car elle ne se trouve pas entre deux cahiers. Elle ne peut non plus résulter de la disparition de plusieurs folios, car on ne constate pas de deuxième lacune, symétrique à la première par rapport au milieu du cahier. Elle est donc antérieure à M” (p. 9).

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The first and longest passage (3118-47) follows our line 3126 and occurs during Huon’s first meeting with Geriaume, after Huon and Geriaume have each related his life story to the other. Geriaume repeats that he had spent thirty years in the desert, notes that Huon’s father was not married when he left France, then asks Huon his name. Huon tells him and asks the way to “Babylon” (i.e., Cairo). The texts then rejoin as Geriaume promises to accompany Huon on his mission to Gaudisse. This entire meeting is abbreviated in P, which also omits lines 2998-99, 3005-09, 3011-12, 3052, and 3114 from M, while adding only lines 3107 and 3084-85 (borrowed by Ruelle to complete the passage). Lines 5238-55 occur just after Huon has slain the giant Orgueilleux. He tries to lift its head in triumph, but it is too heavy; he then offers a brief prayer of thanksgiving and wishes that Charlemagne could have witnessed his triumph. Given P’s earlier colorful addition to the battle vs. Orgueilleux and his predilection for epic prayers, it is somewhat surprising that these lines are not included; this points to inattention on the part of the P scribe, rather than a deliberate omission. Lines 4976-96 and 5503-20 include the two celebrated passages in which the jongleur addresses his audience and requests money from them before continuing. Here we may be looking at an omission by the P scribe, who perhaps felt that in the period in which he was copying the poem such overt appeals had little meaning for an audience which could as easily have been reading his work as listening to it; but, more likely, these are additions to the model made by the M redactor.27 In each case, the laisses immediately preceding and following the appeal have the same assonance (-é for laisses 42 and 44, interrupted by the appeal of laisse 43; -a for laisse 51 and 53, interrupted by laisse 52), and in both cases the P redaction proceeds smoothly by simply combining the laisses. A further argument in support of this being an addition by M is the fact that in M, laisse 43 has the same assonance as 42 and 44 (-é) and, although the beginning of this “laisse” is indicated by a large initial, there is none to signal the return to the narrative in Ruelle’s laisse 44.

Actually, the redactor of M1 in Ruelle’s (and Sinclair’s) stemma, since these appeals are in both M and T. 27

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Although in the absence of the model or Ur-text of Huon it is impossible to know for certain whether the passages in question were added to or deleted from the model by the scribe of P, some evidence has accumulated to suggest that the M scribe was not as attentive or faithful to his model as he has traditionally been thought to have been. The omission of the 342-line passage after line 9862 of M, as well as the 94 other lines that Ruelle was obliged to insert from P and/or T in order for his text to make sense, speak volumes for his conscientiousness. The four lengthy passages found in P but not in M or T are more logically explained as omissions by the latter than inventions by the former. Finally, P’s omissions at lines 3118-47, 4976-96, 5238-55, 5503-20, and 10438-62 can be variously interpreted. Lines 10438-62 and 5238-55 are almost certainly lacunae created by the P scribe’s inattentiveness, and 3118-47 may well be similarly ascribed. While lines 10438-62 are essential to the logic and flow of the narrative, 3118-47 and 5238-55 are not, adding only some additional, albeit colorful, details. On the other hand, the omissions of the jongleur’s appeals at 4976-96 and 5503-20 may well go back to the Ur-text; since the appeals are also found in T, they might have been added by M1, the common model of M and T. A detailed study of the hundreds of one- to three-line passages omitted/added by M and P remains to be done, but a cursory review of them suggests that in nearly all cases they are due to scribal inattention and/or editing and contribute very little to our understanding of the text. We can extend to M Ruelle’s appreciation cited earlier with respect to the short omissions of P: “Les vers qui lui manquent […] sont rarement indispensables au sens des passages considérés.” We have, thus, two related but distinct versions of Huon de Bordeaux in its two principal remaining manuscripts. The stemma proposed by Ruelle and completed by Sinclair is correct: P’s version is independent of that in M and T. Moreover, our study of the major omissions in both M and P confirms that P’s text more closely reflects that of the Ur-Huon, even though it is preserved in a later manuscript. The earlier editors’ preferences for M as a base manuscript were based more on the convenience of dialect and the “ancienneté” of the manuscript proper than on the accuracy of the text reflected in it.

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CHRISTOPHER KLEINHENZ

Rome and Florence in Dante’s Divine Comedy s perhaps the only Italianist among the contributors to this volume in honor of our friend and colleague Rupert Pickens, I would begin by evoking those verses near the beginning of Chrétien de Troyes’ Cligès, in which we find the well-known statement regarding the transmission of knowledge–translatio studii– across space and time, from Greece to Rome to France:1 Par les livres que nos avons Les fez des ancïens savons Et del siegle qui fu jadis. Ce nos ont nostre livre apris Qu’an Grece ot de chevalerie Le premier los et de clergie. Puis vint chevalerie a Rome Et de la clergie la some, Qui or est an France venue. (25-33)

My essay will pause at and focus on the middle stage of this great cultural migration and transmission–Italy–and it will take the general theme of conscious cultural modeling as its point of departure for an examination of the various and specific roles that Rome and Florence play in the Divine Comedy. Dante was born in Florence sometime between mid-May and midJune in 1265, and in October of 1301 he was part of a special embassy to Pope Boniface VIII in Rome on behalf of his native city. On his return to Florence, Dante learned of the sentence of exile issued against him on January 27, 1302 (and a second sentence was proclaimed on March 10, 1302, this time to death should he return to Florence), and from that moment on he was a political exile, a man without a state.2 Dante spent the last nineteen years of his life, moving 1 Les Romans de Chrétien de Troyes: Cligès, ed. Alexandre Micha (Paris: Champion, 1965). For the topos of translatio studii, see Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. Williard R. Trask (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1953), pp. 29, 384-385. 2 For information on Dante’s life, see, among others, the following: Giuseppe Mazzotta, “Life of Dante,” in The Cambridge Companion to Dante, ed. Rachel Jacoff (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1993), pp. 1-13; John Najemy, “Dante and

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from city to city, from court to court in north-central Italy. He visited and stayed in many places–Rome, Bologna, Verona, Lucca, Pisa, the Lunigiana area north-west of Florence, the Casentino area south-east of Florence, Venice, Ravenna (where he died)–and he may have even visited Paris. Of all these cities, Rome in its several cultural manifestations had the most powerful influence on him: Republican Rome, Imperial Rome, Rome as the center of Christendom, Rome as the destination of pilgrims, and Rome as the consummate urban space that awed the Middle Ages and inspired the Renaissance. Dante was well aware of the profound Roman imprint on subsequent civilizations; its institutions, monuments and characteristic urban plan were visible everywhere. The monuments of ancient Rome dot the landscape and the cityscape of Western Europe, and the centers of many Italian cities retain the indelible traces of the regular street pattern that characterized the ancient Roman garrison town, the castrum. In Florence, in particular, the shape of the Roman city is easily and readily recognizable: the two principal streets of the ancient city, the decumanus maximus (the present-day axis formed by via degli Strozzi, via degli Speziali, and via del Corso) and the cardo maximus (via Calimala and via Roma), intersected at the Forum (piazza della Repubblica).3 In Rome many remnants of ancient grandeur survive today either as tourist attractions–e.g., the Forum, Colosseum, Trajan’s market, Circus Maximus, Hadrian’s Mausoleum (= Castel Sant’Angelo)–or as integral parts of the fabric of everyday life–e.g., the Theater of Marcellus, the Stadium of Domitian (= Piazza Navona), and the Pantheon. The shaping influence of Rome on western civilization is great, and in the remainder of this essay I will focus on certain aspects of how Dante employs the real, metaphorical, and imaginary civic spaces of Rome and Florence in the Divine Comedy, how he amalgamates the diverse facets of these two cities in his unified vision of the universe. Indeed, both of these cities assume a place of critical importance in the poet’s vision of the Providentially-ordered universe.

Florence,” in The Cambridge Companion to Dante, pp. 80-99; Edward Peters, “The Shadowy, Violent Perimeter: Dante Enters Florentine Political Life,” Dante Studies, 113 (1995), 69-87; Giorgio Petrocchi, Vita di Dante (Bari: Laterza, 1986). 3 On this site was the Piazza del Mercato Vecchio which was dismantled in the late nineteenth century as part of the general renewal of the urban center.

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As Giovanni Villani took great pains to record in his fourteenthcentury Chronicle,4 Florence traced its origins to Rome, and particularly to Julius Caesar, who decreed that the city should be founded on the site along the banks of the Arno river where Fiorinus5 and his family and followers had been killed by the harsh and savage inhabitants of Fiesole (NC I, xxxv-xxxvii–II, i). Four builders were given this task: Macrinus, Albinus, Gneus Pompey, and Marcius, with the understanding that the one who first completed his share of the work could name the city as he wished, even after himself. Macrinus was responsible for the water supply, Gneus Pompey built the town walls, Marcius constructed the Capitol, and Albinus paved the city (NC II, i). And, mirabile dictu, since all the work was completed at exactly the same time, the city had to be named in a different manner. As Villani notes: […] per molti fu al cominciamento chiamata la piccola Roma. Altri l’appellavano Floria, perché Fiorino fu ivi morto, che fu il primo edificatore di quello luogo, e fu in opera d’arme e in cavalleria fiore, e in quello luogo e campi intorno ove fu la città edificata sempre nasceano fiori e gigli. Poi la maggiore parte degli abitanti furono consenzienti di chiamarla Floria, sì come fosse in fiori edificata, cioè con molte delizie. (NC II, i)

In his account of the building of Florence, Villani mentions specific sites of the urban environment, both then at the time of its foundation and in his own time. He also makes occasional interesting archeological observations, as, for example, in connection with the work of Albinus, who “prese a smaltare tutta la cittade, che fue uno nobile lavoro e bellezza e nettezza della cittade, e ancora oggi del detto ismalto si truova cavando, massimamente nel sesto di San Piero Scheraggio, in porte San Piero, e in porte del Duomo, ove mostra fosse l’antica città” (NC II, i) The Florentines knew their heritage and were proud of it.6 Villani notes that “Marzio l’altro signore romano fece fare 4

Giovanni Villani, Nuova Cronica [= NC], ed. Giuseppe Porta, 3 vols. (Parma: Guanda, 1990-91). 5 In the legendary account of the founding of Florence Fiorinus was a “nobile cittadino di Roma” and the “pretore” or “mariscalco” in the army of Quintus Metellus who had laid siege to Fiesole (NC I, xxxiii-xxxiv). 6 Indeed, even today it is difficult to make excavations in Italy without coming across some remnant of a previous civilization, and Italian law prescribes that permission be obtained from the appropriate Ministry before work can continue.

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il Campidoglio al modo di Roma” and that “Questo Campidoglio fu ov’è oggi la piazza di Mercato Vecchio” (NC II, i). Moreover, Villani speaks of how the Florentine populus “fu popolata della migliore gente di Roma, e de’ più sofficienti, mandati per gli sanatori di ciascuno rione di Roma per rata,” noting that they admitted among their number “quelli Fiesolani che vi vollono dimorare e abitare” (NC II, i). Villani concludes this chapter (NC II, i) of his chronicle by observing that one should not marvel that the Florentines are always warring among themselves, “essendo stratti e nati di due popoli così contrari e nemici e diversi di costumi, come furono gli nobili Romani virtudiosi, e’ Fiesolani ruddi e aspri di guerra.” This reference to the problems arising from the mix of populations and particularly attributed to the “rude Fiesolans” recalls what Dante puts into the mouth of his fellow Florentine Brunetto Latini in Inferno 15: “Ma quello ingrato popolo maligno / che discese di Fiesole ab antico, / e tiene ancor del monte e macigno, / ti si farà, per tuo ben far, nimico” (61-64);7 Brunetto also calls them “bestie Fiesolane” (“Fiesolan beasts,” 73). Moreover, we have the well-known pronouncement by Dante’s great-great-grandfather, Cacciaguida, who speaks of the ills that accrue to a city when the population is mixed: “Sempre la confusion de le persone / principio fu del mal de la cittade” (Par. 16:67-68). In his chronicle Villani comments on how the city of Florence grew: “[…] in poco tempo si fece buona città secondo il tempo d’allora, che gl’imperadori e ’l senato di Roma l’avanzavano a.lloro podere, quasi come un’altra piccola Roma” (NC II, v). On the present site of the Baptistery the Florentines built an eight-sided temple to Mars who was the patron deity of the city. And the devotion of the Florentines to the war god Mars is frequently cited as a factor in the continual strife that afflicted the city. For example, in Inferno 13 Dante notes that the changeover from the pagan protector Mars to the Christian patron saint John the Baptist will forever cause strife in the city, and he has the anonymous Florentine suicide say: “I’ fui de la città che nel Batista / mutò ’l primo padrone [= Mars, the god of war]; ond’ei per questo / sempre con l’arte sua [= warfare] la [= Florence] farà trista” (143-45). 7 The text of the Comedy follows that provided by Charles S. Singleton in The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso: Italian Text and Translation (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1970, 1973, 1975).

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One common legend in the Middle Ages was that Florence was destroyed either by Attila, the King of the Huns, or by Totila, the King of the Ostrogoths, “the scourge of God” (Flagellum Dei, NC III, iii) sometime in the fifth century.8 Villani is quite precise on that matter, noting that Totila destroyed Florence on June 28, 450: “E così fu distrutta la nobile città di Firenze dal pessimo Totile a dì XXVIII di giugno negli anni di Cristo CCCCL […]”(NC III, i). Twenty chapters later, in his discussion of Charlemagne, Villani points out that the devastation wrought by Totila was repaired 350 years later by the newly crowned Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne,9 who, in April of 801, assembled a great host and proceeded to rebuild the city (NC IV, i). Before Charlemagne could proceed with the reconstruction, however, Villani reports that: […] gli antichi aveano oppinione che di rifarla non s’ebbe podere, se prima non fu ritrovata e tratta d’Arno la imagine di marmo consecrata per gli primi edificatori pagani per nigromanzia a Marte, la quale era stata nel fiume d’Arno dalla distruzione di Firenze enfino a quello tempo; e ritrovata, la puosero in su uno piliere in su la riva del detto fiume, ov’è oggi il capo del ponte Vecchio.” (NC IV, i)

Although Villani does not put much stock in these ancient beliefs and customs, he does admit that the ill fortunes of Florence would seem to validate to some degree these admonitions; nevertheless, he concludes by reaffirming his opinion that, because of its original dual population, “[…] la nostra città è sempre in guerra, e mutazioni, e disensioni, e disimulazioni” (NC IV, i). In Villani’s account (NC IV, ii), Charlemagne’s building project was modeled–consciously–on the urban plan of Rome; indeed, in this chapter phrases such as “a[l] modo di Roma” (“al modo ch’è in Roma”) or “come a Roma” (“come in Roma”; “siccome in Roma”; “com’è in Roma”) frequently occur to describe the new urban plan of Florence (NC IV, ii):

8 Villani notes (NC III, iii): “Questo Totile fu il più crudele e potente tiranno che si truovi; e per la sua iniquissima crudeltà fu chiamato per sopranome Flagellum Dei.” 9 “Dopo la distruzione della città di Firenze fatta per Totile Flagellum Dei, come adietro è fatta menzione, stette così disfatta e diserta intorno di CCCL anni […]” (NC III, xxi).

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“E ’l borgo di Santo Apostolo era di fuori della città, e così Santo Stefano, al modo di Roma.” “e di fuori di quella porta fue edificata la chiesa di Santo Lorenzo, al modo ch’è in Roma San Lorenzo fuor le mura; e dentro a quella porta è San Giovanni, siccome in Roma San Giovanni Laterano. E poi conseguendo come a Roma, da quella parte [fecero] Santa Maria Maggiore.” “e quello ch’è oggi Mercato Vecchio era il mercato di Campidoglio, al modo di Roma.”

It was into this city so steeped in “Roman-ness” that Dante spent the first thirty-six years of his life, and his admiration and appreciation of Rome and the Roman heritage are central features of his thought and works.10 Although a Guelf of the White (Bianchi) faction, Dante had strong Ghibelline tendencies, and these may be observed in his enthusiastic support of Henry VII as the messianic redeemer of Italy11

10

See Charles Till Davis, Dante and the Idea of Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957). 11 See Epistle V to the “Princes of Italy” (“Universis et singulis Ytalie Regibus et Senatoribus alme Urbis […]”), in which Dante alludes to Henry as the “Sun of peace [that] shall appear on high” (“Titan exorietur pacificus,” V, 3) and continues: Letare iam nunc miseranda Ytalie etiam Saracenis, que statim invidiosa per orbem videberis, quia sponsus tuus, mundi solatium et gloria plebis tue, clementissimus Henricus, divus et Augustus et Cesar, ad nuptias properat. Exsicca lacrimas et memoris vestigia dele, pulcerrima, nam prope est qui liberabit te de carcere impiorum; qui percutiens malignantes in ore gladii perdet eos, et vineam suam aliis locabit agricolis qui fructum iustitie reddant in tempore messis. (V, 5-6) In the seventh Epistle addressed to Henry (“Sanctissimo gloriosissimo atque felicissimo triumphatori et domino singulari domino Henrico […]”), Dante compares the arrival of the emperor in Italy and the “rising of the long-awaited sun” (“Titan, preoptatus exoriens”) because of which a “new hope of a better age shone abroad upon Italy” (“nova spes Latio seculi melioris effulsit” (VII, 5) and speaks of the Italians as like the “many [who], going before their wishes in their joy, sang with Maro of the reign of Saturn, and of the return of the Virgin” (“Tunc plerique vota sua prevenientes in iubilo tam Saturnia regna quam Virginem redeuntem cum Marone cantabant,” VII, 6), an obvious reference to Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue and the presumed prophecy of the coming of Christ. A little later in this letter Dante affirms his support for Henry: in te credimus et speramus, asseverantes te Dei ministrum et Ecclesie filium et Romane glorie promotorem. Nam et ego qui scribo tam pro me quam pro aliis, velut decet imperatoriam maiestatem benignissimum vidi et clementissimum te audivi, cum pedes tuos manus mee tractarunt et labia mea debitum persolverunt.

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and, conversely, in his strong denunciation of the corrupt Papacy. 12 His treatise on government, Monarchia, also eloquently attests to his firm belief in the necessity of keeping temporal and spiritual power separate. In an extended discussion of free will and the cause of evil and corruption on earth (Purgatorio 16), Dante has his character Marco Lombardo refer to an earlier historical moment in which there was a division between these two powers: Ben puoi veder che la mala condotta è la cagion che ’l mondo ha fatto reo, e non natura che ’n voi sia corrotta. Soleva Roma, che ’l buon mondo feo, due soli aver, che l’una e l’altra strada facean vedere, e del mondo e di Deo. L’un l’altro ha spento; ed è giunta la spada col pasturale, e l’un con l’altro insieme per viva forza mal convien che vada; però che, giunti, l’un l’altro non teme. (103-112)

The powerful image of the two Suns of Rome clearly formulates what for Dante would be the only way to end earthly corruption–a utopic solution, however, given the absence of the emperor and the usurpation of temporal power and property by the papacy. Despite the absence of the Emperor and, after 1309, of the Pope (in that year Clement V moved the Papacy to Avignon), the city of Rome– or better the symbolic idea of Rome–continued to exert a strong fascination over the Florentine poet. We may gain some insight on his conception of Rome and its metaphorical significance through the words that Beatrice speaks to the Pilgrim in the Earthly Paradise atop the Mountain of Purgatory: “Qui sarai tu poco tempo silvano; / e sarai meco sanza fine cive / di quella Roma onde Cristo è Romano” (32: 100-02). Rome is, for Dante, the appropriate correlative to the tenth Tunc exultavit in te spiritus meus, cum tacitus dixi mecum: ‘Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi.’” (VII, 8-10) In Dante’s rich imagination Henry VII becomes a figura Christi. For the text and translation of these letters, see Paget Toynbee, Dantis Alagherii Epistolae: The Letters of Dante (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966). 12 Among the numerous passages in the Commedia we should note the following: Inferno 19; Purgatorio 6:91-96, 16:67-114, 32:100-160; Paradiso 27:1-66; 30:124148.

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heaven, the Empyrean, in which the Triune God, the angels, and all the blessed make their home and have their “citizenship.” In addition to its metaphorical valence, Dante depicts certain features of Rome as a real city in several places. During his journey to Rome in October of 1301 as part of a special mission from Florence to Pope Boniface VIII, Dante, we may assume, as virtually all pilgrims, probably explored the city and received many first impressions–of the ancient past, of the contemporary scene, and of its artistic context. In the canto of the panders and seducers, Inferno 18, the souls of the sinners run in opposite directions around the first ditch in the Malebolge, panders one way and seducers the other. Their movement is compared to that of the hordes of pilgrims during the Jubilee Year of 1300: these joyous but also harried tourists were herded in opposite directions across the bridge over the Tiber connecting the Castle (the Castel Sant’Angelo = Hadrian’s mausoleum) with the small hill on the other side: A man destra vidi nuova pieta, novo tormento e novi frustatori, di che la prima bolgia era repleta. Nel fondo erano ignudi i peccatori; dal mezzo in qua ci venien verso ’l volto, di là con noi, ma con passi maggiori, come i Roman, per l’essercito molto, l’anno del giubileo, su per lo ponte hanno a passar la gente modo colto, che da l’un lato tutti hanno la fronte verso ’l castello e vanno a santo Pietro, da l’altra sponda vanno verso il monte.” (22-33)

It was, of course, Dante's arch-nemesis Pope Boniface VIII who proclaimed the Jubilee Year, and thus the comparison here in the Inferno between the throngs of devout and happy pilgrims and the wretched souls of the damned is striking in its mordant satire. The pilgrims move along the established routes, visiting churches and shrines, obtaining indulgences, and hoping for salvation, while the sinners run continuously along this two-way street to nowhere, suffering endless torments. Aside from the apt visual image, the implication of the allusion may be that Boniface–and the corrupt clergy in general–are in some sense “panders” of the Church and

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“seducers” of the faithful in their marketing of the Jubilee and in their “selling” of plenary indulgences.13 Another real facet of medieval Rome found in the poem is the mention of the bronze pine cone in reference to the size of the giant Nimrod’s face: “La faccia sua mi parea lunga e grossa / come la pina di San Pietro a Roma, / e a sua proporzione eran l’altre ossa” (Inferno 31:58-60). This ancient Roman artifact was located first in a special enclosure in the quadriporticus of the Constantinian basilica of St. Peter’s, then apparently in the central nave; now it is on display in the Belvedere courtyard of the Vatican Museum. The use of this inanimate object to describe Nimrod–and particularly his head– underlines his lack of rationality and his brutishness. Condemnation of Rome for the corrupt practices of the clergy is ever present in the Comedy, and perhaps nowhere better summarized than in the words of St. Peter himself in canto 27 of Paradiso, where the first vicar of Christ inveighs against his evil followers in that office: “Quelli ch’usurpa in terra il luogo mio, il luogo mio, il luogo mio che vaca ne la presenza del Figliuol di Dio, fatt’ ha del cimitero mio cloaca del sangue e de la puzza; onde ’l perverso, che cadde di qua sù, là giù si placa.” (22-27)

The corrupt Papacy has transformed the holy burial site of Rome and the Vatican into a moral and spiritual sewer, and Peter’s deep sense of outrage is captured by the triple repetition of the phrase “il luogo mio” [“my place”] which recalls the repetition of “the Temple of the Lord”

13 For the Jubilee, see, among others: Debra J. Birch, Pilgrimage to Rome in the Middle Ages (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 1998); Linda Kay Davidson and Maryjane Dunn-Wood, Pilgrimage in the Middle Ages: A Research Guide (New York: Garland, 1993); Herbert L. Kessler and Johanna Zacharias, Rome 1300. On the Path of the Pilgrim (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 2000); Jonathan Sumption, Pilgrimage: An Image of Mediaeval Religion (Totowa: Rowman and Littlefield, 1975); Diana Webb, Pilgrims and Pilgrimage in Medieval Europe (London: J. B. Tauris, 1999) and Medieval European Pilgrimage, c.700-c.1500 (Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave, 2002).

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(“templum Dei”) in Jeremiah (7:4).14 The more precise reference of Peter’s words is the usurper of the Papacy, Boniface VIII, whose election to the papal throne was considered by some to be invalid. Dante attributes the corruption of the clergy to the Donation of Constantine, and refers to the deleterious effects of that charitable act on several occasions. In the canto of the simonist popes, Inferno 19, he castigates the first Christian emperor: “Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre, / non la tua conversion, ma quella dote / che da te prese il primo ricco patre!” (115-17). It is possible that, during his visit to Rome, Dante may have seen the thirteenth-century fresco cycle in the Church of the Quattro Coronati that depicts crucial events in the life of Constantine. These paintings present the unfolding story of the Emperor: the leprous Constantine confronts the women with his desire to bathe in the blood of innocents; Constantine dreams of the apostles Peter and Paul; emissaries are sent to Pope Sylvester, who is residing on Mount Soracte; the Pope baptizes Constantine, who, in turn, gives sovereignty to the Pope; and finally Pope Sylvester is led by Constantine in triumph through the streets of Rome as a Roman sovereign. Dante’s use of episodes of the Constantinian legend at certain points in his narrative discloses not only his familiarity with it, but also his ability to maintain a distinction between abstract ideals and practical realities. He is able to distinguish between the noble office of the Papacy and the corrupt Popes who occupy it. Similarly, he acknowledges that Constantine’s pious intention was not in itself evil, but that it led to ecclesiastical corruption.15 Direct comparisons between Rome and Florence are few, but significant. In Cacciaguida’s speech in Paradiso 15, we hear the description of the way things were in the Florence of his days, in the second half of the twelfth century: “Non era vinto ancora Montemalo / dal vostro Uccellatoio, che, com’ è vinto / nel montar sù, così sarà nel calo” (109-11). Travelers arriving from the north receive their first view of Rome from the hill of Montemalo (= Montemario), just as one received a fine view of Florence from the hill of Uccellatoio. The sense of these verses is that in Cacciaguida’s day Rome (indicated by 14

On this point see Rachel Jacoff, “Dante, Geremia e la problematica profetica,” in Dante e la Bibbia, ed. Giovanni Barblan (Firenze: Olschki, 1988), pp. 113-123. 15 Cf. Purgatorio 32, 137-138 in reference to the Donation: “offerta / forse con intenzion sana e benigna.”

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the reference to Montemalo) had not yet been surpassed in splendor by Florence (Uccellatoio), but that just as Florence may have been more rapid than Rome in its rise to prominence, so will it be quicker in its fall. By the late thirteenth century Florence had reached unprecedented heights because of the great wealth generated by its various industries (banking, dyeing, wool, etc.), and this prosperity translated directly into ambitious new building projects–commercial,16 civic,17 and ecclesiastical18 –that would change the face of the city. The population of Florence in 1300, estimated at some 105,000, was three times greater than Rome’s 35,000;19 moreover, the rapid growth of Florence from the late twelfth to the late thirteenth century required the building of successive new circuits of town walls (1173-75 and 1284-1333) to contain the burgeoning population.20 Florence, of course, receives the brunt of Dante’s verbal attacks throughout the Comedy, and we cannot even begin to mention the number of places in which he refers to Florence as a sinful city or to the Florentines themselves as unrepentant sinners, so numerous are they. We think, for example, of Ciacco the glutton (Inferno 6), the wrathful Filippo Argenti (Inferno 8), Farinata degli Uberti and Cavalcante dei Cavalcanti among the heretics in the tenth canto, the anonymous Florentine suicide (Inferno 13), Brunetto Latini and the 16

The palace for the wool guild, the Palagio dell’Arte della Lana, was constructed in 1308. 17 The Bargello was constructed in 1255, and the Palazzo Vecchio, designed by Arnolfo di Cambio, was begun in 1299. 18 Many new church edifices were begun in this century: Santa Croce in 1294, Santa Maria Novella in 1246, Santa Maria del Fiore in 1296. 19 For the history of Florence and Italy in the Middle Ages, see, among others: Marvin B. Becker, Florence in Transition, 3 vols. (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1967); Robert Davidsohn, Geschichte von Florenz. 4 vols. (Berlin: Mittler, 1896-1925) [also Storia di Firenze, 8 vols. (Firenze: Sansoni, 1956-1968)]; George Holmes, Florence, Rome and the Origins of the Renaissance (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986); John Larner, Italy in the Age of Dante and Petrarch, 12161380 (London: Longman, 1980); Nicola Ottokar, Firenze: Cenni di storia e di cultura fiorentine (Firenze: La Nuova Italia, 1945) and Il comune di Firenze alla fine del Dugento, 2nd ed. (Torino: Einaudi, 1962); and Ferdinand Schevill, History of Florence from the Founding of the City through the Renaissance (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1936). 20 This third set of walls was sufficient for the city until the time of the Unification of Italy in the 1860s, at which time they were largely destroyed and replaced by a series of viali.

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other three Florentine sodomites (Inferno 15-16), the usurers (Inferno 17), the five Florentine thieves (Inferno 25), the schismatic Mosca dei Lamberti (Inferno 28), and the treacherous Bocca degli Abati (Inferno 32). Although Rome is singled out for censure as the seat of the corrupt Papacy, there are few, if any references to Roman sinners. Dante clearly had a love-hate relationship with Florence. On the one hand, his tender feelings toward his native city may be observed in his pious gesture toward the dismembered plant (soul) of the anonymous Florentine suicide in the opening verses of Inferno 14: “Poi che la carità del natio loco / mi strinse, raunai le fronde sparte / e rende’le a colui, ch’era già fioco” (1-3). We hear the sounds of civic concern and patriotic love in Dante’s questions concerning the future of Florence that he addresses to Ciacco: […] dimmi, se tu sai, a che verranno li cittadin de la città partita; s’alcun v’è giusto; e dimmi la cagione per che l’ha tanta discordia assalita. (60-63)

In the opening verses of Paradiso 25 he voices his great desire to return to his native city: Se mai continga che ’l poema sacro, al quale ha posto mano e cielo e terra, sì che m’ha fatto per molti anni macro, vinca la crudeltà che fuor mi serra del bello ovile ov’ io dormi’ agnello nimico ai lupi che li danno guerra, con altra voce omai, con altro vello ritornerò poeta, e in sul fonte del mio battesmo prenderò ’l cappello.” (1-9)

On the other hand, his outrage over his city’s failings and vices is equally clear in numerous passages. In Inferno 16, he apostrophizes Florence: “La gente nuova e i sùbiti guadagni / orgoglio e dismisura han generata, / Fiorenza, in te, sì che tu già ten piagni” (73-75). In the opening verses of Inferno 26, Dante inveighs against Florence, after finding five Florentines among the thieves: “Godi, Fiorenza, poi che se’ sì grande / che per mare e per terra batti l’ali, / e per lo ’nferno tuo

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nome si spande!” (1-3). As scholars have noted, these words are a parodic reformulation of the praise of Florence found on a thirteenthcentury commemorative inscription on the Bargello:21 Florence is full of all imaginable wealth, She defeats her enemies in war and in civil strife, She enjoys the favor of fortune and has a powerful population; Successfully she fortifies and conquers castles, She reigns over the sea and the land and the whole of the world. Under her leadership the whole of Tuscany enjoys happiness; Like Rome she is always triumphant […].

Perhaps the most important passage that joins Florence and Rome in comparison. In Paradiso 31, Dante Empyrean where he sees the assembly Rose and records his impressions:22

in the entire poem is the one an invidious and damning the Pilgrim arrives in the of the blessed in the Celestial

Se i Barbari, venendo da tal plaga che ciascun giorno d’Elice si cuopra [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] veggendo Roma e l’ardüa sua opra, stupefaciensi, quando Laterano a le cose mortali andò di sopra; ïo, che al divino da l’umano, a l’etterno dal tempo era venuto, e di Fiorenza in popol giusto e sano, di che stupor dovea esser compiuto! (31-40)

The Pilgrim compares himself to the barbarians who come to Rome from a far-off land and who stand in utter amazement upon beholding the grandeur of the city. The reference to the Lateran recalls that precise moment in history when the pagan city became Christian, 21 Marvin Becker, The Decline of the Commune, vol. I of Florence in Transition, p. 38. The passage is cited by, among others, Ricardo J. Quinones, Dante Alighieri (Boston: Twayne, 1979), p. 16. 22 The contorted syntax of this passage might be better understood if Singleton’s English translation were provided: “If the Barbarians, coming from such region as is covered every day by Helice, […] when they beheld Rome and her mighty work, when Lateran rose above all mortal things, were wonder-struck, I, who to the divine from the human, to the eternal from time had come, and from Florence to a people just and sane, with what amazement must I have been full!”

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when the Lateran was no longer used as an imperial palace but passed, by order of Constantine, to being the seat of the Papacy. More importantly for the aesthetic structure and political message of the Comedy, Rome and Florence are presented here as exact opposites: Florence the place of injustice and human imperfection–the new Babylon–and Rome the seat of divine justice and eternal perfection– the new Jerusalem. Despite its great cultural legacy, Florence, the “daughter of Rome” or “little Rome” as Villani called it, failed, in Dante’s view, to achieve its ideal potential. In reality, of course, Florence did become a second Rome; though as is usual with the things of earth, destiny worked only too ironically. The mother city on the Tiber was, indeed, the mother of abominations seen by St. Augustine, and Rome's daughter on the Arno was viewed in similar fashion, first by Dante and then, two centuries later, by Savonarola. And it was through the blind and false glory of a Florentine pope, Clement VII, that both their destinies were brought to perfection in rapid succession, in 1527 and 1530.

AURÉLIE KOSTKA

La ville, un Autre Monde? Discontinuité de l’espace urbain dans les romans arthuriens aistres, fait il, u somes nos? / Ceste vile connissiés vos?” (Guillaume d’Angleterre, 2361-62).1 La question que le roi adresse à Therfès lorsqu’il découvre Surclin dans Guillaume d’Angleterre fait écho à celle que formule Erec à l’instant où il aperçoit Brandigan pour la première fois: “Amis, savroiz le me vos dire, Fet il a son boen conpaignon, Comant cist chastiax ci a non Et cui est? Dites le moi S’il est ou a conte ou a roi. Des que ci amené m’avez, Dites le moi, se vos savez.” (Erec et Enide, 5378-84)

Les similitudes entre le récit attribué à Chrétien de Troyes et Erec et Enide dépassent ici le cadre de la relation courtoise et de la mise à l’épreuve étudiées par Anne Berthelot.2 La curiosité des protagonistes révèle en effet une méconnaissance de l’identité urbaine: la ville anonyme ne ressort pas du mythe; le nom n’émane pas immédiatement de la représentation, il n’en est pas indissociable. Objet de désirs dans les chansons de geste, modèle de la civilisation voué à être détruit dans les romans antiques, la ville occupe une place relativement marginale au sein de la matière de Bretagne. Si les descriptions de cités fictives3 1

Les références à Guillaume d’Angleterre, à Erec et Enide ainsi qu’au Conte du Graal sont issues de l’édition des Œuvres Complètes de Chrétien de Troyes publiée dans la Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, éd. D. Poirion (Paris: Gallimard, 1994). 2 Cf. la notice de Guillaume d’Angleterre dans l’édition de la Pléiade, op. cit., pp. 1413-14. 3 Certaines villes évoquées dans les romans arthuriens renvoient à des lieux existants, à l’instar de Rome, de Londres ou plus rarement de Paris. Nous ne nous intéressons pas ici à la transposition littéraire de la réalité urbaine mais à la nature et aux fondements de la représentation imaginaire de la ville. Plusieurs contributions ont été consacrées à l’évocation de la ville dans les œuvres de fiction: voir l’article d’Alice Planche, “Présence et absence de Paris dans la littérature jusqu’au milieu du XIIIe siècle,” dans L’image de la ville dans la littérature et l’histoire médiévales (Nice:

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les plus régulièrement mentionnées par la critique sont issues de romans arthuriens,4 l’espace urbain est plus souvent observé, traversé que recherché pour lui même. Qu’il s’agisse d’une cité des dames, d’une terre gaste ou d’un enchevêtrement de pierres précieuses, la ville est un endroit convoité. Néanmoins, les sièges et les batailles occupent rarement la première place dans les rapports temporels de romans axés sur la quête et le mouvement. L’appropriation du savoir, la révélation du signe dépendent d’un espace sans y nécessiter un long séjour, sans qu’une suspension du mouvement soit obligatoire. Symbole de la culture, la ville joue par ailleurs un rôle moindre que d’autres zones transitoires, qu’il s’agisse des forêts, des landes ou des gués, lieux privilégiés des périlleuses aventures. Elle diffère également des tentes et des châteaux, conçus en tant que refuge seigneurial ou demeure féodale. Elle est perçue en fait comme un monde autre, inquiétant dans la mesure où il est éloigné de l’univers chevaleresque. Nous souhaiterions montrer, en dédiant respectueusement notre travail à M. Rupert T. Pickens, que la représentation de la ville manifeste une altérité au sein de l’espace romanesque. Cette recherche vise à effleurer un vaste sujet, à ébaucher quelques pistes de réflexion en se fondant sur un corpus restreint. Nous nous intéresserons plus particulièrement à la Première Continuation de Perceval et au Perlesvaus5 car ces deux romans présentent des villes sous des traits similaires, le Haut Livre du Graal semblant toutefois accentuer certaines des caractéristiques relevées dans l’œuvre précédente. Le questionnement portant sur la dénomination de l’espace urbain souligne la confusion qu’engendre la découverte de la ville, confusion Centre d’études médiévales, 1979), pp. 60-69 et le n° 11 de Bien dire et bien aprandre. Revue de Médiévistique. La description au Moyen Âge (Lille: Université Charles de Gaulle, 1993). 4 Voir C. Croizy-Naquet, Thèbes, Troie et Carthage. Poétique de la ville dans le roman antique au XIIe siècle (Paris: Champion, 1994), p. 19, n. 26 et La ville en France au Moyen Âge, éds. A Chédeville, J. Le Goff et J. Rossiaud (Paris: Seuil, 1998), p. 7. 5 Les éditions de référence sont les suivantes: version courte de la Première Continuation d’après l’édition du manuscrit L par W. Roach, The Continuations of the Old French Perceval of Chrétien de Troyes, vols. I, II, III, The First Continuation (Philadelphie: Univ. of Pennsylvania Press et American Philosophical Society, 194952); W. A. Nitze et T. A. Jenkins, éds., Le Haut Livre du Graal: Perlesvaus (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1932-37).

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non seulement géographique mais encore lexicale. Borc, chastel, ville ou cité: tels sont les termes qui désignent une même réalité dans l’œuvre de Chrétien de Troyes.6 Dans la Première Continuation, une distinction semble être établie en fonction de l’importance du lieu considéré. Ainsi vile et cité renvoient à Branlant, alors que le Castel Orgueilleux est présenté comme une vile au vers 6207. L’assimilation de la demeure seigneuriale et de la ville fortifiée se retrouve par ailleurs dans leurs fonctions narratives: Anita Guerreau-Jalabert relève trois motifs où château et cité peuvent être substitués l’un à l’autre.7 Cependant, le rôle joué par la ville au sein des romans arthuriens en vers est bien moins important que celui du château: neuf motifs sont recensés sous le terme city, trois sous town(s), alors que castle(s) renvoie à quarante-trois motifs distincts (A. Guerreau-Jalabert, pp. 386, 488 et 383-84). Si le château est fréquemment associé au merveilleux, la ville est plus régulièrement perçue comme une récompense offerte pour un acte de bravoure, envisagée comme une dotation. Le roi Arthur donne Baradigan et Quiligni à Brun de Branlant pour s’assurer de sa fidélité: Cil les reçut et tint de lui, Et si li fist tot lige homage; Quites les tint tot son aage, Puis l’en rendi en guerredon Maint biau service ne sa maison. (Première Continuation, 2034-38)

Les richesses que rapporte une ville sont souvent évoquées, de même que le rôle joué par les relations commerciales. Ainsi, les références aux cités traduisent le mouvement d’urbanisation qui s’étend du Xe au XIIIe siècle. Par là même, la ville imaginaire reflète des mutations historiques plus qu’elle ne constitue un véritable lieu diégétique. Les analyses de J.-G. Gouttebroze évoquent à juste titre l’opposition entre 6

Cf. J.-G. Gouttebroze, “L’imaginaire de la ville dans l’œuvre romanesque de Chrétien de Troyes,” dans L’image de la ville dans la littérature et l’histoire médiévales: “Pour désigner la ville, de préférence aux mots borc, cité, ville, qu’il emploie quelquefois, Chrétien se sert la plupart du temps du mot chastel, quelle que soit l’importance du site considéré. Il n’établit pas de différence lexicale entre le château proprement dit et la ville fortifiée” (p. 39). 7 A. Guerreau-Jalabert, Index des motifs narratifs dans les romans arthuriens français en vers (XIIe-XIIIe siècles) (Genève: Droz, 1992): B 847, D 2178-1, F112-2.

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le réalisme de certaines descriptions et les “effets de réel” qui transparaissent dans les œuvres de Chrétien, simple esquisse d’une évolution des mentalités (p. 39). Dans le corpus arthurien, la ville est envisagée avec un mélange de respect et de dénigrement. L’admiration saisit Gauvain lorsqu’il découvre Beaurepaire dans Le Conte du Graal: Il esgarde la vile tote, Pueplee de moult bele gent, Et les changes d’or et d’argent, Qui tuit sont covert de monoies, Et vit les places et les voies, Qui totes sont plainnes d’ovriers Qui fesoient divers mestiers, Si com li mestier sont divers. (5758-65)

Mais la demoiselle qui l’accompagne manifeste son mépris à l’égard des bourgeois et des manouvriers qui menacent le chevalier: La demoiselle s’apareille De lui aidier come hardie Et a la comune s’escrie: “Hu, hu! fait ele, vilenaille, Chien anragié, pute servaille, Quel diable vos ont mandez? Que querez vos, que demandez?” (5952-58)

Cet exemple célèbre rappelle que la ville est décrite en fonction des impératifs socio-économiques et des aspirations de l’époque: cette réalité émergente est envisagée avec l’inquiétude attendue face à une nouveauté qui s’oppose aux idéaux chevaleresques et qui va parfois jusqu’à les menacer lorsqu’elle s’affranchit de la tutelle seigneuriale. Se fondant sur l’exemple d’Erec et Enide, Sylvie Lefèvre remarque toutefois que les bourgeois ne sont pas uniquement considérés avec animadversion: “l’hostilité à l’égard de la bourgeoisie ne va pas sans une certaine reconnaissance de ses mérites, surtout économiques. Aussi trouve-t-on un certain nombre de fois les bourgeois associés aux dames et aux chevaliers, en particulier lors de réjouissances ou de

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cérémonies.”8 Cette vision paradoxale se manifeste également dans Perlesvaus. Une ville est parfois un lieu hostile à la première approche, alors que la population sera accueillante lorsque le héros la traversera à nouveau. L’inverse peut également se produire, la ville réservant des surprises. Ainsi Gauvain, après qu’il a conquis l’épée avec laquelle saint Jean fut décapité, revient devant une ville pour tenir la promesse faite à un bourgeois de lui montrer la relique. Ce dernier s’en empare et suggère vivement au chevalier de ne pas le poursuivre, lui rappelant que la ville est une commune. Seule l’intervention du clergé, qui se substitue ici à la fonction, royale alors même que l’arme est devenue sacrée, permet au chevalier de reprendre son bien (2090-109). L’image de la cité diffère d’un séjour à l’autre. Cette instabilité, cette constante variation permet d’évoquer une discontinuité urbaine. D’une part, les villes ne se ressemblent pas, d’autre part, une même cité présente des visages différents selon l’instant où le protagoniste y pénètre ou en fonction de celui qui accomplit une telle action. De fait, la situation semble identique à ce qui se produit dans les châteaux. Mais la ville offre un paysage plus contrasté, mouvant, à cause de la composition de sa population et de son éventuelle franchise vis-à-vis du système féodal. Différente et autonome, la cité peut influencer voire transformer celui qui la traverse.9 La crainte d’une dissolution de l’ipséité justifie peut-être la retenue des chevaliers. Lorsque Gauvain a découvert la ville précédemment évoquée pour la première fois, il l’a observée de loin, sans nullement songer à en franchir les portes, sans éprouver d’autre désir que celui de poursuivre la quête de l’épée (Perlesvaus, 1734-53). La ville est un univers clos. Partant, elle est un lieu protégé, mais aussi une sorte de prison. Celui qui la traverse peut y être enfermé ou, plus exactement, être contraint d’y revenir. Si des protagonistes rencontrent des bourgeois, ils sont en général liés par un 8 Cf. l’entrée “bourgeois” dans le répertoire de l’édition des Œuvres complètes de Chrétien de Troyes, p. 1467. 9 J. Le Goff, “Ville et théologie au XIIIe siècle: une métaphore urbaine de Guillaume d’Auvergne,” dans L’image de la ville dans la littérature et l’histoire médiévales: “Qu’est-ce donc […] que le phénomène urbain? D’abord celui d’une immigration, d’hommes qui entrent dans un espace à la fois physique, juridique et éthique et qui deviennent autres qu’ils n’étaient avant d’entrer, des citoyens. Cités dont on voit d’abord les portes qui sont l’accès à un nouveau statut. La ville c’est une civilisation” (p. 34).

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serment qui les force à retourner sur les lieux. De même que Gauvain doit ramener l’épée de saint Jean, Lancelot est dans l’obligation de revenir dans la Gaste Cité au bout d’un an pour offrir sa tête. La promesse a été modifiée par le Pauvre Chevalier qui a réussi à repousser l’échéance: Lancelot sera décapité quarante jours après la découverte du Graal (Perlesvaus, 5766-87). La ville ravit parfois les héros. Il s’agit d’un ravissement qui trouve son origine dans les beautés urbaines, mais aussi d’un ravissement au sens étymologique du terme. Le héros est happé par la ville, elle rompt son autonomie dès qu’il en franchit les murs, souvent par le biais d’une promesse contraignante. Elle le conduit à devenir victime en renonçant à ses aspirations, comme dans le cas du séjour de Lancelot dans la cité du Décapité. La mort est associée à la cité. L’aventure connaît ici son terme, sa finitude. La clôture de l’espace urbain semble reproduite par les limites temporelles: le héros dispose d’un délai au terme duquel il devra se sacrifier pour rétablir l’équilibre, équilibre a priori déjà assuré par son action, sa promesse. Le sacrifice correspond aussi à une purification. Dans la mesure où il vise l’autorité royale, il rappelle l’autonomie urbaine ainsi que l’égalité entre les citadins que suppose en théorie la fondation d’une ville. Le fait que l’absence de la figure du souverain soit à l’origine du dérèglement, mais que sa destruction soit nécessaire à la restauration urbaine, souligne l’acuité du problème. Après avoir regagné le Castel Orgueilleux, Gauvain est surpris par la liesse des bourgeois qui se préparent à retrouver leur seigneur: Une joie ot la nuit si grant El castel que bien vos puis dire, Tel luminare i ot de cire Es tors, es maisons, es soliers, Sor murs, sor arbres, sor clociers, Que li castiaus qui ert molt grans Sambloit qu’il fust trestos ardant. (Première Continuation, 6032-38)

L’illusion prend corps au sein de l’épisode de la cité en flammes dans Perlesvaus. Lancelot s’approche d’une vaste cité qui a pris feu le jour de la mort de son roi; l’incendie cessera à condition qu’un nouveau souverain accepte de se jeter dans les flammes après un an de règne. Cette cité se présente comme un monde à l’envers puisqu’elle peut être gouvernée par un nain aussi facilement que par Lancelot, trop pressé pour porter un quelconque intérêt à ce lieu vilain (3550-50). Or la

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substitution du nain au chevalier suggère une inversion, une déformation de la hiérarchie sociale. La ville est un surgissement, surgissement d’une vision carnavalesque qui, partant, suscite l’interrogation. La présence du nain devenu roi de la cité en feu confirme la dégradation de la figure royale. Le contrôle d’une ville est généralement provisoire à la différence de la royauté héréditaire. Par ailleurs, le lieu n’est pas toujours conquis par la vaillance ni par la force. Remettre sa défaite, sa mort à plus tard pour posséder immédiatement un bien relève de la lâcheté, alors que la royauté suppose la force. Le territoire urbain est obtenu en compensation, comme dans l’exemple des cités offertes à Brun de Branlant. La possession peut également exiger une renonciation à soi-même, un déni de son être. Le mal est d’ailleurs associé à cette vision non céleste de la cité. L’idée du sacrifice est aussi celle d’une mort consentie. Dans Perlesvaus, la décollation programmée suppose l’acceptation de sa mort. La crémation est en revanche un véritable suicide. En effet, si Lancelot se désintéresse de la ville en flammes contrairement aux supplications des habitants, ce n’est pas uniquement car il a d’autres aventures à mener ou parce qu’il craint la mort; se jeter dans les flammes revient à mettre volontairement fin à ses jours. Des arguments réalistes peuvent par conséquent justifier les réticences d’un héros à pénétrer au sein de l’espace urbain. Toutefois, d’autres éléments tendent à confirmer la perception de la ville comme celle d’un univers abnorme. Elle est par essence le lieu de l’excès. Les richesses décrites dans Le Conte du Graal à l’instant où Gauvain parvient à Beaurepaire, trouvent leur pendant dans la Première Continuation de Perceval: De lius en lius parmi les rues A mesire Gauvain veües Rices tables a cangeors. Sor tapis de maintes colors Voit vaisele d’argent et d’or, Ainc n’ot plus rice en nul tresor. Esterlins, parpres et besans, Colognois, de Mors, aufricans, De tantes monoies veoit C’a grant mervelle le tenoit. (4013-22)

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Le trésor aperçu par le chevalier est associé au mercantilisme; il n’est ni le fruit d’une prise de guerre, ni l’incarnation de la souveraineté. La description des splendeurs urbaines met toujours en avant la spéculation, associant l’opulence à la vénalité, au péché. Dans les récits celtiques, l’amoncellement de biens est à l’origine de la submersion de la ville: Fontaine, échanson de la mer sauvage; le hurlement de fou d’au-dessus du sommet de la ville, C’est jusqu’à Dieu qu’il atteint; / Il est habituel qu’après la pompe, on connaisse un long trépas. Hurlement de fou au-dessus du sommet de la ville, aujourd’hui; Jusqu’à Dieu va la supplication; il est habituel qu’après la pompe on se repente. Un hurlement de fou m’irrite ce soir, Et il ne m’est pas facile de connaître le succès: Il est habituel que la chute suive la gloire. Un hurlement de fou vient au-dessus d’un fort cheval bai! C’est Dieu généreux qui fit cela! / Il est habituel qu’après l’excès On connaisse le manque.10

Point de déluge ni de villes englouties par les flots dans les romans arthuriens. L’eau est associée à l’Autre Monde. Si ce dernier peut être sous-marin tout en restant parfaitement similaire au monde humain quant à son aspect,11 il ne saurait a priori être urbain dans la mesure où la civilisation semble aller à l’encontre de la féerie. Toutefois, les excès–imputés d’ordinaire à un manquement de la figure d’autorité– sont châtiés: cités en ruines et villes en flammes hantent l’espace romanesque. Gauvain s’émerveille devant un lieu ouvert et désert: Par les osteus voit ver et gris, Tant que n’en sait dire le pris; Et voit tos les huis desfermés. De ce s’est mervelliés assés C’ome vivant n’i a trové; En soi meïsmes a pensé Qu’il vont convoier lor signeur Au petit castel por honeur, 10 Extrait d’un poème gallois issu du Livre Noir, tr. Léon Fleuriot, dans Récits et Poèmes celtiques (Paris: Stock, 1981), p. 234. 11 Tel est le cas du Lac de Diane où sera élevé Lancelot (Lancelot en prose). De même dans le roman celtique Immram Brain, ce qui paraît être la mer aux hommes est pour les fées une plaine fertile couverte de fleurs.

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Qui en la ville ert lués entrés O la rote qu’oï avés. Mesire Gavains droit s’en va Au castelet et si entra En une sale grant et lee; [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] Mesire Gavains vait avant, Mais il n’i trueve home vivant; [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] Mesire Gavains, qui alés Ert la dedens, tot esgarda; Sa main lieve, si se signa, Mais il n’i viut plus demorer Quant il ne trueve a cui parler. (Première Continuation, 4023-58)

D’autres similitudes avec la légende des villes englouties peuvent être notées: les plaintes des damnés, le tintement des cloches couvertes par les flots résonnent dans les romans. Ainsi dans le Haut Livre du Graal, Lancelot parvient à la cité du décapité après avoir traversé une lande désertique: cette ville en ruine et inhabitée laisse néanmoins entendre des voix qui plaignent le chevalier, plaintes audibles tout comme l’est le mouvement du peuple lors de la sortie du Riche Soudoyer dans la Première Continuation: Cil qui avoit la signorie Vint parmi les rues pognant, Aprés lui i vient de gent tant Que bien les oïrent movoir Cil del pavellon sans veoir. (6208-12)

Mais les murmures entendus par Lancelot sont inexplicables. Les sons émergent d’un autre monde visiblement inhabité, mais peuplé de présences fantomatiques: le corps même du chevalier disparaît mystérieusement après la décollation12 et Lancelot continue à entendre les lamentations sans bouche, alors qu’il s’éloigne de la ville (2856923). Élévation des cris poussés par ceux qui n’ont plus accès au monde, montée des flammes: la ville pécheresse conserve la verticalité 12

La sauvagerie de l’épisode peut-elle être considérée comme un regard posé sur d’anciennes croyances, sur la résurgence d’un fonds mythique? La décapitation de Bendigeidvran dans la Deuxième Branche du Mabinogi tend à confirmer une telle hypothèse.

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caractéristique de l’architecture urbaine. Les traces de la destruction matérielle se substituent aux symboles d’ascension spirituelle. La description apocalyptique de la cité rappelle également celle d’un navire en flammes dans Joseph d’Arimathie. Il appartient au Serpent Savant, incarnation de l’Ennemi qui tente les messagers partis à la cherche de Nascien et naufragés sur une île rocheuse: Quant il ot qu’il n’en feront plus ne mains que fors ce qu’il en ont dit, maintenant se fiert li vens en la nef, et le fist partir de la roche. Et quant il est un poi eslongiés, cil de la roche se regardent, et voient que entour la nef conmencha une tempeste si grant et si merveillouse que se toute la mer fust esmeüe; une autre fois i venoit flambe si grant come se toute la mer fust esprise de fu; et oient en la mer noises pluisours si laides et si espoentables conme s’eles ississent des bouches as dyables d’infer.13

L’association entre la mer et le feu renvoie au thème de la submersion, tout comme l’idée du sacrifice salvateur. L’immolation du pécheur, du gouvernant est nécessaire au salut, à l’interruption du désastre. Ainsi dans la légende de la ville d’Is, les flots se sont arrêtés car le roi Gradlon a jeté sa fille Dahut de cheval, la condamnant à être noyée. Pour interrompre le déversement des eaux, le roi doit suivre les injonctions de saint Guénolé et sacrifier sa fille. La condamnation des villes arthuriennes est due à leur autonomie, au péché par l’excès, la surabondance de biens, mais aussi par la luxure. La femme comme origine du mal est moins immédiatement perceptible dans les romans arthuriens que dans le fonds breton, la punition sanctionnant alors une déficience de la figure d’autorité. Le châtiment rend compte de l’assimilation par la littérature du fonds mythique et de la réalité sociale. La cité est condamnée car elle autorise et encourage des dérèglements à l’instar de la spéculation. Le merveilleux peut envahir l’espace urbain qui n’est pas systématiquement hors de l’eau: les villes peuvent surgir des flots, ou tout du moins en être bordées comme la cité de Blanchefleur. Surclin est pour sa part confondue avec une île dans certains manuscrits; elle reste incontestablement à la fois un port et un lieu d’enchantements. La ville devient féerique du fait de son association avec l’eau. Elle se rapproche ainsi de l’Autre Monde. Si les villes qui essaiment l’univers 13

Joseph d’Arimathie, § 404. Édition du Livre du Graal, dans Œuvres complètes, pp. 372-73.

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arthuriens n’ont pas la même fonction que les cités, proies des héros épiques, un rapprochement peut toutefois être esquissé entre ville et femme. Non plus dans la conquête, mais dans les multiples figures que l’une comme l’autre peuvent incarner: la ville comme la femme peuvent signifier et manifester l’Autre Monde. Les “effets de réel” perceptibles dans les descriptions de Chrétien de Troyes (J.-G. Gouttebroze, p. 39) sont peut-être liés au regard distant que l’auteur pose parfois sur le merveilleux; Philippe Ménard considère en effet l’indifférence au “temps magique” dans les romans de l’auteur champenois comme un trait d’humour.14 La périlleuse traversée des flots conduit non seulement à l’Autre Monde, mais aussi à la cité de Dieu. Sarras est le lieu où débutent et où s’achèvent les aventures du Graal, l’endroit sur lequel Galaad est appelé à régner. Dans la Queste del saint Graal, après avoir chevauché jusqu’à la rive et être restés assez longtemps en mer, les compagnons de Galaad lui demandent de dormir: “Si s’i colche et dort grant piece. Et quant il se fu esvilliez, si regarda devant lui et vit la cité de Sarraz. Lor vint a ax une voiz qui lor dist: ‘Issiez fors de la nef.’”15 Sarras illustre l’autre face de la cité médiévale, rappelant l’opposition traditionnelle entre la Jérusalem céleste et Babylone, condamnée à la destruction. La ville est perçue et présentée en fonction des modèles religieux, des espoirs chrétiens. Elle est un au-delà. Les aventures périlleuses du Bel Inconnu au sein de la place forte de l’Ile d’Or puis de la Cité en Ruine ne sont pas seulement prétexte à une description du paysage urbain: associée à la femme et aux enchantements, la ville ressort de l’Autre Monde, manifeste une altérité de l’espace, qu’elle soit isthme luxuriant ou merveilleux décombres. Résurgence des mondes engloutis, la ville est en rupture avec les entours du roman arthurien.

14 Ph. Ménard, “Le temps et la durée dans les romans de Chrétien de Troyes”, dans De Chrétien de Troyes au Tristan en prose. Études sur les romans de la table ronde, éd. Ph. Ménard (Genève: Droz, 1999): “Sans doute, il y a chez lui quelque propension au merveilleux. Mais le conteur montre un certain humour lorsqu’il fait brusquement surgir certaines créatures soustraites au rythme du temps. Surtout, dans son œuvre, le temps magique n’est guère qu’un mince résidu” (p. 100). 15 Queste del Saint Graal, éd. A. Pauphilet (Paris: Champion, 1967), p. 235.

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NORRIS J. LACY

On Armor and Identity: Chrétien and Beyond dentity–its construction, its meaning, its manifestation–has justifiably received a good deal of recent attention from scholars of Arthurian literature. It is a broad and vast subject to which a very brief article can scarcely be expected to make a significant contribution, particularly if it can deal with only a single aspect or a few details of this complex question. At best, such an article may be able to offer some useful observations that can assist modestly in the continuing exploration of the subject. My remarks will remain expressly limited in scope, dealing with the relationship of arms and armor to identity. They will emphasize less the substantial contribution that armor may make to a knight’s sense of his own identity than its use to figure chivalric identity and–assuming a close connection, at least in medieval romance, between identity and identification–its ability either to facilitate or to prevent identification. Beginning briefly with Chrétien de Troyes, I will then offer some remarks concerning later verse romances, especially the Merveilles de Rigomer,1 concluding by citing some curious revelations (and concealments) of identity in the Prose Tristan. Much will of course remain unsaid: the permutations of these themes are nearly endless. First off, it goes without saying that arms and armor are only part of a much broader signifying system related to identity, and the complexity of the topic derives both from the range of related signifiers and from the multiplicity of meanings and functions that can be subsumed by “identity,” in medieval romance and elsewhere.2 It is

1 I am taking some chronological liberties here, since the Rigomer (dated about 1250 by Douglas Kelly) doubtless follows the first version of the Prose Tristan and may be roughly contemporaneous with the second version. See Kelly, Medieval Romance (New York: Twayne, 1993), p. xx. 2 On broader questions concerning chivalric identity, see the essential study by Donald Maddox, Fictions of Identity in Medieval France (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 2000). Monica Wright offers a study of clothing (including some reference to armor) as a signifying system related to multiple aspects of identity; see her “Weaving a Narrative: Clothing, Conjointure, and Composition in Twelfth-

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important to underline too the connections and the many disjunctions between the notion of intrinsic chivalric identity and the perception of identity. Furthermore, the connection of identity to identification suggests that we can often draw a basic distinction between identity as subjectivity (for example, what Perceval is and knows and thinks) and identity as objectivity (what he appears to be: how others see him and what they think he is). The second of these often involves questions of identification, used here to mean either “perceived identity” or simple recognition. Chrétien is a key figure here, as of course he is in virtually every discussion of romance. He often focuses, in fact, on the irony generated by the discrepancy between what a character thinks he is and what others think he is. In Chrétien’s works, events and judgments frequently involve assumptions about identity and about its revelation, its concealment, or the mistaken perception of it. Examples of such assumptions abound in the Chevalier de la charrete, where much of the romance turns on the opposition between what others take Lancelot to be–a coward for riding in the cart–and what he is or at least will become: the hero and liberator (as well as the ideal submissive lover willing, even eager, to accept humiliation in the service of love).3 In Chrétien’s final romance, the notion of identity, in regard to both Perceval and Gauvain, explicitly involves armor. Little needs to be said about Perceval himself (if only because the romance, or at least the portion devoted to him, is familiar to all medievalists) beyond mentioning that, to the naive youth, armor constitutes identity. And the Good Friday scene is particularly revelatory when Perceval, having established superlative chivalric credentials, is informed that armor is inappropriate dress on that holy day: Century French Romance,” Ph.D. dissertation, Washington University in St. Louis, 2001. 3 In addition, other narrative systems in this romance offer additional examples of what I characterized as “objective identity,” that is, the way Lancelot is viewed by others. Even as his cowardice is making news far and wide, we also find him in situations where those who observe him have great admiration for his prowess and chivalric status: when a battle is postponed at the queen’s suggestion, on-lookers assume that Lancelot has so intimidated his opponent that the battle has been avoided. And simple recognition plays an important though mysterious role in this romance as well: others often recognize him as the Knight of the Cart, although they have never seen him (and we have no evidence that anyone has described him to the observers).

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[…] “Biax sire chiers, Dont ne creez vos Jhesucrist Qui la novele loi escrist, Si le dona as crestïens? Certes, il n’est raisons ne biens D’armes porter, ainz est grans tors, Au jor que Jhesucris fu mors.”4

A slightly less familiar example from Chrétien, though one that is no less revealing, comes from the second half of the romance, in the episodes devoted to Gauvain.5 When Gauvain, in the “Manches petites” episode, is seen with two shields hanging on a tree (and with more than one horse), there is extended speculation about him: after all, everyone knows that a knight has one shield, one sword, etc. We are told that the women who were there to watch the tourney […]virent soz eles el plain Le harnois monseignor Gavain, Si quidierent bien de premiers Qu’il i eüst .ii. chevaliers Por che que .ii. escus veoient Qui au chaisne pendu estoient. Et dïent quant furent montees Les dames que buer furent nees, Que ces .ii. chevaliers verront Qui devant eles s’armeront. Issi les unes devisoient, Et de tiex i ot qui disoient: “Diex! biax Sire! cil chevaliers A tant harnois et tans destriers Qu’il en eüssent assez dui; S’i[l] n’a compaignon avec lui, Que fera il de .ii. escus? Ainc chevaliers ne fu veüs Qui portast .ii. escus ensamble. Por che grans merveille me samble

4 Keith Busby, ed., Le Roman de Perceval, ou Le Conte du Graal (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1993), 6254-60. 5 See my article “Gauvain and the Crisis of Chivalry in the Conte del Graal,” in Rupert T. Pickens, ed., The Sower and the Seed (Lexington: French Forum, 1983), pp. 155-64, esp. p. 157.

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Se cil chevaliers qui est seus Portera ces escus ansdeus.” (vss. 4959-80)

Here, the man traditionally described as the “greatest knight in the world” is assumed not to be a knight at all, but rather a merchant (5060-62), simply because his equipment imposes an inappropriate assessment and identification. In both halves of the romance, the relation of armor to identity and identification is as persistent as it is varied, convoluted, and not infrequently deceptive. The importance of armor and dress (or undress) for recognition is dramatically illustrated also by the mad Yvain, sleeping naked in the forest and found by a lady and her two damsels. They are initially unable to recognize him, although, Chrétien tells us, one of them would have known him immediately “se il fust de si riche ator / com ele l’ot veü maint jor.”6 Although Chrétien might reasonably have related this non-recognition to the change in his physical state, the poet chooses instead to emphasize the absence of his customary attire. Thus, his undoubtedly long and unruly hair and beard and his generally unkempt appearance are less an obstacle than the absence of his customary clothing. Just as clothes make the man, nakedness makes him unrecognizable. Clothing is not only an index of social or economic status, but also an essential key to his very name and identity.7 My remarks about Gauvain and his two shields immediately bring to mind a number of counter-examples, which offer evidence that, between the late twelfth century and the mid-thirteenth, the paradigm set by Chrétien has been subject to renovation and transformation. A telling example is Le Chevalier as deus espees, composed near the middle of the century, perhaps around 1240.8 In an early episode of this romance, first of all, we have a woman who is on horseback and bearing a sword, which amazes everyone who sees her, for it is an 6

Chrétien de Troyes, Yvain, in Michel Zink, genl. ed., Romans (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1994), 2899-2900. 7 Ultimately, it is only a scar on his body that enables the women to identify Yvain (2901-09). The scar marks his body just as clothing does; both are parts of a complex sign system related to identity and identification. 8 Li chevaliers as deus espees, ed. Wendelin Foerster (Halle: Niemeyer, 1877; rpt. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1966). Kelly’s chronology gives a range of 1230 to 1250 for the composition of this romance (p. xix).

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unaccustomed sight: “ainc mais ne virent chevaucier / Feme ki espee portast” (1212-13).9 More directly related to the Gauvain of Chrétien’s romance is Meriadeuc himself, the Knight with Two Swords. He even outdoes Gauvain, because, despite his name, he eventually has three swords (each with a symbolic meaning). However, by the time this romance was composed, assumptions about weaponry as a reliable index to identity have been at least partially undone, and no one takes Meriadeuc to be a peddler of swords. Nonetheless, identity and identification of the hero remain central concerns of the poet, as does the question of anonymity, particularly in regard to Gauvain, who plays his familiar role as “second lead” to the hero. This example serves to illustrate the complexity of the subject, or at least its evolution from Chrétien into the following century. That complexity is even more dramatically illustrated in Les Merveilles de Rigomer (composed ca. 1250 by one “Jehan”). In Rigomer itself, as opposed to the world outside, arms and armor have a most unusual significance. Those who enter this strange land unarmed enjoy happiness and safety, whereas armed knights are disgraced there.10 Once knights enter Rigomer, the relationship of armor to success and even to identity is inverted–as is virtually everything else in Rigomer. Yet, before his characters reach Rigomer, Jehan is virtually obsessed with armor and with the sense of self that appropriate armor bestows. At one point, Lancelot is without a shield. It apparently is less a matter of his being helpless without a shield (for he is not) than it is a question of self-image: he is a knight, and a knight ought to have a shield. Without it, he is undressed. And once Lancelot acquires one, he announces with obvious pride and relief that now he is once again the Lancelot of the Lake that he used to be (4958). This concern for armor in Les Merveilles de Rigomer is carried almost to its logical extreme– yet curiously permuted, as it had been in the Chevalier as deux espees– by a knight who wears three hauberks and three helmets and carries

9

In addition, like Perceval, she enters Arthur’s court without dismounting–another astonishing sight. 10 Jehan [?], Les Merveilles de Rigomer. 2 vols. Gesellschaft für Romanische Literatur, 19, 39. Vol. I, ed. Wendelin Foerster; vol. II, ed. Wendelin Foerster and Hermann Breuer. (Dresden [for Halle]: Niemeyer, 1908, 1915), 2886-903, 3109-10, 9923-30.

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three swords; he is recognized as a nearly invincible knight, but he is never characterized as a chivalric aberration. Elsewhere (3504-34), Les Merveilles de Rigomer offers a different perspective on the problem at hand. In one episode, Lancelot tells a woman that he is a knight. She replies that she has never seen a knight but that she has heard that knights are bad because they wear hauberks–which is saying little more than that knights are bad because they are knights. Obviously, the question of identity is still closely tied to armor, but this is a world in which, as in a number of other romances of the time, the relationship is remade in contradistinction to situations we have encountered in earlier texts. It should be noted, though, that equating the character of knights with their wearing of armor was already anticipated in Chrétien’s Perceval, where the youthful hero had accepted uncritically the relationship of character to armor but had inverted the equation, considering knights good, not bad, because they wore armor. Prose romances develop these themes further, and sometimes in different directions, particularly toward non-recognition. In the Vulgate Merlin, Ulfin says to Arthur, “[…]vous uees la gent .ij. fois ou .iij. & si ne les connoisiez mie si men merueil moult.”11 Perhaps he should not have been amazed, not merely because he is referring to Merlin, who simply enjoys disguises and games, but also because a lack of recognition is not an unusual situation in this romance or others. Often in this cycle, a knight is unrecognized (logically enough) simply because he is wearing armor, or armor that is not his, but in other instances, plot development appears to require and impose nonrecognition, even of characters without armor. Although there is of course very much to be said on these subjects in the Vulgate Cycle,12 I will draw the remainder of my examples from 11

H. Oskar Sommer, ed., The Vulgate Version of the Arthurian Romances, vols. 1-7 (Washington: Carnegie Institution, 1908-16); L’Estoire de Merlin, vol. 2, p. 123. 12 A striking example of the relationship between armor and identify (or identification) occurs in the Mort Artu, with the complex of events surrounding the Demoiselle d’Escalot, the young woman who falls in love with Lancelot and, by asking him for a “blind” promise, elicits his agreement to wear her sleeve as a token in a tourney. He is wearing borrowed armor, in addition to the woman’s token, and is unrecognized. However, events (including notably Gauvain’s seeing Lancelot’s customary armor elsewhere and learning that the hero was wearing her token and thus, presumably, loves her) persuade Guinevere that Lancelot is unfaithful to her. These

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the Prose Tristan, owing to a significant shift in the paradigm of recognition scenes. This shift, begun with earlier cycles, comes strongly to the fore in the Prose Tristan, where we observe an occasional, and potentially disconcerting, severing of the traditional connection between armor and identity.13 The cycle offers a good many scenes in which, with or without armor, knights’ appearance may not permit recognition, even by their friends who see them from close range, but may instead conceal identity. An armed knight may or may not be recognized, but if he is, it is often for reasons independent of his arms and armor: he may now be identifiable simply by gesture or action. In this cycle, armor still serves its traditional utilitarian purpose in battle, and it can still serve as an effective disguise when necessary. At one point,14 Tristan, now hated by Mark, manages to move freely about the latter’s court, despite the presence of guards watching for him; they wonder who he is, but they do not stop him. (Presumably he wears armor, but the text does not explicitly say so.) In any case, it is assumed that he is simply a member of the household. Despite the obvious martial (and sometimes social) utility of armor, it is now rare to find knights either defining themselves or assessing their self-worth on the basis of their armor or its lack. In such a system, questions of simple identification become as complex as those of identity–a development that further underlines the intimate connection of the two. As recognition is becoming independent of armor or physical appearance, it comes to rely increasingly on actions that are accepted as typical or atypical of a knight. Leaving the castle (still unrecognized) in the episode just discussed, Tristan is met by episodes offer a comedy–nearly a tragedy–of errors involving the identity and the actions of the disguised Lancelot; they constitute a highly ambiguous play of signs that continues until the young woman dies and her body arrives at Camelot. With the body is a letter that explains everything, thus calming doubts and resolving the question of hidden or dubious identities. See Jean Frappier, ed., La Mort le roi Artu (Geneva: Droz, 1964), pp. 8-12, 24-26, 40-43, 67-68, 87-92. 13 I am not by any means suggesting that this is an innovation of the cycle. Similar situations occur in the Vulgate Cycle and elsewhere, but they seem unusually prominent in some portions of the Prose Tristan. 14 I quote from the edition by Renée L. Curtis, ed., Le Roman de Tristan en prose, 3 vols. (Cambridge; Brewer, 1985), vol. III, p. 144.

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Gauvain’s son, Giglain, who challenges him to battle. Tristan’s strength predictably proves prodigious. When Giglain ducks a blow, it cuts off his horse’s head. Mark, watching from the castle, marvels at the blow, and although he had not recognized Tristan during the latter’s stay at court, the horse’s decapitation leads the king to comment that “‘Par mon chief, fait li rois, li cos fu granz et pesanz, ne ne vint mie de main d’enfant. Je di bien apertement et vel que tuit cil de ceanz le saichent que Tristanz, mes niés, fist le cop. Il a demoré entre nos sanz dote’” (Curtis vol. III, pp. 146-47). The knight is recognized not by appearance or armor, but by his exploits and, in particular, by their effect. Here and in a good many other episodes, it is now prowess, not appearance and not appurtenances, that reveals identity. Identity is no longer figured; it is now performed. Even more remarkable is a scene in which Tristan and Gorvenal come upon the abandoned corpse of a knight and recognize, simply from the damage done to the body, that he must have been killed by Palamedes, because “[…] c’est de ses cops! Il n’a chevalier en Cornoaille de cui mains il fust issu” (Curtis vol. III, p. 112). The corpse now bears the signs that permit identification of the person responsible for them. Soon the two knights find Palamedes, but because he is in a love-reverie and does not respond as custom would dictate, Gorvenal now comments that this cannot be Palamedes (Curtis vol. III, p. 119). In fact, the latter’s shield is lying nearby, but whereas we might expect that to be sufficient proof of identity, the narrator remarks casually but tellingly that “escu s’entresemblent maintes foiz.” Thus, the shield cannot establish his identity. Arms and armor are now less reliable, as an index to identity, than is behavior. Clothing, however, still remains part of a significant if sometimes deceptive sign system. Unaccustomed clothing, for example, can still provide an effective disguise. An example is offered by an episode in which Mark had imprisoned Iseut, and in his grief at the separation, Tristan had stopped eating and was near death. The queen, though, hatches a plot. Her servant Brangien comes to Tristan and has him put on a dress; then the two of them casually stroll through the court toward Iseut’s tower. Tristan walks “tres devant le roi Marc et par devant les autres chevaliers,” but he is unrecognized “por la vesteüre” (Curtis II, p. 141). They simply walk into Iseut’s room, where this brazen tactic allows the lovers three days of pleasure. As Yvain’s

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nakedness impedes recognition, so does the (admittedly dramatic) change of Tristan’s clothes effectively conceal his identity. With the Prose Tristan we encounter situations in which connections among armor, identity, and identification may be maintained where narratively needed but may also be suspended or dissolved when the text demands that. A knight is often identified by his actions, not by his appearance, his armor, or his dress; and even a woman’s dress serves as an effective barrier to recognition, without the necessity of further disguise. I am not suggesting, in regard to my subject, that there is a clear chronological progression from text to text; that most obviously is not the case.15 I wish only to indicate that authors are engaging in a continuing reexamination and reconceptualization of the connections among armor, identity, identification, and recognition. Beyond the examples adduced here, the questions I have raised need to be tested by an examination of dozens of romances. My effort has been simply to illustrate briefly both the superficial similarities and the far more fundamental differences between a Gauvain, whose two shields imply that he is a shield salesman, and a cross-dressed Tristan, who can blend in with the crowd at court, unrecognized even by those who know him well. Should we need any final evidence of the variety and complexity– or, sometimes, the startling simplicity–of recognition scenes, one of the most remarkable examples goes back to Gottfried and to a number of other texts.16 It is entirely unrelated to armor or dress but may be a useful coda to the preceding discussions. In this episode, Tristan conceals his identity in large part by reversing the syllables of his name, becoming the stranger Tantris. Ernest Newman, in his study of Wagner’s operas, describes this stratagem as “charmingly naïve,”17 but most medievalists would surely disagree, taking it instead as proof of the intimate and by no means arbitrary link that the Middle Ages assumed between names and the identity of the persons who bear them. A different name means a different person, though the 15 Nor even from verse to prose, though I think it likely that a more thorough study would indicate some reasonably predictable tendencies related to form. 16 The same stratagem is used, in differing circumstances, in the two Folies Tristan, Eilhart, Malory, and other texts. 17 The Wagner Operas, 2 vols. (New York: Knopf, 1949), vol. I, pp. 175-76.

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underlying theory is far more complex than this formula implies.18 In any event, the ruse is thoroughly effective: conforming to narrative conventions that appear to have escaped Newman, this simple change of name also alters and disguises the person, just as surely as a change of armor or attire (or an absence of attire, or cross-dressing) can conceal identity. A modern parallel suggested by Newman fails to account for the subtlety of the medieval example, but it nonetheless deserves mention for its cleverness: Newman sees Tristan’s (Tantris’s) ploy as roughly the equivalent of one that might have been employed by a fat, bald Englishman wandering freely around Hitler’s headquarters–and unrecognized simply because he had introduced himself as Chinston Wurchill. In concluding, I should emphasize yet again that my observations here do not go far in dealing with a subject of nearly limitless complexity and extension. It is also a topic that has given us far more thorough studies than mine (v. Maddox), and still much remains to be said. At bottom, I believe, the subject starts not with armor or dress, but with queries that are even more basic. Who is who? What does identity mean in the chivalric world, and what does it tell us? And how do we know how to determine and evaluate it? Full answers would fill books rather than a few pages, and they would surely take us to surprising extremes, from the wooden statues of Gauvain kept by some women who love him to the “armor of the Lord,” the religious garb that is presented in the Grail quest as the only proper and noble replacement for the more familiar armor of earthly chivalry. Ultimately, and unsurprisingly, everything a medieval literary character is and does, everything related to him, contributes to the construction of his identity; and narratorial manipulation of a complex sign system offers a powerful yet subtle means of revealing–or, when necessary, of concealing–character and identity.

18

Instead, it is an expression of “[…] pervasive medieval pattern of thought that presupposes an originary relation between names and things, signifiers and signified ….” See Arthur Groos and Norris J. Lacy, Perceval/Parzival: A Casebook (New York: Routledge, 2002), p. 3.

OLIVIER LINDER

“Par soulas et par envoiseüre”: rire et distinction aristocratique dans le Tristan en prose1 ans le long récit du tournoi de Louvezerp2 prend place un passage qui semble un résumé exemplaire de la pratique courtoise de la conversation. Celle-ci est émaillée de traits d’un humour plus ou moins immédiatement intelligible pour le lecteur moderne, mais manifestement sans ambiguïté pour les personnages de la fiction. Cette scène servira d’introduction à quelques remarques sur la fonction de l’humour dans le réseau des valeurs qui unifient le monde des chevaliers arthuriens.3 Au soir de la première journée du tournoi, Tristan reçoit dans sa tente Arthur, qui vient s’ajouter aux convives d’un dîner agréablement animé par Palamède, Dinadan, Lancelot, Gaheriet et d’autres chevaliers, et qu’embellit la présence de la reine Yseut (t.V, §§ 25768). Tristan, qui a combattu dans le camp opposé à celui d’Arthur, déclare avec emphase que: “[…] mout mieux valurent les cevaleries d’ui que ne firent celes d’ier. Trop se tinrent plus asprement hui toute jour. L’assemblée d’ui ne fu mie conme tournoiemens, ains fu conme mortel bataille, et trop i ot durs cevaliers et trop furent preudomme d’ambesdeus pars. Je n’i vi hui nule fausse pointe ne nul samblant de couardise.” (V, § 264)

1 La présente contribution a fait l’objet d’une communication au XIXe congrès de la Société Internationale Arthurienne, Toulouse, 1999. 2 Voir Denis Lalande et Thierry Delcourt, éds., Le Roman de Tristan en prose, V: De l’arrivée des amants à la Joyeuse Garde jusqu’à la fin du tournoi de Louvezerp (Genève : Droz, 1992). Sauf mention contraire, les références au roman se fondent sur l’édition du texte du ms. 2542 de Vienne, dirigée par Philippe Ménard, 9 vols. (Genève: Droz, 1987-97). 3 Sur l’humour médiéval, voir Philippe Ménard, Le rire et le sourire dans le roman courtois en France au Moyen Âge, (Genève: Droz, 1969), et du même auteur, “Le rire et le sourire au Moyen Âge dans la littérature et les arts : essai de problématique,” dans Le rire au Moyen Âge dans la littérature et les arts. Actes du colloque international de Pau, les 17, 18, et 19 novembre 1988, éds. T. Bouché et H. Charpentier (Talence: Presses Universitaires de Bordeaux, 1990), pp. 7-28.

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Le récit des précédentes journées est en effet jalonné de prouesses sanglantes, parfois mortelles: le tournoi est donc une affaire des plus sérieuses. Arthur reprend en donnant le pris de la journée à Tristan: “[…] se vous tant seulement ne fuissiés, cil ki maintinrent le tournoiement encontre nous eüssent le camp perdu et fuissent tournés a la fuie. Vous seus maintenistes le camp; vous seus nous avés hui fait tout l’anui; a vous seul doivent gré savoir nostre aversaire de ce k’il sont remés u camp. Demain iert li daerrains jours du tournoiement. Il est mestiers que cascuns de nos compaingnons face demain merveilles d’armes.” Et lors commencent tout a rire, car bien sevent certainnement k’il ne dist ceste parole fors par soulas et par gieu. (ibid.)

En laissant même de côté la légèreté avec laquelle, dans l’univers chevaleresque, on s’amuse du spectacle de la violence, il faut se demander pour quelle raison exacte les assistants rient des paroles d’Arthur? Celui-ci est-il ironique quand il suppose que ses troupes réunies ont eu et auront encore fort à faire contre Tristan à lui seul? Il fait pourtant un éloge de Tristan, que justifie pleinement le récit du tournoi: selon le cliché habituel, le héros y a bel et bien mérité son triomphe par ses seuls exploits personnels. Le rire des chevaliers provient donc moins de la teneur même des propos, que de la délicatesse enjouée dont le roi fait preuve vis-à-vis de Tristan. Arthur affiche son aptitude à tenir des propos de tables raffinés, sur un ton de mise puisqu’il s’adresse aussi bien à Tristan qu’aux combattants aguerris qui l’entourent (ainsi qu’à des lecteurs non moins connaisseurs en la matière). Il sait tourner un compliment subtilement enveloppé d’ironie bienveillante, tout en provoquant un rire de connivence. On notera les effets de répétition et de gradation, qui renvoient à ceux qu’employait Tristan précédemment. C’est donc l’urbanité de leur roi qui provoque la joie des chevaliers; dans l’univers du Tristan en prose, la possession d’une telle qualité n’est guère moins importante que la démonstration de la proesce ou de la chevalerie sur le champ de bataille. Le rire partagé rassemble les chevaliers dans un réseau de pratiques et de valeurs communes, qui leur permet d’affirmer leur qualité d’hommes de bien. Ces pratiques et valeurs sont avant tout du ressort de la parole. D’autres ont déjà souligné, relativement à des œuvres antérieures au Tristan en prose, combien le discours des personnages y est

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envahissant, même en simples termes de volume textuel.4 Or, la conversation n’y a guère de fonction narrative, et ne sert qu’à montrer que les chevaliers ont une manière spécifique d’“être ensemble.” Si elle n’est pas nécessairement harmonieuse et pacifique (par exemple, lorsqu’elle réunit Tristan et Palamède), sa prolifération manifeste en tout cas l’intérêt que porte le roman à la sociabilité en tant que circonstance essentielle de la vie chevaleresque. La conversation prend place dans une réflexion plus large sur la distinction aristocratique. La sociabilité suppose en effet un code de représentation et de distinction. Cet art de la conversation ne contribue pas peu à imposer au roman un ton enjoué quelque peu surprenant.5 On sait la mutation qu’a fait subir au récit tristanien sa mise en prose: d’une sombre histoire d’amour tragique à la flamboyante carrière du meilleur chevalier du monde. Suivant l’exemple de Tristan, le bon chevalier cherche donc dans la fréquentation de ses semblables à se “soulager de paroles.” Les jeux verbaux succédant aux jeux guerriers, on échange des propos marqués par l’enjouement et la distinction. Le soulas désigne donc ordinairement le plaisir de la conversation.6 La conversation est pleinement une pratique distinctive: il n’y est presque jamais question que de la proesce, du pris, du los des interlocuteurs ou d’un tiers. Il s’agit d’évaluer le degré de distinction d’autrui, sa courtoisie, envisagée de façon plus ou moins indépendante de l’“amour courtois”–même s’il existe des colloques amoureux dans le roman–et dans une acception qui préfigure le sens moderne du terme. Fréquente est la sanction “Vous n’estes mie trop courtois,” ou l’une de ses variantes, en cas de manquement (réel ou supposé) aux règles de la sociabilité.7 Les personnages dissertent sans fin de ce qui les définit en tant que membres de la caste aristocratique, et le plaisir de la conversation tient autant à son contenu qu’aux compétences 4

Voir par exemple Anne Berthelot, “L’inflation rhétorique dans le Tristan en prose,” dans Tristan et Iseut, mythe européen et mondial. Actes du colloque des 10, 11 et 12 janvier 1986, éd. Danielle Buschinger (Göppingen: Kümmerle, 1987), pp. 32-41. 5 Voir Emmanuèle Baumgartner, La harpe et l’épée: tradition et renouvellement dans le Tristan en prose (Paris: SEDES, 1990), ch. 5. 6 Ainsi, t.V, § 260: “Mout demainnent entr’aus laiens grant joie et grant soulas. Li rois se deduist et soulage em parler a la roïne.” 7 Par exemple Lancelot à Palamède, qui vient étourdiment (mais alors que l’incognito est général) de révéler l’adultère de Guenièvre: “Che n’est mie grant courtoisie de tel parole metre avant […]” (t. I, § 110).

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mondaines des interlocuteurs en la matière: c’est un don appréciable que de susciter la gaieté autour de soi. Ainsi, s’il y a peu de scènes ouvertement comiques dans le roman, le rire des personnages est en revanche souvent représenté, sous la forme d’un rire en commun, à fonction identitaire. La gaieté qui préside aux réunions, aussi bien que le don qui permet de la faire naître, se traduisent à l’aide de la notion d’envoiseüre. Ce terme est remarquable en regard des autres mots susceptibles d’entrer dans son réseau lexical (soulas, ris, jeu, etc.), dans la mesure où ces derniers connaissent une assez longue postérité. En revanche, envoiseüre reste propre à la langue médiévale, et semble n’avoir disparu qu’avec le XVIe siècle.8 Sa signification et sa place dans l’écheveau des valeurs courtoises valent la peine d’être précisées.9 Les principaux dictionnaires de l’ancienne langue10 fournissent, pour envoiseüre et sa famille, diverses acceptions, selon deux axes principaux: – d’une part, un emploi relativement minoritaire, nettement péjoratif, relevant d’une approche cléricale et moralisante. Le mot désigne l’abandon excessif aux plaisirs de ce monde, depuis l’intempérance jusqu’à la luxure.11 Cet emploi est directement dérivé de l’étymologie du mot: invitiare se rapporte en effet à vitium. – à l’opposé, dans le domaine profane, la littérature romanesque en fait un emploi très largement (mais pas exclusivement) positif: de la continuité entre vice et plaisir, l’usage profane n’a retenu que ce dernier, pour l’innocenter à peu près totalement. L’envoiseüre sert alors l’apologie des valeurs courtoises, où le plaisir est légitime sinon nécessaire à l’harmonie. L’envoiseüre renvoie au divertissement, au

8

Le terme n’apparaît pas dans le Trésor d’Estienne. Huguet (Dictionnaire de la langue française du seizième siècle) ne l’enregistre pas. 9 Cf. Ph. Ménard, Le rire et le sourire, pp. 421-25 et 702-05. 10 On a recouru à l’Altfranzösisches Wörterbuch d’A.Tobler et E.Lommatzsch (Wiesbaden: Steiner, depuis 1925), au Dictionnaire de l’ancienne langue française de F. Godefroy (Paris: F. Vieweg, 1880; réimpr. New York, 1961), ainsi qu’au hasard des occurrences dans diverses œuvres médiévales. 11 Des gloses citées par l’Altfranzösisches Wörterbuch traduisent la famille d’envoisier, avec les termes lascivia, lascivire, lascivus en relation avec l’ancien français joliveté, jolis.

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passe-temps, à la gaieté.12 Dans la caractérisation psychologique, elle est une disposition à l’enjouement.13 Le terme peut aussi s’appliquer à toutes sortes d’objets, de dispositifs ou d’activités visant au divertissement (jeux de société, chansons d’amour). On distinguera, en faveur de notre propos, une série d’acceptions unifiées par la notion de distinction: l’envoiseüre peut impliquer la bonne éducation, les manières soignées, la beauté du corps et du visage, l’élégance, en bref l’appartenance de la personne (voire de l’objet) à la sphère aristocratique.14 Nombreux sont les exemples qui présentent le mot dans le contexte de la fête, ou plus simplement dans le cadre du divertissement courtois. L’envoiseüre figure en particulier parmi les qualités requises de la dame, de la demoiselle et des jeunes gens; elle apparaît dans le semblant qu’on offre à autrui.15 12

Voir Gerbert de Montreuil, Le Roman de la Violette ou de Gerart de Nevers, éd. D. L. Buffum (Paris: Champion, 1928): “Chascune prent un chevalier / Pour commenchier l’envoisement [en parlant d’une danse]” (96-97); dans ce même roman, cf. 5049, 5699, passim. 13 Voir Guillaume de Lorris, Le Roman de la Rose, éd. D. Poirion (Paris: GarnierFlammarion, 1974). C’est un devoir de l’homme de bien que de la pratiquer: “Apres ce te doit sovenir / D’envoiseüre maintenir. / A joie et a deduit t’atorne” (2175-77). A en croire l’amusante (et énigmatique) épitaphe citée par Godefroy, “Chi gesist Baldouins de Grinckur / Ki trespassat d’envoisur,” c’est même un art de vivre qu’on cultive jusqu’à la dernière extrémité. 14 L’Escoufle de Jean Renart, éd. F. Sweetser (Genève: Droz, 1974) montre bien qu’il s’agit d’une compétence mondaine: Tuit cil a cui ele s’envoise En sont ml’t lié, que c’est raisons; Ml’t lor sot bien chanter chançons Et conter contes d’aventures. (2056) La notion fait partie du portrait moral des personnages, intégrée à l’énumération d’autres valeurs aristocratiques: dans Durmart le Galois, éd. J. Gildea (Villanova, Pa.: Villanova Press, 1965-66), le héros est sages, envoisiés, cortois et bien enseigniés, bealz parliers et cler veans, debonaire et acointans (117-19). De même dans le portrait de Partonopeus, Partonopeu de Blois, éd. J. Gildea (Villanova, Pa.: Villanova Univ. Press, 1967), qui est pros, coragos, larges, frans et envoisiés (545-47). L’adjectif envoisié appliqué à un objet le signale en tant qu’objet de luxe et de distinction: ainsi la ceinture de l’Escoufle (5939), ou une robe dans Durmart (952). Le terme caractérise même en propre la sociabilité curiale: “Et trestote cele maisnie / fu desduisante et envoisie” (Durmart, 725-6). 15 Marie de France, Lais, éd. J. Rychner (Paris: Champion, 1983): “Mult la trouva curteise et sage, / Bele de cors e de visage, / De bel semblant et enveisiee” (Equitan, 51-53).

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Gaieté, bonne éducation, sens de la convivialité et art de la parole forment donc un ensemble qui manifeste la qualité aristocratique. Participant de l’intériorité comme de l’apparence, liée à la nature de l’individu comme à l’enseignement ou à la norreture, l’envoiseüre est bien un terme clef de la sociabilité aristocratique, et subsume la part visible de la noblesse dans les interactions sociales. Les principales collocations de l’adjectif envoisié–courtois, gentis, bien apris, enseigné, sage etc.–et des qualificatifs tels qu’acointans ou bealz parliers, soulignent que la courtoisie implique facilité de parole et affabilité. La littérature morale contemporaine en atteste d’ailleurs sous une forme prescriptive: il est de la nature de l’aristocrate d’être envoisiés. La Bible au seigneur de Berzé, dont l’auteur, devenu moraliste dans son vieil âge, après avoir été poète courtois, déplore la perversion de ses contemporains, invite son lecteur à l’austérité. Moins rigoriste qu’il n’y paraît, il regrette le beau temps des tournois, et ne se souvient du sens péjoratif de l’envoiseüre que pour mieux la réhabiliter: […] irés, mornes e pensis Puet on bien perdre paradis E plains de joie et envoisiés, Seul qu’il se gart d’autres pechiés, Le puet on bien conquerre aussi. (127-30)16

L’envoiseüre est donc liée à une pratique sociale distinctive. C’est essentiellement cette orientation de l’enjouement comme facteur de reconnaissance sociale qui nous arrêtera pour l’étude de l’envoiseüre dans le Tristan en prose.17 Un relevé empirique dans l’énorme masse textuelle du roman montre qu’il ne contient que fort peu d’occurrences péjoratives de la famille d’envoiseüre.18 Le Tristan en prose rejoint en cela les autres 16

Hugues de Berzé, La Bible au seigneur de Berzé, éd. Félix Lecoy (Paris: Droz, 1938). 17 A ce sujet, cf. l’approche d’E. Baumgartner, “Arthur et les chevaliers envoisiés,” Romania, 105 (1984), 312-25. Nous considérerons ici la notion en tant que compétence mondaine exclusivement. 18 On n’a pas procédé à l’examen approfondi de la Queste del Saint Graal insérée dans le Tristan en prose (au fil des tomes VI à IX), du fait de sa tonalité assez différente; elle contient peut-être des emplois orientés vers cette signification.

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romans en prose, tel son modèle le Lancelot. Peut-être accorde-t-il une attention plus soutenue que ce dernier à l’enjouement aristocratique. Dans le Tristan, l’adjectif envoisié s’ajoute au nom des personnages dont on reconnaît le don particulier à dispenser la gaieté. Ainsi, Gyrflet (t. IV, § 56) est “cevaliers durement envoisiés, et boin gabeour.” Divers passages montrent ainsi que l’envoiseüre est significative de la valeur de l’individu. Comme on l’a signalé, c’est souvent le personnel féminin qui se voit pourvu de l’épithète. Tristan et ses compagnons se dirigent vers un château pour y passer la nuit. La fille du châtelain, la Demoiselle à la Harpe est d’une exceptionnelle distinction: “Ele est si vaillans de toutes coses que vous l’en tenrés a mervelles, et avoec ce ele cante si bien et si envoisiement que çou est un soulas et un deduis que d’oïr son chant” (VII, § 164). Tristan apprécie ce portrait: “Qui ce ne verroit volentiers, fait mesire Tristrans, il ne seroit tenus pour cevaliers” (ibid.). Ce sont ses dons musicaux–soit la capacité à produire le plaisir autour de soi–qui rendent la jeune fille envoisie. La réaction de Tristan revêt un tel don d’une fonction de lien social et de signe de reconnaissance à l’intérieur de la communauté chevaleresque. Le chevalier se doit d’apprécier la vie mondaine et ses manifestations esthétiques, et sait sanctionner chez autrui l’adéquation aux valeurs de son milieu. Le second ensemble d’emplois concerne des entités inanimées ou abstraites. Plusieurs passages appliquent l’épithète envoisie à l’une de ces fontaines dont on sait le rôle symbolique dans le roman.19 Elle qualifie aussi deux événements proprement aristocratiques: les fêtes de cour et les tournois. Ainsi le bouhourdeïs envoisiés qui s’improvise lors de l’arrivée de Galaad à la cour, (VI, § 106) dans un passage repris au texte de la Queste del Saint Graal: ultime célébration profane des plaisirs de ce monde. Ou encore, la cour esforcie, bele et envoisie du tome VI, § 49. Même les fêtes à la cour du roi Marc se tiennent dans l’envoiseüre, (t. I, § 39, version du ms. BnF, fr. 757). Enfin, les scènes de divertissement champêtre qui se rencontrent à l’occasion jouent un rôle emblématique. Galaad et ses compagnons chevauchent au royaume de Norgales: Entour eure de nonne aprocierent d’une fontainne, u il trouverent .VI. cevaliers, et damoiseles qui se soulageoient o aus mout envoisiement devant la fontainne. Et 19

Par exemple t. V, § 284. Voir entre autres E. Baumgartner, La Harpe, pp.73-79.

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s’aucuns me demandoient qui estoient li chevalier, je diroie que li uns estoit fiex au roi de Norgales, boins cevaliers, et estoit apelés Geon. Il avoit illuec fait venir une gentil feme de Norgales, que il amoit par amours, et pour amour de cele estoient il illuec assamblés. Il menoient bele envoiseüre. (IX, § 69)

Convivialité, noblesse fortement soulignée des participants (l’un est fils de roi et aime une gentil feme), atmosphère amoureuse, exploits guerriers dans les lignes qui suivent: ce passage est un résumé de l’engouement romanesque pour les plaisirs mondains. L’expression par gieu et par envoiseüre vient parfois qualifier les propos qu’échangent les chevaliers. Au cours d’un parlement nocturne, Lancelot, Kahédin et Palamède, débattent de la beauté respective des reines Guenièvre et Yseut. Lancelot en vient à défier ses interlocuteurs, qui rabaissent l’honneur de Guenièvre. Mais ils refusent de se battre pour des raisons qu’ils jugent futiles; émule de Kahédin, Palamède rétorque à Lancelot: “Certes, ce dist Palamidès, ce que nous avom chi dit nous l’avom dit par soulas et par envoiseüre. Nous n’i entendons pas tel mal con vous i entendés. Ensi parolent toute nuit li cevalier errant!” (I, § 108) Le plus souvent pourtant, les paroles envoisies des chevaliers, que Palamède érige en norme de leurs discours, portent sur un point du code chevaleresque ou, comme ici, sur le sentiment amoureux: matières sérieuses s’il en est. La clausule de Palamède paraît donc impliquer que les arguties infinies qu’entraîne le respect du point d’honneur ne connaissent pas d’autre justification que la dimension ludique de l’errance et des rencontres. Lancelot serait-il dépourvu de sens de l’humour? A l’inverse, Tristan est le personnage envoisié entre tous. On le voit souvent se comporter avec une aisance enjouée: Grant est la joie et grant la feste que tuit cil du chastel font a monseignor Tristan. Misere Tristan s’envoise et ce deduit. (t. I de l’éd. d’après le ms. BnF, fr. 757, § 40) L’envoiseüre de Tristan se révèle essentiellement dans son compagnonnage avec Dinadan, au début du tome II (§§ 1-66) après son bannissement de Cornouailles, ainsi qu’au début du tome V (§§ 1106). Tristan s’y montre aussi à l’aise en selle que dans la joute verbale. Il est malaisé de citer au long ces aventures qui confinent parfois au burlesque. Dinadan y apparaît certes en expert de l’art

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oratoire, mais on notera qu’il est la dupe de Tristan plus souvent que l’inverse. Au sujet de ce personnage,20 nous noterons seulement qu’il semble devoir être perçu moins comme un prototype de Sancho Pança, que comme le modèle du bon compagnon, maître en l’art de la conversation spirituelle. C’est le cas au tome V, dans un portrait de Dinadan par Tristan à l’attention d’Yseut: “Ma dame, fait mesire Tristrans, savés vous que Dynadans est? Or saciés tout chertainnement que Dynadans est, quant il veut, soulas et deduis de toute sa compaingnie; mais quant sa volenté li tourne, je ne sai orendroit nul si sage cevalier en tout cest monde k’il ne feïst tristre et dolant par ses paroles et k’il ne feïst forsener, ja ne seroit si amesurés.” (V, § 104)

Ce portrait concorde avec celui que dresse l’armorial arthurien du XVe siècle en partie édité par Richard Trachsler: “Et plain estoit de bonnes meurs, plus que nul autre doulx, gracieux, loyal et si bien emparlé qu’oncques chevalier ne fut mieulx en son temps.”21 A en croire ce témoignage, il semble que les lecteurs médiévaux aient d’abord retenu de Dinadan une série de compétences mondaines liées à la sociabilité. Sa capacité à faire enrager l’interlocuteur en fait même le personnage qui met à l’épreuve les compétences mondaines d’autrui, en jouant avec les limites habituelles de la conversation courtoise. Dinadan est un brillant causeur, qui réjouit la cour de ses facéties; de fait, l’essentiel de ses apparitions n’a pas pour cadre des scènes satiriques, mais bien des scènes de sociabilité, aux côtés des acteurs principaux du roman, héros, rois et reines. Souvent, tout se résout en une pointe, un raffinement langagier qui implique un jeu avec l’énoncé des valeurs chevaleresques et courtoises. Revenons ainsi à l’extrait qui ouvrait notre étude. La teneur 20 D’E. Vinaver, “Un chevalier errant à la recherche du sens du monde. Quelques remarques sur le caractère de Dinadan dans le Tristan en prose,” dans Mélanges de linguistique romane et de philologie médiévale offerts à Maurice Delbouille (Gembloux: Duculot, 1964), pp. 677-86 à A.Berthelot, “Dynadam, le chevalier non conformiste,” dans Conformité et déviances au Moyen Âge. Actes du colloque de Montpellier, 25-27 nov. 1993 (Montpellier: Université Paul-Valéry II, 1995), pp.3341, la critique a hésité au sujet de ce personnage. On s’accorde aujourd’hui à voir dans son discours une relativisation somme toute bénigne des conventions du roman chevaleresque. 21 Richard Trachsler, Clôtures du cycle arthurien. Étude et textes (Genève: Droz, 1996), p. 525.

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des propos qui s’échangent à la table de Tristan, quelques lignes avant les mots cités ci-dessus, participent de cette attitude: Li rois Artus se rist de la response Palamidés; ausi font tout li autre de laiens. “Tristran, fait li rois, se Diex vous saut, pour coi portés vous armes encontre nous? Je avoie de vous esperanche que vous a ceste assamblee maintenissiés nostre partie de tout vostre pooir, et nous vous trouvom tout adés contraire encontre nous.” Mesire Tristrans se rist, un poi honteus, et puis respont en sousriant: “Sire, fait il, or voi je bien tout plainnement que vous m’alés un poi gabant. Mais je seul, que porroie faire encontre tant de preudommes com il a en ceste assamblee? Je n’i porroie faire ne froit ne caut! Tant i a des autres meilleurs que on ne m’i doit pas metre! […] Je me tieng d’autre part, avoec les cevaliers de mon afaire. […] Et se je port armes encontre vostre partie, je nel fas fors que pour soulas, car tout ensi le font li cevalier errant. Bien savés k’il se tournent or cha, or la, pour qu’il soiient as assamblees, mais non pas as morteus batailles. A Gaheriet vostre neveus, ki ci est, vous devriés vous assés miex plaindre par raison que a moi, car vous ne deüst il laissier pour autrui en nule maniere. –Biaus oncles, fait Gaheriés, se vous monsigneur Tristran volés croire, saciés bien tout certainnement que vous vous en trouverés pour gabé. Il ne li caut s’il tourne le blasme sus moi, mais k’il en soit delivrés! Ne le creés pas, s’il vous plaist! Blasmé lui et non moi, car, s’il ne fust, je fuisse de la vostre partie certainnement. (V, § 263)

Il faut préciser que Gaheriet est arrivé à Louvezerp en compagnie de Tristan et de Dinadan et a donc combattu à ses côtés contre son propre lignage. Arthur se tourne enfin vers Dinadan, lui aussi couvert de plaies: “Dynadant, ce dist li rois, que dites vous de nostre plait? –Sire, si m’aït Diex, fait Dynadans, je n’en sai le plus sage eslire de vous tous, car cil ki plus quide estre sages est bien plains de grant folie. […]” Et lors en rient tout cil ki a la table estoient et dient que Dynadans les vaut tous ensamble. (ibid.)

Cet extrait ne donne pas la pleine mesure du dialogue, qui s’étend sur plusieurs pages et rebondit sans cesse. Les propos des chevaliers donnent une image entièrement ludique de la vie chevaleresque: c’est par jeu que les chevaliers errants changent de camp comme bon leur semble, c’est par jeu aussi qu’ils s’aiguillonnent à la table du festin. La conversation relève d’une pratique de la raillerie légère, au travers de laquelle Tristan parvient à faire son propre éloge, feignant la modestie, sans s’enorgueillir pourtant de sa supériorité. Surtout, il glisse une pointe vers Gaheriet, afin de se défausser et de prouver son habileté à la conversation.

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Il est à noter que Tristan comme Gaheriet ne se trompent pas sur la nature des propos qu’on leur adresse, identifiant immédiatement un gab. L’atmosphère de connivence souligne le brio des discours–celui de Tristan est un modèle du genre–et la parfaite conscience de chacun de se trouver dans une situation ludique, alors même qu’il est question de prouesse et d’honneur, garants de l’identité chevaleresque et première préoccupation de tous les personnages. Seule une ironie maîtrisée permet d’aborder le sujet sans heurts, et d’en jouer: ailleurs dans le roman, sur le grand chemin, le heaume en tête et la lance à la main, les personnages font preuve de moins de bienveillance dans ce genre de discussion. La joute réelle n’est d’ailleurs elle-même rien d’autre qu’un instrument de sélection à visée distinctive; la joute verbale est la séquence narrative pacifique qui lui correspond. Une telle scène est un bon témoin de l’intérêt que devaient accorder les lecteurs à ce type d’échanges plaisants. Le fait de les rapporter en détails22 semble relever d’une volonté d’exemplarité. Le modèle de conversation distinguée ainsi présenté appartient bien aux usages de cour: le roi mène le jeu et distribue la parole, et chaque interlocuteur s’efforce à tour de rôle de briller en veillant à passer le relais au suivant au moyen d’un mot d’esprit. Enfin, tout se termine par un jugement qui porte précisément sur la conversation elle-même: “Que dites vous de nostre plait?” demande Arthur. C’est bien entendu Dinadan l’envoisiés qui rend le jugement le plus autorisé, et est couronné vainqueur par l’éclat de rire général comme un autre recevrait le pris d’un tournoi. L’envoiseüre pourrait donc préfigurer (ou reprendre) des notions telles que l’urbanité, l’esprit, la facétie, la raillerie, le détachement, qui feront plus tard l’objet de descriptions théoriques dans les manuels de distinction.23 Or, malgré l’absence de terminologie médiévale précise, toutes ces notions sont intégrées dès le Moyen Âge dans un système de valeurs et de pratiques propres à l’aristocratie, qui lui servent à se définir en tant que telle. On peut lire le Tristan en prose comme un jalon dans l’histoire de ces notions, dont les premiers témoins seraient 22 Alors que le texte passe volontiers sur d’autres conversations, même s’il en caractérise parfois le contenu: “Atant s’en entrent u castel, parlant toutes voies de gieu et d’envoiseüre, com chil ki a autre cose n’entendoient” ( t. I, § 17). 23 Cf. le Dictionnaire raisonné de politesse et de savoir-vivre du Moyen Âge à nos jours, éd. A. Montandon (Paris: Seuil, 1995).

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les portraits de l’homme de bien et du bon orateur latins (Cicéron, De officiis, par exemple). L’homme de bien pourvu de toutes les qualités de sociabilité requises–notamment la facilité de parole–reste d’ailleurs un idéal médiéval, au moins dans les textes d’origine cléricale.24 Les ouvrages modernes qui s’attachent à l’histoire des concepts de la distinction font rarement remonter ces notions au-delà du XVIe siècle, du fait du petit nombre d’écrits théoriques sur ces sujets avant les multiples traités de civilité de la Renaissance,25 et peut-être aussi du fait de la difficulté d’appréhension de ces phénomènes dans le texte médiéval. Ainsi, l’article “Conversation” du Dictionnaire raisonné de politesse (op. cit.) ignore-t-il résolument le Moyen Âge. Pourtant, si la conversation est bien ce que décrit l’ouvrage, “lieu de distinction et d’appartenance, […] lieu d’échange de plaisir, modèle de comportement qui a pour but de faciliter et de pacifier au maximum les relations humaines tout en leur conservant esprit et piquant,” enfin “valorisation réciproque” des interlocuteurs, alors on ne peut nier que tous ces éléments ne soient également représentés dans le Tristan en prose, au cœur d’une réflexion sur l’éthique aristocratique. La pérennité de cette réflexion se lit dans le parangon des traités de civilité: le Courtisan de Castiglione (1529): [Le courtisan] doit être tel que jamais ne lui fassent défaut de bon propos bien accommodés à ceux à qui il parle, et tel qu’il doit savoir divertir les esprits des auditeurs avec une certaine douceur, et les inciter discrètement, avec des facéties et des mots plaisants, à la joie et au rire, de sorte que, sans jamais donner d’ennui ou de satiété, il délecte sans cesse ceux qui l’entourent.26

24

Cf. Stephen.C.Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness. Civilizing Trends and the Formation of Courtly Ideals (939-1210) (Philadelphie: Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), notamment la notion de facetia (pp. 163-68), conversation spirituelle, et par extension, raffinement des mœurs. 25 Rareté toute relative, à en juger par le nombre de traités de civilité médiévaux rassemblée par Claude Roussel, dans la Bibliographie des traités de savoir-vivre en Europe du Moyen Âge à nos jours, vol. I, éd. A. Montandon (Clermont-Ferrand: Association des publications de la Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines de l’Université Blaise-Pascal, 1995). Il est vrai que le discours médiéval en la matière est moins précis que celui des véritables “manuels” postérieurs. 26 Baldassare Castiglione, Le livre du courtisan, tr. et éd. Alain Pons (Paris: Flammarion, 1991), p. 161.

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On se souviendra d’ailleurs que la définition du parfait courtisan par les personnages de Castiglione fait, elle-même, l’objet d’un jeu de société.

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Intratextual Rewriting in the Roman de Tristan of Beroul ne cannot study medieval romance without sooner or later engaging the issue of rewriting, whose conceptual foundations hark back to theoretical formulations handed down from antiquity.1 Among these we find, in opposition to the notion of faithful imitation, the idea that an author should deliberately deviate from his model when his objective is to improve upon the latter by correcting the defects he perceives therein. In the Saturnalia, for example, Macrobius distinguishes between imitatio, whereby an author scrupulously follows his model, and aemulatio, where the goal is to modify and to correct the model.2 The early Old French poets in the Tristan tradition share this latter concern. Beroul openly disagrees with storytellers who show an insufficient mastery of the material–the “conteor [qui] N’en sevent mie bien l’estoire”3–and indicates that he is not following their lead. Likewise, Thomas d’Angleterre shuns the work of poets who in diverging from the story stray from the truth: “Il sunt del cunte forsveié / E de la verur esluingné.” 4 While thus casting a retrospective glance in the direction of earlier models, Beroul and Thomas pointedly assert their independence with regard to these obscure precursors.5 In so doing, they negotiate the tradition, refusing 1 This essay grew from a much longer presentation, in French, on Béroul and the Folies Tristan, at an international colloquium on “Le Maschere di Béroul,” held at the Università degli Studi di Verona, May, 2001; the revised contributions to that colloquium appear in Medievo Romanzo, 25 (2002). 2 See Douglas Kelly, The Conspiracy of Allusion: Description, Rewriting, and Authorship from Macrobius to Medieval Romance (Leyden: Brill, 1999), pp. 50-51. 3 Béroul, Le Roman de Tristan, ed. E. Muret and L. M. Defourques (Paris: Champion, 1947), 1267. Citations of Beroul’s poem are from this edition. 4 Thomas, Les Fragments du “Roman de Tristan,” ed. Bartina Wind (Geneva: Droz; Paris: Minard, 1960), 879-80. 5 Authorial expressions of dissatisfaction with one’s predecessors abound in Old French romance. For example, Chrétien de Troyes’s allegedly inept predecessors– “d’Erec, le fil Lac, est li contes, / que devant rois et devant contes / depecier et corronpre suelent / cil qui de conter vivre vuelent.”–are summarily dismissed in the prologue to Erec et Enide (ed. Mario Roques [Paris: Champion, 1952], 19-22). Yet as Rupert Pickens reminds us, Chrétien himself was not invulnerable to criticism by a later poet: “Mais de çou ne parole pas Crestiens de Troies ne li autre troveor qui en ont

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to let themselves be dominated by its weight, while also striving to reconceptualize it according to a superior design. Given their apparent intent to rectify a flawed tradition, it would seem desirable to determine the nature of corrective rewriting on their part, yet this is impossible, obviously, because the earlier tradition is beyond recovery, and there is no sure way to recognize rewritings, either as the products of imitatio or aemulatio, modeled on a known auctor.6 Because the models at issue are extinct, we cannot identify with any degree of certainty the similarities and differences between a Beroul or a Thomas and the historically anterior storytellers upon whom they heap such scorn. This insurmountable obstacle notwithstanding, it is by no means impossible to address, and in considerable depth, the question of rewriting in the earliest extant corpus of Old French verse Tristan poems. This is because among vernacular writers of romance the distinction between auctor and rewriters operative in the modes of imitatio or aemulatio is not always a matter of two historically distinct persons. Although the training of a clerc as prescribed in arts of poetry included imitation of an earlier writer, the finest writers of romance do not always adhere to this elementary format.7 Instead, the agencies of trové por faire lor rimes plaisans, mais nos n’en disons fors tant com au conte en monte et que Merlins en fist escrire a Blayse son maistre….” Cited from the DidotPerceval, Modena ms., ll. 1471-74, by Rupert T. Pickens, “‘Mais de çou ne parole pas Crestiens de Troies…’: A Re-Examination of the Didot-Perceval,” Romania, 105 (1984), 492-510, cit. p. 496. On rewriting to improve upon or correct an earlier work, see Paul Vincent Rockwell, “Twin Mysteries: Ceci n’est pas un Fresne, Rewriting Resemblance in Galeran de Bretagne,” in Conjunctures: Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, ed. Keith Busby and Norris J. Lacy (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), pp. 487-504, and idem, Rewriting Resemblance in Medieval French Romance: Ceci n’est pas un graal (New York and London: Garland, 1995), pp. 25-42. 6 On the distinction between auctor and imitator, see Kelly, Conspiracy of Allusion, pp. 56-58. 7 Mature clerical authors did not necessarily restrict themselves to the models they had learned in the schools. As James J. Murphy has recently observed, “Ever since the publication in 1924 of Edmond Faral’s Les arts poétiques du XIIe et XIIIe siècle (Paris: Vrin, 1924; rpt. Paris, 1958), there has been great interest in the ‘arts’ of Vinsauf and the others as representing a major strain of medieval literary thinking. Yet this modern emphasis may be somewhat misplaced. All six of the artes deal with what we would call today elementary and secondary education, not adult behavior. All are preparatory to composition, embedded in the teaching processes of grammarians. Certainly much can be gleaned about concepts of literature by extrapolating outwards

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auctor and rewriter may coexist as functional roles devised by a single poet, even within the confines of a single text. Such, for example, is the case in the romances of Chrétien de Troyes, who on occasion assumes the role of either replicative imitator or corrective aemulator with respect to models of which he is also the auctor.8 We might also expect to discover this practice on the part of Beroul and Thomas who are, as the citations above indicate, perfectly capable of depicting themselves as the most reliable representatives of a “correct” tradition, in opposition to those whom they perceive as having corrupted it. Beroul and Intratextual Rewriting Beroul in particular shows a strong tendency to conjugate the two roles of auctor and rewriter in the mode, depending on context, of either imitatio or aemulatio. Despite the fact that the fragment is truncated at both extremities, within the substantial segment that has survived we find that a certain sense of the “traditional” is constructed progressively and qualified by the narrator as a superior, more accurate conceptualization of tradition,9 which is purportedly being salvaged in order to rehabilitate the estoire: “N’en sevent mie bien l’estoire, / Berox l’a mex en sen memoire” (1267-68). As we read Beroul’s poem, however, we may ask ourselves if the sporadic analepses evocative of circumstances and events not recounted in the fragment refer to the tradition in general or whether they refer merely to elements of the poem in its originally complete state. On the whole, it is possible to distinguish between two types of what could be called “rewriting from these texts, a sort of reading-between-the-lines to imagine the ultimate goals of medieval writers brought up in this tradition.” James J. Murphy, “The Discourse of the Future: Toward an Understanding of Medieval Literary Theory,” in Busby and Lacy, Conjunctures, p. 370. 8 Like other clerically-trained vernacular authors, Chrétien at times rewrites models he has already established earlier in the same work. One important example of this is the way in which he repeatedly rewrites variants of previously described costumes, a device that occurs throughout his romances. See Donald Maddox, The Arthurian Romances of Chrétien de Troyes: Once and Future Fictions (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1991). 9 On hypotheses concerning the tradition antecedent to Béroul and Thomas, see Alberto Vàrvaro, Il “Roman de Tristan” di Béroul (Turin: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1963), pp. 9-28, and Emmanuèle Baumgartner, Tristan et Iseut (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1987), pp. 14-19; 127.

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effects”: while one type is defined by rewritings that refer back either to earlier tradition or to those segments of the poem that did not survive, a second type is exemplified by rewritings that are intrafragmentary, that is, they are rewritings of models located within the fragment. While rewritings representative of the first type attest intermittently and obscurely to relations with a larger antecedent tradition, those of the second type, to which Beroul accords special privileges, constitute a sizeable array of what we could call selfrewritings. The latter result from intratextual processes whereby certain manifest properties within the fragment subsequently serve as models for one or more variant rewritings. The latter comprise the most salient, as well as the finest, specimens of Beroul’s art of rewriting. It is as if, for want of a reliable historical auctor to represent the tradition in any satisfactory way and thus serve as an adequate model for rewriting, Beroul himself not infrequently assumes the role of intradiegetic auctor, so as to make himself the artificer of the models that he subsequently rewrites, whether through replication (imitatio) or through rectification (aemulatio). Thus predicated on an authorial assumption of the roles of both auctor and rewriter, these instances of self-rewriting occur throughout the fragment. At the very beginning, the couple’s rendez-vous in the orchard (1-232) is already under way, and the narrator’s function has already been delegated to Tristan and Iseut. Before an onlooker who thinks he is hidden from them, their dialogue takes the form of theatrical improvisation.10 Emphasizing their innocence of the accusations made by the evil barons, they pretend to disagree with regard to Mark, Tristan insisting that Iseut reconcile him with his uncle, she insisting that her efforts would be futile. Here, then, Beroul in the role of auctor constructs as model for rewriting a manipulative pseudo-disputatio, in which the couple utter numerous speech acts styled as oaths in order to persuade the king of their innocence.11 10 On the theatrical aspects of this scene, see Barbara Sargent-Baur, “Truth, HalfTruth, Untruth: Beroul’s Telling of the Tristan Story,” in The Craft of Fiction: Essays in Medieval Poetics, ed. Leign Arrathoon (Rochester, Mich.: Solaris Press, 1984), pp. 393-421, at p. 396. 11 See in particular Iseut: “Li rois pense que par folie, / Sire Tristran, vos aie amé; / Mais Dex plevis ma loiauté, / Qui sor mon cors mete flaele, / S’onques fors cil qui m’ot pucele / Out m’amistié encor nul jor!” (20-25); “Mex voudroie que je fuse arse, /

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On the basis of this model, Beroul subsequently unleashes a veritable cascade of reflexive recollections of the couple’s rendezvous, each one an abridgement of the model and marked by a change of point of view. After Iseut leaves the orchard, Tristan pronounces a monologue which is in fact “addressed” to the supposedly-absent king, in which he again protests his innocence (238-84).12 Then Mark, finally alone at the top of the pine tree, submits the interview which he has just witnessed to an analytic review that justifies the lovers’ position and condemns that of the barons (265-319). Later Iseut, alone with Brengain and profoundly anxious about the possibly dire consequences of the rendez-vous, summarizes the latter from her own point of view, with emphasis on the tenor of her dialogue with Tristan (345-69). This scene parallels the one evoked in passing by the narrator, in which Tristan gives account of the rendez-vous to Governal (381-84). Then in a long scene featuring Mark and Iseut we hear a double résumé of the rendez-vous. On the lookout for mendacity on the part of Iseut, Mark asks her if she has seen Tristan, and she gives him such a minutely-detailed account of the encounter in the orchard (400-58) that he is absolutely convinced that she is telling the truth. Finally, he admits that Frocin had had him witness the couple’s tryst, which he evokes with emphasis on his intensely emotional response to their dialogue, brought on by the evocations of Aval le vent la poudre esparse, / Jor que je vive que amor / Aie o home qu’o mon seignor” (35-38); and Tristan: “Ainz me lairoie par le col / Pendre a un arbre q’en ma vie / O vos preïse drüerie. / Il ne me lait sol escondire.” (128-31); “Por Deu, le fiz sainte Marie, / Dame, ore li dites errant / Qu’il face faire un feu ardant; / E je m’en entrerai el ré. / Se ja un poil en ai bruslé / De la haire qu’avrai vestu, / Si me laist tot ardoir u feu; / Qar je sai bien n’a de sa cort / Qui a batalle o moi s’en tort.” (148-56). These sometimes ambiguous utterances evoking images of unwarranted corporal punishment are suggestive of exculpatory oaths that serve to thematize, as well as to model in advance, the delusive escondit rewritten in full in the episode of the Mal Pas. See also Brian Blakey, “Truth and Falsehood in the Tristran of Beroul,” in History and Structure of French: Essays in Honour of T. B. W. Reid (Oxford: Blackwell, 1972), pp. 25-27; and Geoffrey Bromily, “Le serment ambigu dans le Roman de Tristan de Béroul: la conscience et le droit, une tentative de conciliation,” in Le droit et sa perception dans la littérature et les mentalités médiévales, ed. Danielle Buschinger (Göppingen: Kummerle, 1993), pp. 31-39. 12 On the monologue that is “adressé” to an absent addressee, see Christiane Marchello-Nizia, “Une nouvelle poétique du discours direct: le Tristan et Yseut de Thomas,” Linx, 32 (1995), 161-71.

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their suffering (469-92). In sum, having initially cast the rendez-vous in the orchard as a dramatic performance, Béroul subsequently has his characters generate a series of variant reflections of or about it, each one the product of a different subjective state. But to what end? It is not merely a question of elaborating a succession of passages that recall the seminal model, but especially of recording multiple receptions of that model and thus of diversifying its valorization or axiological profile. By means of this series of analeptic rewritings of the rendez-vous, most of which are in the mode of aemulatio, the tryst is retrospectively caught up in a polyphony of subjective evaluations that in turn enable the reader to perceive significant contrasts between the encounter and the ensuing array of evocations that set it into sometimes conflicting perspectives. Moreover, at the end of this long segment we become aware that this series of rewritings of the same scene is located between the initial and final situations of a story of deceit, which unfolds along a trajectory leading from the scene in the orchard to the ultimate perfection of its illocutionary force in the deluded mind of the king. Thus in the first part of the fragment intradiegetic rewriting develops progressively by a series of variants on the episodic model, and the functions of the rewriting aemulator are injected into the fiction and shared in turn by the main characters. This type of functional delegation which shifts from the narrative voice to the world of the characters occurs again when Beroul assigns the role of rewriter, this time as faithful imitator, to Husdent, Tristan’s devoted hound. When the king orders the dog’s release, it hastens to find Tristan, Iseut and Governal in the forest, though by means of an extremely circuitous itinerary (1489-545). By following the scent left by each step taken by its master, the dog reconstructs a long segment of the story: beginning with the royal bedchamber where the couple were betrayed by the blood-spattered flour (701-826), Husdent passes through the chapel, and in his turn executes the famous leap from a window in the apse, then, his nose to the ground, moves along the strand to the grove from which Tristan had emerged in order to rescue Iseut from the lepers, finally catching up with the couple in the depths of the forest. In short, the dog revisits, one after the other, all of the major sites along the path that had led the hero to freedom. Here, then, we have an analogy, in somatic terms, between the dog and its master, and this parallel is underlined by the fact that each is cast in terms of a liberated

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“captive”: when Tristan requests time for a few moments of reflection in the chapel, his captors “les lïans sachent, il entre enz” and he then escapes through a back window (941); likewise Husdent, as soon as he is “deslïez” (1489), escapes at top speed. So what is the purpose of this of long analeptic segment that effectively rewrites, in abbreviated form and in terms that are fundamentally spatial, the principal events between the eruption of scandal and the couple’s retreat into exile? In a recent article, Brent Pitts argues that in this passage Beroul was adhering to the principles of artificial memory. Like an orator, Husdent would be visiting one by one a series of loci in an earlier part of the fragment in order to dramatize the process by which the public recalls the story. However, in view of the limited scope of the segment and the fact that the artificial memory is a device to be used by the speaker, and not the reader, in order to construct a comprehensive discourse, this hypothesis is unconvincing.13 It seems to me that the capital importance of this passage lies elsewhere, and above all in the fact that the dog’s extended secondary somatization of its master’s itinerary is fundamentally an olfactory quest whose purpose is to underline the hero’s solidarity with the sensory and instinctual vitality of the natural world, or a case of “nature passe noreture,” as it were. This emblematic doubling of Husdent and his hero heightens the latter’s stature as a feral figure who is totally at odds, though in a fully positive sense, with the corrupt social milieu from which he has just escaped. Thus Beroul’s narrator, after having delegated his functions to his main characters at the beginning of the fragment, shares them here with Husdent, in a manner that transforms the image of invention into an extended metaphor of its own processes. Intradiegetic rewriting again comes to prominence during the couple’s exile in the depths of the Morois forest. This time the scene of repeated rewritings is the interior of their rustic dwelling.14 Beroul first 13 See Brent A. Pitts, “The Path of Memory: Imagination and Repetition in Béroul’s Roman de Tristan,” Romance Quarterly, 37 (1990), 397-407. 14 This passage has been subjected to numerous critical “rewritings” in the scholarship on the poem. See notably Pierre Le Gentil, “L’épisode du Morois et la signification du Tristan de Béroul,” in Studia philologica et litteraria in honorem Leo Spitzer (Berne: Francke, 1958), pp. 267-74; Eugene Vinaver, “La Forêt de Morois,” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale, 11 (1968), 1-13; Jean Dufournet, “Etude de

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describes this locus as the couple are bedding down; he notes in particular their attire, the placement of the sword between them, and the radiance of Iseut’s countenance bathed in sunlight (1801-830). Subsequently, we encounter a descriptive variant of this scene, in the mode of imitatio, when the bewildered woodsman who found them asleep in such an odd posture accurately reports what he saw to King Mark (1882-904). From this point through to the end of the segment, however, aemulatio is the dominant mode, as the model undergoes a series of descriptive or interpretive modifications. A third rewriting amplifies the format, when Mark, having been led to the site by his woodsman, contemplates the couple’s enigmatic posture and erroneously construes their innocence on account of the sword’s placement between them and the fact that they are clad. Furthermore, instead of slaying the lovers, he redistributes the objects–exchanging rings and swords and positioning his glove so as to shade the queen’s visage–in an earnest attempt to leave them with no doubt whatsoever as to his clemency toward them (1978-2056). The fourth variant coincides with the couple’s awakening, as they misconstrue entirely the king’s attitude toward them as being vengeful and determine that they must flee (2075-100). Then, upon his master’s return, Tristan gives Governal a formal–though once again utterly erroneous–analysis of why Mark reconfigured the dwelling’s interior before departing (2105-21). Hence in this instance a segment that opens in the mode of imitatio and then shifts to that of aemulatio, though once again, as in the opening scene, rewriting is effectively dramatized by the characters as they subject the model to a variety of literal or interpretive reconfigurations, while also demonstrating, paradoxically, that the corrective or re-interpretive designs of a rewriter in the mode of aemulatio may in fact entail the risk of faulty communication, misprision or other forms of flawed inferential behavior. These successive returns to the same sylvan scene are reminiscent of the repeated rewritings of the rendez-vous in the orchard. In both segments we first look in on the couple’s activities within a stereotypical locus–the fountain beneath the pine or the leafy bower– and then move through a series of descriptive variants, each modified l’épisode du roi Marc dans la hutte des amants,” L’Information littéraire, mars-avril 1975, 79-87; and R. Howard Bloch, “Tristan, the Myth of the State and the Language of the Self,” Yale French Studies, 51 (1974), 61-81.

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by a change of point of view. In both cases, this series culminates in the same highly significant manner, with the monumental delusion of King Mark.15 This time, however, neither the king nor the couple discover the truth behind the deceptive appearances. In this instance, intratextual rewriting serves to generate, in the minds of the couple as well as in that of the king, wholly erroneous assumptions with regard to the same set of curious circumstances and their variants.16 Elsewhere, rewriting the same descriptive motif enables Beroul to achieve a number of special effects, such as adding rhythm and perspective to an unfolding sequence of events or disclosing characters’ successive responses to major changes in their circumstances, as is the case in a set of rewritings organized around the character of the hermit Ogrin. In the first of these, the lovers meet him by chance, but because the potion is still in force he is unable to awaken their conscience concerning sin and repentance. This lengthy segment (1362-422) models the later depiction of their second encounter with the hermit, after the potion has lost its force and their passion has become alloyed by reason. Now lucid and remorseful about their situation, they hasten to solicit Ogrin’s advice, which involves sending a letter from Tristan to King Mark, a tactic that quickly becomes caught up in the process of rewriting. Initially conceived by Ogrin then progressively put into practice, this epistolary maneuver is based on a two-phase scheme of intratextual rewriting, whereby a plan initially set forth by one character is subsequently carried out by another, according to the specifications previously

15

In both scenes the king’s erroneous anagnorisis is expressed in very similar terms. In the orchard: “Or puis je bien enfin savoir. / Se feüst voir, ceste asenblee / Ne feüst pas issi finee. / S’il s’amasent de fol’amor, / Ci avoient asez leisor, / Bien les veïse entrebaisier. / Ges ai oï si gramoier, / Or sai je bien n’en ont corage.” (298-305). In the Morois: “Bien puis croire, se je ai sens, / Se il s’amasent folement, / Ja n’i eüsent vestement, / Entrë eus deus n’eüst espee, / Autrement fust cest’asenblee. / Corage avoie d’eus ocire : / Nes tocherai, retrairai m’ire. / De fole amor corage n’ont.” (2006-13). This imitatio which on two occasions brings out in Mark the same sophistical reasoning process concerning the behavior of the lovers serves to heighten our sense of his limited intelligence. 16 See also Donald Maddox, “Opérations cognitives et scandales romanesques: Méléagant et le roi Marc,” in Hommage à Jean-Charles Payen: farai chansoneta novele, Essais sur la liberté créatrice au Moyen Age, ed. Huguette Legros (Caen: Centre de Publications de l’Université de Caen, 1989), pp. 239-51.

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prescribed.17 First the hermit gives the couple a summary of the letter’s contents, which passes momentarily into free indirect discourse (2357410); then he formally composes it (2428-32). After Tristan has delivered the missive, a chaplain reads it to King Mark (2511-20), then again to the king in the presence of his barons, and this time its full contents are given in direct discourse (2556-618). Successive repetitions of the epistolary motif culminate in this maximal amplification of the letter. It thus comes into full prominence at a highly significant moment, as the reader’s point of view merges with that of the plenary assembly to witness this public reading of the letter that rehabilitates the couple’s status at court and motivates the king to authorize the queen’s return. Thus, once again, rewriting brings into high relief a juncture at which the lovers triumph over their adversaries. The letter itself contains en abyme a kind of allusive rewriting of the past, replete with numerous extra- and intrafragmentary reminiscences of the estoire, including Tristan’s slaying of the dragon; the couple’s return to Cornwall; the marriage of Mark and Iseut; the barons’ calumny; Mark’s attempt to liquidate the couple; the rescue of Iseut from the lepers; the couple’s exile; and the king’s proclamation against them (2588-603). Here, too, the net effect is to enhance the couple’s image in the king’s eyes. This rapid recall of the basic lines of the antecedent story is thus tributary to the persuasive discourse that embodies it, the main objective being, once again, to condition in the mind of King Mark an axiological synthesis favorable to his wife and his nephew. With recourse to yet another type of rewriting, Béroul organizes two different episodes around the same motif, that of the leper who takes custody of the queen in the presence of the king. The first instance, featuring the hideous and repulsive Yvain (1155-270), emphasizes the king’s cruelty and susceptibility to malicious advisors. Whereas in this episode Iseut is victimized both by an authentic leper and by her 17

Beroul uses this twofold scheme elsewhere: Iseut contrives and prescribes in detail the circumstances and process of her own exculpation (3228-312). Or again, in the final episode of the fragment (4411-85), Godwin (Godoïne) carries out a spy’s instructions for observing the couple (4313-33). This type of dual schema features twice in the Lais of Marie de France (ed. Rychner [Paris: Champion, 1966]): Equitan (241-62; 263-306) and Deus Amanz (101-26; 131-220).

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spouse, when the motif is later redeployed she victimizes Mark with the help of a bogus “leper” who–quite literally–“upholds” her, 3562984) and thus helps her to condition the felicity of her ambiguous oath. Hence yet another instance where intratextual rewriting serves to engender Mark’s deluded certainty of the couple’s innocence. Albeit through the vagaries of fragmentation, another rewriting of a single motif–of the couple under surveillance from above–creates significant associations between the two extremities of the text. For ironically, the fragment breaks off in much the same manner as it had opened, in the midst of the couple’s rendez-vous in the presence of a spy who wrongly assumes that they are unaware of his presence. Although the scene shifts from one stereotypical locus to another, from the orchard to the bedchamber, a very unflattering analogy is thus established between the two furtive observers from on high, King Mark and the felonious Godwin, both of whom represent, in their precarious and maladroit postures, the same scopophilic impulse, the same oeil vivant, that of the losangier on the lookout for a scandal.18 And at the end of the fragment as at the beginning, it is Iseut who, when she first becomes aware that a third party is present, manages to communicate indirectly to her lover the type of counter-strategy they should deploy. However, in the replay of this scenario, rather than dramatize a manipulative discourse for the voyeur’s benefit, it becomes a matter of merely piercing directly into the viscous quick of the censoriously evil eye. As if it were self-propelled, the arrow from the “arc qui ne faut” soars and sinks into the socket, “Par mié l’uel […] / Trencha le test et la cervele” (4476-77), stifling the fragment’s last gasp, the felon’s final, futile supplication: “confession” (4485). Here, then, is the last of the many ironies that make this poem so arresting: albeit fragmentary, the totality of the twice-truncated text replicates the comprehensive morphology of a classic récit, whose closing situation is a transformed replica of its initial counterpart. Moreover, this contrastive replication is not without political overtones, for whereas in the initial situation the couple’s persuasive stratagem had neutralized the king’s suspicions but not the agents who were feeding

18

See also A. C. Spearing, The Medieval Poet as Voyeur: Looking and Listening in Medieval Love-Narratives (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1993), pp. 52-54.

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them, the final situation marks a significant step toward eradicating the political faction bent on destroying the couple.19 Having examined this remarkable variety of features that characterize Beroul’s intradiegetic rewriting, we may ask ourselves what ends are served by these special effects. Although it has been suggested that Beroul was “unschooled” as a romancer,20 this impressive array of intratextual rewritings is hardly the work of an inept poet. It attests instead to Beroul’s deft and innovative diversification of the matière by depicting traditional situations and events from variant perspectives and valorizing them from multiple points of view. One thinks of what Emmanuèle Baumgartner has to say about the predominance of “parole” at the beginning of the fragment: “l’effet manifeste de la multiplication des passages parlés est une dramatisation constante de la narration [qui] permet […] au narrateur de multiplier les points de vue à l’intérieur d’une même séquence” (Baumgartner, p. 44). This is a valid observation, and indeed it strikes me that an effort to diversify the various functions and agents of enunciation21 is apparent throughout the fragment. Multiplied thereby are the contrastive points of view that cumulatively increase the axiological complexity of the romance. Hence the often rich ambiguity and the impossibility of reducing meaning to any strictly univocal perspective. Thus, despite the numerous characteristics of the chanson de geste that one encounters in Beroul,22 we are indeed

19

On this, see also Donald Maddox, Fictions of Identity in Medieval France (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 2000), pp. 141-42. 20 “Even as ‘unschooled’ a romancer as Beroul made descriptive epithets and actions fit the conception he had of what was appropriate to the principal figures.” Douglas Kelly, The Art of Medieval French Romance (Madison: Univ. of Wisconsin Press, 1992), p. 235. 21 One thinks of the notion of “discours en acte,” whereby the mechanisms of enunciation coordinate multiple voices that interact in various degrees of tension with one another along a given narrative trajectory. On this notion see Jacques Fontanille, Sémiotique et littérature: Essais de méthode (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1999), pp. 7-13. 22 See, for example, W. Mary Hackett, “Syntactical Features Common to Girart de Roussillon and Beroul’s Tristan,” in Medieval Miscellany Presented to Eugene Vinaver by Pupils, Colleagues and Friends (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1965), pp. 157-66; and the remarks by Jean-Charles Payen, in Les Tristan en vers: “Tristan” de Béroul, “Tristan” de Thomas, “Folie Tristan” de Berne, “Folie Tristan”

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remote from the kind of monologism that so often characterizes epic discourse. Instead, intradiegetic rewriting creates a dialogical universe that organizes frequently contentious systems of value.23 Thus do we find a plurality of points of view, multiple affective registers and ethical stances, to such an extent that Beroul’s poem seems at times to prefigure the polyphonic novel and its cinematic avatars. Should we conclude, therefore, that Beroul was anachronistically ahead of his time, a nouveau romancier of an earlier century? On the whole, this seems doubtful, because even in its fragmentary state this poem attests abundantly to the author’s profound immersion in the intellectual climate of his own century. One thinks in particular of how in the deftly drawn discourses of his characters, in their tirades, their monologues and their meditations, Beroul portrays not only the mechanisms of cognitive processes and shows a consummate mastery of the syllogism and the figure of abduction, or hypothesis, but also a finely nuanced understanding of how fragile and vulnerable these operations can be when human error renders them sophistical.24 In sum, Beroul’s art, of which intradiegetic self-rewriting would in my opinion be his faculté maîtresse, resonates profoundly with numerous tendencies that characterize the emergence of twelfth-century verse romance, and in terms of sophistication he ranks among the greatest narrative poets of his generation. It is thus apparent that the rewriting effects in Beroul are by no means restricted to conventional notions of rewriting, like those that abound in classical and medieval treatises on poetics and composition, that for the most part emphasize intertextual rewriting. Much of the finesse of Beroul’s art inheres in his flair for reconfiguring and diversifying his material. This is reminiscent of how Thomas explicitly characterizes the matière of Tristan as being “mult divers.”25 In view of the observations of both Beroul and Thomas cited at the beginning

d’Oxford, “Chèvrefeuille” de Marie de France, ed. Jean-Charles Payen (Paris: Garnier, 1974), p. vii. 23 See also Cesare Segre, “Quello che Bachtin non ha detto: Le origini medievali del romanzo,” in Segre, Teatro e romanzo: Due tipi di comunicazione letteraria (Torino: Einaudi, 1984), pp. 61-84. 24 On abduction, or hypothesis, and sophistical reasoning in Béroul, see Maddox, Fictions of Identity, pp. 154-65, and idem, “Opérations cognitives,” pp. 245-51. 25 See Thomas, Fragments, ed. B. Wind, Douce fragment, end of the poem, 835.

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of this essay, and given Beroul’s sumptuous yet diverse ornamentation of the estoire, one sees that divergence from a remarkably diverse tradition can become a singular virtue, provided that the end result be synthesized–or unie, to use the other key term of Thomas–into a logical and coherent whole.26 Hence in contrast with the sometimes random, poorly organized handling of the matière in earlier narratives stands the exalted image of the unified work.27 A similar concern for unity no doubt underlies Beroul’s rejection of the unstable or spurious diversities reflected within the earlier tradition. The latter is reshaped so as to achieve a superior unity, though in view of the remarkable subtlety and versatility of Beroul’s performance as rewriter within his own intratextual sphere, his idea of unity is clearly one that above all accommodates and organizes a rich diversity of perspectives.

26

Ibid., 835-40. On this passage, see Douglas Kelly, “‘En uni dire’ (Douce 839) and the Composition of Thomas’ Tristan,” Modern Philology, 67 (1969-1970), pp. 917. 27 My objective here is not to reopen the superannuated, hypertrophic debate over the “unity” or “plurality” of authorship of Beroul’s poem. For the contributions on both sides of that beleaguered issue, see David J. Shirt, The Old French Tristan Poems (London: Grant and Cutler, 1980), pp. 50-54. Be it noted, however, that intradiegetic rewriting recurs throughout the fragment, which could well favor the hypothesis of a single author, or else indicate that between the hypothetical “Beroul I” and “Beroul II” there was a similar tendency to rewrite intratextually.

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L’étymologie dans le Roman de Rou de Wace ans son étude sur les nouveaux historiens du XIIe siècle, Peter Damian-Grint, analysant la fonction de mémoire de l’écriture historique et le motif historiographique du tut est müez, prend pour exemple les discours étymologiques de Wace “as a form of literary archeology.”1 S’il rappelle que l’étymologie est un lieu commun de la littérature médiévale,2 il prend soin de noter l’intérêt particulier de l’écrivain anglo-normand pour cette pratique: “This is clearly a personal interest on Wace’s part, however, as he is the only historical writer to make use of etymologies.”3 De fait, parmi les auteurs du XIIe siècle, Wace est sans conteste celui qui s’exerce le plus–et le mieux–à la recherche étymologique. Ses différentes œuvres sont émaillées d’explications sur l’origine des noms, essentiellement des toponymes, des noms de peuples ou de personnages, dont il tente de restituer le sens premier. Du Roman de Brut (1155) qui évoque le passé légendaire de la Grande-Bretagne au Roman de Rou (1160-74) qui retrace l’histoire de la dynastie anglo-normande, nous retrouvons ce goût, caractéristique de notre poète, pour les enquêtes étymologiques. Notre propre enquête se limitera ici au Roman de Rou dans lequel Wace chroniqueur décline l’histoire mouvementée des ducs de Normandie. Ce choix peut paraître une gageure si nous considérons le nombre relativement restreint des développements étymologiques dans le texte. Alors que le Roman de Brut comporte de nombreuses notices également réparties dans le récit,4 la proportion diminue de manière 1

P. Damian-Grint, The New Historians of the Twelfth-Century Renaissance: Inventing Vernacular Authority (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 1999), p. 96. 2 Voir à ce sujet E.R. Curtius, La littérature européenne et le Moyen Âge latin, tr. J. Brejoux (Paris: PUF, 1956), pp. 317-26; B. Guenée, Histoire et culture historique dans l’Occident médiéval (Paris: Aubier-Montaigne, 1980), pp. 184-92; H. Bloch, Etymologie et généalogie (Paris: Seuil, 1989), pour la traduction française. 3 Damian-Grint, p. 98. 4 Nous nous permettons de renvoyer ici à notre article “La pratique de l’étymologie dans le Roman de Brut de Wace,” dans Plaist vos oïr bone cançon vaillant? Mélanges de Langue et de Littérature Médiévales offerts à François Suard, éds. D. Boutet, A.

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très nette dans le Roman de Rou. Mais cette diminution même nous semble significative d’un choix d’écriture. De l’histoire mythique des rois bretons à l’histoire “vraie” des ducs normands, la plume de l’écrivain s’adapte et évolue. Nous montrerons en quoi l’écriture étymologique permet, pour une part, de mesurer cette évolution en présentant d’abord les diverses fiches consacrées à l’origine des noms dans le Rou pour mieux saisir ensuite le lien qui se tisse entre étymologie et histoire. Jeux étymologiques La plus célèbre des étymologies de Wace est certainement celle qui concerne l’origine du mot “Normant” évoquée à plusieurs reprises dans le Roman de Rou.5 Antoine Thomas retenait déjà cet exemple dans ses Nouveaux essais de philologie française, lorsqu’il citait, parmi les étymologistes illustres, Maître Wace “ce philologue consommé.”6 Il est vrai que le développement consacré au mot “Normant” est un modèle du genre, un “concentré” des différents procédés mis en œuvre par le poète pour expliquer l’origine d’un nom. Reprenons les principaux éléments de ce que l’on pourrait nommer une fiche linguistique. Après avoir rappelé que “north” désigne un vent du nord,“tut soelent gent north apeler / pur north un vent ki surt et vient / de la u li ciels le char tient” (Rou, t. 3, 50-52).7 Wace explique de manière très didactique comment le mot est formé: Man en engleis et en norreis hume signifie en franceis; justez ensemble north e man e ensemble dites Northman; ceo est hume de north en rumanz, de ceo vint li nuns as Normanz. Petit, M.-M. Castellani et F. Ferrand (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Université Charles de Gaulle-Lille 3, 1999), t. 2, pp. 579-86. 5 Wace, Roman de Rou, éd. A. J. Holden, SATF, 3 vols. (Paris: Picard, 1970-73). Nous pouvons lire cette étymologie dans la deuxième partie (430-43), dans la troisième partie (45-84) et dans l’appendice (95-144 et 749-50). 6 A. Thomas, Nouveaux essais de philologie française (Paris: Bouillon, 1904), pp. 4-5. 7 Nous noterons ainsi les références au Roman de Rou, le chiffre 2 ou 3 renvoyant à la deuxième ou troisième partie dans l’édition A.J. Holden.

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Normant soelent estre apelé cil ki la dunt north vient sunt né. (Rou, t. 3, 59-66)

Il ajoute ensuite, pour compléter l’explication, une seconde étymologie possible attribuée aux Français: Franceis dient que Normendie ceo est la gent de north mendie; Normant, ceo dient en gabant, sunt venu del north mendiant, pur ceo que il vindrent d’autre terre pur mieuz aver et pur cunquerre. (Rou, t. 3, 75-80)

Le jeu de mots, mis en valeur par la rime équivoquée des vers 75 et 76, porte en creux une allusion à “la discorde e la grant envie / que Franceis ont vers Normendie.”8 Ces deux étymologies, développées sur une quarantaine de vers,9 illustrent parfaitement la méthode de Wace qui associe la démarche savante du linguiste et l’esprit fantaisiste de l’écrivain. La première étymologie est en effet très technique: Wace décompose le nom “Normant” en deux éléments fonctionnant comme étymons, “north” et “man,” qu’il traduit de l’anglais en français; l’accumulation, sur quelques vers, des expressions “en engleis, en norreis, en franceis, en rumanz” souligne bien le rôle du clerc linguiste qui semble pratiquer l’anglais avec aisance.10 Un exemple similaire peut se lire plus loin dans le récit; racontant dans quelles circonstances Edouard le Confesseur fut amené à construire l’abbaye de Westminster, Wace s’interrompt le temps d’une digression étymologique consacrée à Zornee (Thorney), cette île de la Tamise où s’élève l’abbaye: Zornee out nom, joste Tamise. Zornee por ço l’apelon 8 Rou, t. 3, 4755-56; voir aussi dans la Chronique Ascendante du Roman de Rou (tome 1 de l’édition A. J. Holden) les vers 45 à 58. 9 Dans sa Chronique des ducs de Normandie, éds. C. Fahlin, Ö. Södergård et S. Sandqvist, 4 vols. (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksells, 1951-79), Benoît de Sainte Maure ne consacre que dix vers à cette étymologie (t. 1, 663-72). La longueur de la fiche proposée par Wace souligne bien le penchant du poète pour de tels développements qu’il amplifie volontiers. 10 Dans le récit de la bataille de Hastings, Wace se plaît par exemple à traduire les cris des combattants anglais “Alierot” et “Godemite” (Rou, t. 3, 7983-88).

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que d’espines i out foison, E que l’eve alout environ. Ee en engleis isle apelon Ee est isle, zorn est espine, Seit raim, seit arbre, seit racine. (Rou, t. 3, 5510-16)

Le procédé est toujours le même–décomposition du mot, traduction des étymons–et la démonstration exacte et rigoureuse (l’anglais “thorn” signifie “épine”) aboutit à une conclusion logique, “Zornee ço est en engleis / isle d’espines en franceis” (Rou, t. 3, 5517-18). Cette rigueur du savant se manifeste également dans le souci de présenter au lecteur plusieurs étymologies entre lesquelles il est possible d’hésiter. C’est le cas pour “Normant” mais aussi pour “Danois” que Wace propose de rattacher soit au personnage éponyme “Danas” (“Por Danas, un ancesseor / qu’il orent lognes a seignor / se firent Danoiz apeler”), soit au fleuve Danube (“u de Danube, un flumz moult grant […] furent cil apelez Dani”).11 Exercice exigeant, la recherche onomastique est aussi pour Wace un jeu plaisant. Antoine Thomas, en bon philologue, regrettait que notre poète ait ajouté à sa fiche sur “Normant” la seconde étymologie fantaisiste et peu scientifique (“la gent de north mendie!”), décrétant qu’un “bon étymologiste ne doit pas avoir d’esprit.”12 Faut-il le regretter? Wace pratique avec bonheur les étymologies plaisantes, espace ouvert à la fantaisie et à l’imagination. Ainsi de cette étymologie poétique de Luna, la ville toscane que Hasting confondit avec Rome; après avoir précisé comment “fu la cite Lune apelee / et a lune fu comparee” à cause de l’extraordinaire beauté du site, Wace élucide et développe la comparaison en quelques vers où s’exerce son talent de poète: si com la lune de clarté de resplendor et de beauté les estoilles sormonte et vaint, 11

Roman de Rou, Appendice, 167-76. Le rapprochement avec le personnage éponyme se trouve dans les Etymologies d’Isidore de Séville (“Danai a Danao rege vocati”). Guillaume de Jumièges dans ses Gesta Normannorum Ducum, l’une des principales sources de Wace, reprend cette étymologie. Voir The Gesta Normannorum Ducum of William of Jumièges, Orderic Vitalis and Robert of Torigni, éd. et tr. Elisabeth van Houts, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992-95), t. 1, Book I, 4, pp. 14-16. 12 A. Thomas, p. 5.

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que nule de rienz ne l’ataint, ainsi fu plus noble et plus bele la cité que l’en Lune apele. (Rou, Appendice, 485-90)13

Ailleurs, il rapporte une légende pour expliquer le surnom de Björn Côte de Fer. Ce Danois, à l’image du héros homérique Achille, était invulnérable du fait, dit-on, des enchantements de sa mère qui “l’out si charmé et enchanté/ que fer ne le pout entamer” (Rou, Appendice, 15253).14 Toutefois il semble que l’espace narratif du Roman de Rou se prête finalement assez peu à ce type d’étymologie plaisante. Ce qui l’emporte dans le Rou, ce sont les étymologies à caractère historique dictées par la “réalité” des faits ou des personnages. L’exemple de la chapelle de Toussaint ou de Sainte-Paix à Caen est à cet égard significatif. Il renvoie à une initiative importante de Guillaume le Conquérant, l’instauration de la Trêve de Dieu; souhaitant éterniser la mémoire d’un tel acte, le duc fit rassembler les reliques sur lesquelles on avait prononcé les serments, puis il fit édifier une chapelle doublement baptisée de “Sainte Paix” et de “Toz Sainz”: Plusors qui le mostier funderent le mostier Toz Sainz l’apelerent, por les corsainz, donc tant i out; e as plusors des homes plout que Sainte Pais l’apelereient [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] pour la pes qui la fu juree. (Rou, t. 3, 5383-89)

Le nom, comme la pierre, servent l’entreprise de remembrance (“Por la pais toz tens remembrer,” 5377) et l’étymologie permet alors de retrouver, de raviver cette mémoire.15 Mais plus qu’aux toponymes,

13

Dans le texte-source de Guillaume de Jumièges, on trouve cette simple mention: “ad urbem Lunis devoluuntur, vento impellente, que pro sui decore hoc vocabatur nomine,” (Gesta Normannorum Ducum, t. 1, Book I, 4, pp. 22-24). 14 Cette étymologie se trouve chez Guillaume de Jumièges: “Qui ideo Costa Ferrea vocabatur, quia, nisi clipeus ei obiceretur, inermis in acie stans, armorum vim quamcumque sperneret illesus, vehementissimis matris eius veneficiis infectus.” (Gesta Normannorum Ducum, t. 1, Book I, 4, p. 16). L’éditeur signale en note que “The motif of magic invulnerability can be found in many Scandinavian sagas.” 15 Au début du Roman de Rou, dans la deuxième partie, un exemple parallèle peut être cité: il s’agit du lieu où se déroula la bataille entre Rollon et Riouf, comte du

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Wace s’attache dans le Rou aux noms ou plutôt aux surnoms des héros de l’histoire normande. Nous apprenons ainsi que Neel du Cotentin est dit Tête de Faucon pour sa bravoure (Rou, t. 3, 4127-30) ou qu’un détail physique est à l’origine du surnom de Robert Courteheuse. Dans ce dernier exemple, la pause étymologique se confond avec la pause descriptive ou portrait: Petiz fu mult, mais mult fu gros, jambes out cortes, gros les os; li reis por ço le sornomout e Corte Hose l’apelout de cortes hoses ert hosez e Corte Hose ert apelez. (Rou, t. 3, 9343-48)16

A la fin du récit, l’explication du surnom de Henri 1er dit “Pié de Cers” relève à la fois de la petite et de la grande histoire. C’est en effet une anecdote qui est à l’origine du surnom: la passion de Henri pour la chasse inspira, dans sa jeunesse, la plaisanterie de l’un des barons normands, Guillaume de Varenne, qui l’appela “Pié de Cers,” “Por les cers qu’il alout pernant/ e por le bois qu’il cerchout tant” (Rou, t. 3, 10533-34). Devenu roi, Henri fort rancunier dessaisit de ses terres le baron moqueur et c’est, souligne Wace, la raison fort peu politique de la haine que se vouèrent le roi Henri et le comte de Varenne, ce dernier prenant parti pour Robert au moment des luttes de pouvoir entre les deux frères! Par des voies détournées, l’onomastique rejoint ici l’histoire.17 Ce parcours à travers le Roman de Rou confirme bien le goût de Wace pour la recherche étymologique avec, nous allons le montrer, une orientation particulière dictée par la nature et les enjeux du texte. Cotentin. “Li Prez de la Bataille fu li lieu appelez / encor dure li nons, ne fu puiz remuez” (1516-17). 16 Robert fut aussi surnommé Courte-Cuisse. Voir Paul Zumthor, Guillaume le Conquérant (Paris: Éditions Tallandier, 1978): “Trapu, le torse puissant, bas sur jambes–d’où son surnom de Courte-Cuisse,” Robert ramènera d’Italie “des modes vestimentaires extravagantes, manteau à traîne, cheveu rasé sur le front et long sur la nuque, et ces bottes basses qui lui vaudront son second sobriquet de Courte-Heuse” (pp. 377 et 382). 17 Voir aussi pour l’explication des surnoms les développements sur Louis Transmarin (Rou, t. 3, 199-202), Alain le Breton (Rou, t. 3, 2619-26), Guillaume le Roux (Rou, t. 3, 9371-74).

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Si dans le Roman de Brut le récit de la fondation légendaire de la Bretagne s’ouvre à de multiples analyses toponymiques, souvent éclaircies par des mythes explicatifs fantaisistes, dans le Rou le cadre historique impose des limites à la tentation du fictif. L’histoire normande n’est pas une histoire très ancienne (elle débute à la fin du IXe siècle et se clôt vers 1066 dans la chronique de Wace) et cette proximité explique peut-être le choix d’une écriture plus “historique” au sens moderne du terme. Ces nouvelles contraintes sont en tout cas sensibles dans la pratique de l’étymologie. Etymologie et histoire L’entreprise historiographique de Wace prend place dans un vaste ensemble alors en plein épanouissement. Au XIIe siècle, se multiplient les œuvres consacrées à l’histoire d’un peuple, d’une lignée et peu à peu s’impose un modèle d’écriture historique auquel notre auteur se soumet tout en le faisant évoluer. Nous voudrions analyser, dans les limites de cette étude, comment la quête étymologique est étroitement liée dans le Rou à certaines des préoccupations du chroniqueur médiéval et en quoi elle révèle les hésitations et les choix d’écriture du poète historien. Mais il convient d’abord d’ouvrir une parenthèse pour rappeler les différentes étapes de composition du Roman de Rou, une œuvre à l’ordonnancement complexe. Selon l’éditeur A.J. Holden,18 les 750 vers de l’Appendice correspondent à une première version octosyllabique rédigée en 1160 puis abandonnée par Wace qui compose ensuite en alexandrins la Chronique Ascendante (que l’on pourrait qualifier de préface) suivie d’une deuxième partie de 4425 alexandrins; Wace aurait ensuite interrompu la rédaction qu’il achève en 1170 avec la troisième partie de 11440 octosyllabes. L’existence de ces différents fragments, la reconstitution probable d’un ordre de composition permettent, nous le verrons, de saisir le cheminement d’une écriture qui se cherche. Examinons dans un premier temps la manière dont les étymologies du Rou donnent à lire deux des principaux soucis de tout chroniqueur médiéval: la quête de l’origine et le culte du vrai. Si le mythe d’origine, troyenne ou biblique, est très souvent exploité par l’historien 18

Voir les analyses qu’il propose dans l’introduction de son édition, t. 3, pp. 10-13.

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du XIIe siècle, la quête étymologique -ou quête du sens premierparticipe également de la recherche de l’origine, en particulier dans notre texte où elle paraît même primordiale. Certes, dans la première version, Wace reprend à ses sources, Dudon de Saint Quentin et Guillaume de Jumièges, le mythe de l’origine troyenne des Danois “Une genz de Troie eschapperent/ qui en Danemarche assenerent” (Appendice, 165-66), mais il n’exploite pas l’information qui disparaît ensuite de la version définitive. En revanche, la notice étymologique sur “Normant” occupe une place significative: cinquante vers lui sont consacrés dans le prologue de la première version, une quinzaine au début de la deuxième partie et quarante dans le prologue de la troisième partie.19 Cette place privilégiée, à l’ouverture de chaque section narrative, est un moyen pour Wace d’ancrer son histoire dans un commencement. N’est-ce pas faire acte de fondation que de souligner ainsi, à plusieurs endroits stratégiques, le sens originel du nom “Normant”? Soucieux des origines, l’historien médiéval l’est aussi de la vérité et il manifeste sa préoccupation de “dire vrai” en recourant à la mention d’autorités.20 Dans le Roman de Brut ou le Roman de Rou, Wace authentifie son travail par de multiples garanties, soit qu’il invoque son propre témoignage, soit qu’il fasse référence à des sources orales ou écrites. Il semble néanmoins que le Rou use de ce procédé de manière beaucoup plus systématique, ce qui irait dans le sens d’une écriture plus “objective,” plus historique. Une analyse comparative des notices étymologiques du Rou et du Brut renforce cette impression. Alors qu’aucune des fiches du Brut n’est garantie par une quelconque caution, les développements étymologiques du Rou intègrent un discours d’autorité. La plupart des commentaires du poète sont ainsi confirmés par la référence à une source orale. On relève 19 Ce prologue reprend en fait le prologue initial de la première version que Wace recopie presque terme à terme, mais en changeant l’ordre des développements: dans la version initiale, la longue méditation sur les pouvoirs de l’écriture-remembrance précède la réflexion sur le “muement de languages” et l’origine du mot “Normant,” alors que la version définitive adopte l’ordre inverse, preuve de l’importance accordée par Wace au discours étymologique. 20 Si la notion de “vérité” est au cœur de la réflexion historique, le problème du vrai et du faux ne se pose pas en termes identiques pour l’historien d’aujourd’hui et pour le chroniqueur médiéval. Voir par exemple à ce sujet les analyses de B. Guenée dans Histoire et culture historique, p. 181 et ss. ou l’étude de P. Damian-Grint dans The New Historians, ch. 4, pp. 85-142.

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différentes formes d’attestation. Le narrateur peut s’impliquer directement: il prend soin par exemple de préciser, en conclusion de la notice sur la chapelle de Sainte Paix “apeler l’ai oï a mainz” (Rou, t. 3, 5391); il signale sa propre réticence devant l’explication fantaisiste du surnom de Björn Côte de Fer, “ne sai c’est voir, mez ce dit on” (Appendice, 150). Le narrateur peut aussi se retrancher derrière la rumor du “ço dit on” à l’aide des incises “ço fu retrait entre la gent,” “plusors dient […]” que l’on rencontre entre autres dans le passage sur Henri Ier dit “Pié de Cers” (Rou, t. 3, 10552-55). Enfin, le poète peut invoquer une source écrite comme dans la fiche sur “Normant” au début de la partie. Sur les quinze vers d’explication, trois renferment une formule d’attestation dont la “fonction testimoniale”21 est évidente: “Normant c’est hon de north, ce est la verité” (431), “ainsi l’ont es escriz li ancïenz trové” (436), “cen conte Maistre Vacce qui escript a trové” (443). Renforcée par la double mention d’une source écrite,22 l’expression “ce est la vérité” est bien plus qu’une “clause rhétorique de véracité,”23 elle participe de la profession de foi littéraire de l’historien. Or ce n’est peut-être pas un hasard si la notice de la seconde partie est la seule–sur les trois fiches présentant l’étymologie de “Normant”–à intégrer de telles garanties. Elle prend place en effet dans la section en alexandrins dont l’écriture nous paraît, à bien des égards, très marquée par l’histoire. De fait, les différents fragments qui composent le Roman de Rou ne présentent pas un projet uniforme; ils reflètent au contraire, de par leur 21

G. Genette, Figures III (Paris: Seuil, 1972), p. 262. Cette source est-elle fictive? Selon l’éditeur A.J. Holden , l’étymologie du nom “Normant” est une addition originale de Wace (voir son Introduction de l’édition du Rou, t. 3, p. 120). Il est vrai qu’on ne la trouve ni chez Dudon ni chez Guillaume de Jumièges. Toutefois, la chronique de Guillaume comporte un certain nombre d’additions et d’interpolations dues en particulier à Orderic Vital et à Robert de Torigny; ce dernier insère justement au début des Gesta Normannorum Ducum l’étymologie du mot “Normant”: “Nortmanni autem dicuntur, quia lingua eorum Boreas North vocatur, homo vero man; inde Northmanni, id est homines boreales per denominationem nuncupantur” (t. 1, Book I, 4, p.16). Wace a-t-il eu connaissance de cette version? A.J. Holden pense que non, “il n’y a aucune indication que Wace […] ait connu les passages introduits par Robert dans le texte primitif” (Introduction, p. 106). Signalons enfin avec Elisabeth van Houts (Gesta Normannorum Ducum, t. 1, note page 16) que “the first occurrence of this etymology is in William of Apulia’s Gesta Roberti Guiscardi” (édition Mathieu, p. 98). 23 P. Zumthor, Essai de poétique médiévale (Paris: Seuil, 1972), p. 67. 22

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forme et leur contenu, les tâtonnements d’une écriture historique encore hésitante. Pour mieux saisir le fonctionnement de cette écriture, l’étude des discours étymologiques nous offre quelques clés. Dans le Roman de Rou, tout se passe comme si Wace, soucieux de sa mission d’historien évitait de succomber à la tentation de l’étymologie. En témoigne le changement qui s’opère entre la première ébauche du récit et les versions postérieures. Les 750 vers de l’Appendice, qui nous ont conservé la trace de la version initiale ensuite abandonnée, contiennent un nombre de “vers étymologiques” élevé, supérieur proportionnellement à celui du Brut. Ce nombre diminue cependant de manière significative dans les deuxième et troisième parties contenant la version définitive. Wace a-t-il pris conscience de l’inévitable association qui se crée, sous sa plume, entre étymologie, légende et fantaisie poétique? Ne craint-il pas les déviances fictives de tels développements? Toujours est-il que se dessine, au fil des sections du Rou, ce que nous serions tentés d’appeler une pratique raisonnée de l’étymologie. La comparaison entre la partie en alexandrins et la partie en octosyllabes vient confirmer cette hypothèse. Dans les laisses d’alexandrins, qui retracent l’histoire de Rollon, de Guillaume Longue Epée et en partie de Richard Ier, la place accordée à l’étymologie se réduit à deux occurrences: la fiche sur “Normant” et les deux vers consacrés au Pré de la Bataille.24 Le récit octosyllabique, qui complète la carrière de Richard Ier et se poursuit jusqu’au règne de Henri Ier, voit ressurgir, de façon certes modérée, les notices étymologiques. Cette répartition inégale pourrait aller de pair avec le choix de la forme versifiée. Une lecture suivie du Rou permet en effet de mesurer l’écart entre les laisses d’alexandrins, dans lesquelles est retranscrite avec rigueur l’histoire guerrière et politique des premiers ducs normands, et les couplets d’octosyllabes, qui intègrent volontiers une dimension légendaire et mythique–que l’on songe aux destins romanesques de Richard Ier, Robert le Magnifique ou à la fabuleuse aventure de Guillaume le Conquérant. L’infléchissement de la partie en alexandrins vers une écriture plus “vraie” explique peut-être l’absence de fantaisies étymologiques dans cette section narrative, Wace allant même jusqu’à supprimer l’étymologie plaisante de “Normant” dans la notice qu’il y insère! Il est alors tentant d’élargir l’analyse en 24

Voir note 13.

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proposant une réponse à l’interrogation suivante: pourquoi Wace, qui a commencé à écrire en octosyllabes, opte-t-il pour l’alexandrin avant de revenir définitivement à l’octosyllabe? L’éditeur A. J. Holden avoue ne pas comprendre les subtilités d’un tel choix; “les raisons du procédé nous échappent”25 reconnaît-il, tout en notant que la solennité de l’alexandrin a pu séduire le poète conscient de la dignité de sa tâche. Mais pourquoi, dans une dernière volte-face, revenir à l’octosyllabe? La cause de ces changements est liée, selon nous, aux motivations de l’historien et aux fluctuations de l’écriture de l’histoire dans le Rou. Lorsqu’il débute son récit en 1160, Wace choisit, dans la continuité du Roman de Brut, la forme octosyllabique puis, désireux d’inaugurer dans son œuvre un véritable discours historique, il abandonne cette forme attachée aux premiers romans, pour une forme autre qu’il souhaite plus authentique: ce sera l’alexandrin; il revient enfin à l’octosyllabe, précisément au moment où, dans un style très romanesque, il évoque les légendes attachées à Richard Ier Sans Peur. Les variations de la forme versifiée semblent donc bien illustrer les tensions d’une écriture qui oscille sans cesse entre histoire vraie et histoire légendaire. Jeu de langage, l’étymologie est aussi chez Wace révélatrice d’un mode de pensée et d’écriture. Dans le Roman de Rou, la réflexion étymologique s’articule étroitement à la méditation sur le temps et l’histoire dont seule l’écriture peut assurer la conservation: Des tresturnees de ces nuns, e des gestes dunt nus parluns, poi u nïent seüssum dire si l’um nes eüst feit escrire. (Rou, t. 3, 81-84)

Ces vers du prologue de la troisième partie associent de manière significative les motifs de l’étymologie (“tresturnees de ces nuns”), de l’histoire (“geste”) et de l’écriture (“escrire”). Ils justifient en quelque sorte notre tentative pour déceler, dans la pratique étymologique du poète, certaines de ses stratégies d’historien. Car c’est bien à penser et à écrire l’histoire que s’applique Wace dans cette chronique normande

25

A.J. Holden, introduction à l’édition du Roman de Rou, t. 3, p. 77.

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où il crée et invente ce que Paul Zumthor nomme “un art moderne de l’histoire.”26

26

P. Zumthor, Guillaume le Conquérant, p. 435.

JUNE HALL McCASH

Philomena’s Window: Issues of Intertextuality and Influence in Works of Marie de France and Chrétien de Troyes cholars have frequently speculated about the influence of Marie de France on Chrétien de Troyes and vice versa, but, with rare exceptions, relatively little work has been done that compares their works in any systematic way.1 Nevertheless, each has written a text that would seem to invite comparison with the other’s work, namely Marie’s Laüstic and Chrétien’s Philomena et Progné, preserved in the 14th-century manuscript of the Ovide moralisé. The Philomena text is accepted by most scholars to be the work of which Chrétien spoke in his prologue to Cligés when he indicated that he had written “de la hupe et de l’aronde / Et del rossignol la muance.”2 I will not here reiterate the entire debate on the issue of its authenticity since it is easily accessible to scholars, but will merely point out that since the text was discovered by Gaston Paris in 1884, a good deal of critical study by Ernest Hoepffner, Wendelin Foerster, Cornelius de Boer, and Marie-Claire Gérard-Zai, among others, has gone into efforts to prove or disprove that the work is in fact that of Chrétien de Troyes, with the vast majority of scholars concurring that the work is indeed Chrétien’s.3 In addition to the arguments set forth in this debate in 1

One exception that I will take into consideration later in this study is an article by R. W. Hanning, “Courtly Contexts for Urban Cultus: Responses to Ovid in Chrétien’s Cligès and Marie’s Guigemar,” Symposium, 35 (1981), 248-53. 2 Chrétien de Troyes, Cligés, ed. Alexandre Micha (Paris: Champion. 1982), 6-7. 3 For an overall review of the issue see Ernest Hoepffner, “La Philomena de Chrétien de Troyes,” Romania, 57 (1931), 13-74.; Wendelin Foerster and Hermann Breuer, Kristian von Troyes’ Wörterbuch zu seinen sämtlichen Werken. Romanische Bibliothek 21 (Halle: Niemeyer, 1914), pp. 24-27; Jean Frappier Chrétien de Troyes, L’homme et l’oeuvre (Paris: Hatier-Boivin, 1957; nouvelle édition augmentée, 1968), pp. 66-71; F. Zaman, L’attribution de Philomena à Chrétien de Troyes, Dissertation Leiden, Amsterdam, 1928. Marie-Claire Gérard-Zai, “L’auteur de Philomena,” Revista de istoria si teorie literara, 25 (1976), 361-68; C. de Boer, Philomena, conte raconté d’après Ovide par Chrétien de Troyes (Paris: P. Geuthner, 1909), esp. xxxviii ff., and “Une hypothèse sur le nom de ‘Crestiien Li Gois’,” Romania, 55 (1929), 116-118; Ernst Gamillscheg, “Chrestien li Gois, Zeitschrift für französische Sprache und Literatur, 46 (1923), 183-84; O. Schultz-Gora, Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie,

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favor of Chrétien’s authorship, the probability that we would find two Chrétiens who translated the same Ovidian tale within a century of one another strikes me as unlikely, and I am persuaded particularly by the arguments of de Boer and Gérard-Zai that the Philomena preserved in the Ovide Moralisé is substantially, with only a few possible remaniements, that of Chrétien de Troyes. Perhaps it has been the controversial attribution that has prevented critics from showing so little interest in comparing these texts of Chrétien and Marie. Nonetheless, both seem to depend heavily on the story of Tereus’s brutal rape of his sister-in-law Philomela and the cutting out of her tongue in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and, thus, the two tales invite a look at issues of possible intertextuality and influence.4 One essential first step in undertaking such an examination of the two works in question is to compare Chrétien’s and Marie’s texts to that of the source text of Ovid. Chrétien’s work purports to be a translation of the tale of Philomela, whom Chrétien refers to as Philomena, from book VI of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Chrétien has more or less faithfully followed the story of Ovid, suppressing only a few details that would have been found most offensive by medieval audiences, such as the graphic description of Philomela’s severed tongue. He has also suppressed the threats by Philomela to reveal the rape to the world, thereby removing Tereus’s compelling motivation to cut out her tongue, which in Chrétien’s work he does not as a consequence of threats, but rather as a precaution. The French poet’s Philomena seems 37 (1913), 232-41; Raphael Levy, “Old French ‘goz’ and Chrestiiens li Gois,” PMLA, 46 (1931), 313, and “Etat présent des études sur l’attribution de ‘Philomena,’” Les Lettres romanes, 5 (1951), 46-52. 4 Although Chrétien’s primary source is clearly Ovid’s Metamorphoses, de Boer has rightly suggested that he must have used other sources as well. See his edition of Chrétien de Troyes, Philomena (Paris: Geuthner, 1909), p. ci. One bit of evidence that this must be so is the fact that Ovid does not indicate the bird each woman turns into, and earlier traditions sometimes suggest that it is Procne (or Niobe or Chelidona, by her other names) who turns into a swallow, while Philomela (or Aedon) becomes the nightingale. See Ovid, Metamorphoses, trans. Frank Justus Miller, Loeb Classical Library, 2 vols. (London: W. Heineman, New York, 1916; 2nd. ed., 1921), vol 1, Book VI. As Wendy Pfeffer notes, “by the Augustan age, the characters of the two birds were firmly established: Procne the swallow and Philomela the nightingale” (The Change of Philomel: The Nightingale in Medieval Literature [New York: Peter Lang, 1985], p. 10.). However, Chrétien would have had to have this information from some source other than Ovid.

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thus even more guileless and helpless than the spunky Philomela and an even more sympathetic victim of her brother-in-law’s brutality. In terms of what Chrétien has added to the text, scholars have largely viewed the interpolations as being model exercises of such techniques as amplificatio, which he would have learned in classes of rhetoric, a fact that reminds the reader that the Philomena et Progné was a work of Chrétien’s youth. The two most obvious insertions are his amplified description of Philomena, encompassing some 87 lines, whereas Ovid has described her in only two verses, and a 93-line, and rather ironic, disquisition on the nature of Love. Chrétien has also toned down the brutality of Tereus, who in his text asks Philomena in an almost courtly manner for her love before raping her. “‘Bele,’ fet il, ‘or sachiez bien / Que je vos aim et si vos pri / Que de moi façoiz vostre ami, / E ceste chose soit celee, / Se vos volez qu’ele et duree” (766-70). When she refuses, he tries once again, still in a relatively courtly mode, to gain her consent: “‘Tant vos aim et tant me pleisiez / Que vuel que vos me consantez / Faire de vos mes volantez’” (77779). Only after her second refusal, in which she accuses him of “desleauté” to her sister does he begin to force his will upon her. Finally, Chrétien has added a character absent from Ovid’s text–the old woman who guards and ultimately unwittingly aids Philomena in weaving her tapestry and delivering it to her sister (a character, incidentally, not uncommon in Marie’s Lais such as Yonec). The relationship between Marie’s Laüstic and the Ovidian text, however, is far more complex and less obvious.5 First of all, she does not speak of Philomela at all. Her narrative tells a quite different story. 5

For articles comparing Marie’s Lais with Ovidian texts, see Kristine Brightenback, “The Metamorphoses and Narrative Conjointure in ‘Deus Amanz,’ ‘Yonec,’ and ‘Le Laüstic,’” Romanic Review, 72 (1981), 1-12; Tom Peete Cross, “The Celtic Origin of the Lay of ‘Yonec,’” Revue Celtique, 31 (1910), 413-71; M. B. Ogle, “Some Theories of Irish Literary Influence and the Lay of ‘Yonec,’” Romanic Review, 10 (1919), 123-48; Cesare Segre “Piramos e Tisbe nei Lai de Maria di Francia,” Studi in onore de Vittorio e Diego Valeri, 2 vols. (Venice: Pozza, 1961), v. 2, pp. 845-53; Robert T. Cargo, “‘Le Laüstic’: From physicality to spirituality,” Philological Quarterly, 47 (1968), 499-505; Jeanne Wathelet-Willem, “Un Lai de Marie de France: ‘Les Deux Amants,’ in Mélanges offerts à Rita Lejeune, ed. Rita Lejeune, 2 vols. (Gembloux: Duculot, 1969), v. 2, pp. 1143-57; Domenica Fasciano, “La Mythologie du lai ‘Les Deux Amants,’” Revista de Cultura Classica e Medioevale, 16 (1974), 7985; M. L. Stapleton, “Venus Vituperator: Ovid, Marie de France, and Fin’Amors,” Classical and Modern Literature, 13 (1993), 283-95.

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Second, she seems to borrow, not only from Ovid’s Philomela et Procne, but from other Ovidian tales as well. For example, scholars have interpreted the wall that separates the lovers as being inspired by Ovid’s tale of Piramus and Thisbe. Unlike the Ovidian lovers who can communicate only through a chink in the wall, however, Marie’s lovers can see one another, toss gifts to each other over the wall, and speak from their respective windows at night, so close are their homes. The basic image of the brutalized nightingale, which I have explored in a previous article, is also clearly inspired by Ovid’s tale, in which the bird represents the transformed Philomela. However, in a complex intertextual weaving, the nightingale is also a harbinger of love and spring and a reflection of the poet-lover depicted in troubadour lyric. Thus, the tiny bird is a complex conflation of both the woman and her lover. The nightingale’s ultimate brutal slaying at the hand of a jealous husband is thus a symbolic double murder, although the two victims the bird signifies are still alive.6 Turning to the relationship between Marie’s and Chrétien’s texts and keeping in mind their respective debts to the Ovidian work, there seem, at first glance, to be more differences than similarities. Chrétien’s text is a lengthy reworking, comprising 1,468 lines, of Ovid’s tale of Philomela’s rape and ultimate metamorphosis into a bird to escape the wrath of her brother-in-law Tereus, whereas Marie’s lai is brief, only 160 lines, slightly more than one-tenth the length of Chrétien’s, and makes no overt mention of the Ovidian tale. Chrétien’s style is expansive, making considerable use of extended description, disquisition, and dialogue. It seems overall to be straightforward narrative, with little attempt at hidden meaning. Marie’s style, on the other hand, is sparse and utilitarian, and, with the exception only of the 118-line Chevrefoil, is her briefest text. Every detail is purposeful, rich and polysemic, laden with the implications that Marie herself suggests in the general prologue to the Lais, where she invites the reader to provide the “surplus de sens.” Briefly recounted, in Chrétien’s text, Philomena’s sister, Progné, is given unhappily in marriage by their father Pandion, to the tyrant Tereüs. More than five years pass before Tereüs, at the behest of his 6

See June Hall McCash, “The Swan and the Nightingale: Natural Unity in a Hostile World in the Lais of Marie de France,” French Studies, 49 (1995), 385-96.

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wife, returns to the court of Pandion to ask permission to take Philomena for a visit to her homesick sister. However, rather than escort her back to his court, he removes her to the countryside where he brutally rapes her and cuts out her tongue. Unable to speak, Philomena, aided by the woman who is left to guard her, weaves a tapestry that tells her story and sends it to her sister, who understands its message and comes to her rescue. Together the two women conspire to kill Tereüs’s (and Progné’s) son and give the boy’s body to his father to eat. When he learns of their revenge, he pursues the two women in a murderous rage. But in the chase he is transformed into a hoopoe, a foul bird that feeds on dung, while Progné becomes a swallow and Philomena a nightingale, which, according to Chrétien, and contrary, he tells us, to its reputation, sings a message of violence and death throughout the woods, “Oci! Oci!”7 Marie’s tale is no less violent and brutal, though the image of the nightingale is utterly transformed through the tenderness with which the two lovers preserve its body and sublimate it into an image and symbol of enduring love, not revenge. The unnamed lady of her tale is married to one knight, but in love with another, who lives next door. The lovers, unable to be together, spend their nights at their respective open windows, where they can gaze upon and speak to one another. Finally, the jealous husband, missing his wife from his bed, asks why she is up. When she indicates that she is listening to the nightingale, the angry and brutal husband has the little bird caught and brought to the chamber where, in the lady’s presence, he strangles it and thrusts its broken and bloody body at his wife. She, in turn, embroiders a piece of samite in which to wrap the nightingale and sends it to her lover as an explanation of what has happened. He, in turn, has a golden coffer made in which he keeps the body of the bird always with him. Despite their differences, a number of striking similarities that are not present in the Ovidian source bind together the two stories. Critics 7

Raymond Cormier, ed., Three Ovidian Tales of Love (New York and London: Garland, 1986), Philomena et Procné, 1467. All subsequent quotations from the Philomena are to this edition, and line references will be given within the text. It should be noted that Cormier translates Philomena’s activity as embroidering. However, the Old French word is “tissoit,” from tisser (to weave). Marie uses the word “brusdé” (embroidered): “En une pièce de samit / A or brusdé e tut escrit (13536). The two activities are clearly different, with Chrétien retaining the weaving motif of Ovid.

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have long speculated about which text, Marie’s or Chrétien’s, may have been composed first. Although it is unlikely that we shall ever know for sure and certainly not with the evidence currently available to us, it seems to me more logical to suggest that Marie’s Laustic preceded Chrétien’s and that he knew her work and paid tribute to it in several places in his own text. For example, within the lengthy description of Philomena, Chrétien states: Des autors sot et de grameire Et sot bien feire vers et letre, Et, quant li plot, li antremetre Et del sautier et de la lire: Plus an sot qu’an ne porroit dire, Et de la gigue et de la rote. Soz ciel n’a lai ne son ne note Qu’el ne seüst bien vieler, Et tant sot sagement parler Que solemant de sa parole Seüst ele tenir escole. (194-204)

The reference to the lai in line 200 is tantalizing and leads me to wonder, in light of Philomena’s particular accomplishments, whether it is possible that the passage represents an effort on Chrétien’s part to pay tribute to Marie? In fact, Chrétien refers to lais in two of his other works as well—Yvain (2155) and Erec (6272), suggesting that he may well have been familiar with at least some of Marie’s work.8 This seems a particularly relevant allusion for an author who lived so far from the Breton sources. There was certainly no abundance of writers of lais prior to Marie, and certainly there was no significant number of identifiable women who could have served as a model for such a passage, which includes several details that could well suggest characteristics of Marie herself. There is no question, in terms of Marie 8 If Lucien Foulet is correct that “l’histoire des lais français commence et s’arrête à Marie,” then it seems probable that Marie’s works preceded Chrétien’s. Others, however, have questioned this assertion. See Foulet, “Marie de France et les lais bretons,” Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, 29 (1905), 19-56, 293, 322. Some of the anonymous lais seem to have been influenced by Marie and to comment on or “correct” them, as I believe Melion does for the earlier Bisclavret, a point I sought to demonstrate in a paper given in the summer of 2002 at the International Arthurian Society Congress in Bangor, Wales. Such an attempt to “correct” at a later date would certainly suggest an ongoing tradition of lais written by someone other than Marie.

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de France, that “Des autors sot e de grameire / Et sot bien feire vers et letre.” Though we know of others (a precious few) who wrote verse, it is difficult to think of another woman who might have combined all of the talents that Chrétien describes. It is indisputable that Marie knew how to “feire vers,” for there is much evidence of her talent, and, according to her general prologue to the Lais, she knew some Latin authors to the extent that she considered translating them. Further, she makes a specific reference to the well-known grammarian Priscian: Custume fus as ancïens, Ceo tes[ti]moine Precïens, Es livres ke jadis feseient, Assez oscurement diseient Pur ceus qui a venir esteient E ki aprendre le deveient, K’i peüssent gloser la lettre E de lur sen le surplus mettre. Li philesophe le saveient E par eus memes entendeient, Cum plus trespasserunt le tens, Plus serreient sutil de sens E plus se savreient garder De ceo k’i ert, a trespasser. Ki de vice se volt defendre Estudïer doit e entendre E grevos’ ovre comencier, Pur [ceo] s’en puet plus esloignier E de grant dolur delivrer. Pur ceo començai a penser De aukune bone estoire faire E de latin en romaunz traire; Mais ne me fust guaires de pris: Itant se sunt altre entremis. Des lais pensai, k’oï aveie.9

Priscian was a writer of precisely the kind of books that Chrétien singles out in his passage. In medieval education, as we all know, grammar was one of the elements of the trivium, and Priscian’s Institutio grammaticae was the standard advanced grammar book in 9 Marie de France, Lais, ed. Alfred Ewert, with introduction and bibliography by Glyn Burgess (1944; reissued London: Bristol, 1995), 10-33. All subsequent line references are to this edition and will be given within the text.

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the twelfth century. Thus, a mention of him suggests that Marie had at least the level of education suggested of the lady in Chrétien’s text. We know as well from the passage cited above from the prologue to the Lais that Marie was concerned about the didactic quality of her work, as she encouraged her readers (and perhaps herself as well) with the admonition “Estudïer doit e entendre,” a concern reflected in Chrétien’s lines: “Et tant sot sagement parler / Que solemant de sa parole / Seüst ele tenir escole.” Just as Chrétien has suggested that Philomena’s words were wise and able to instruct, so did Marie perceive her own writing, as her prologue suggests, to be useful in helping her readers guard against error “e de grant dolur delivrer.” Finally, it is also noteworthy that Chrétien asserts of Philomena that “Soz ciel n’a lai ne son ne note / Qu’el ne seüst bien vieler.” While we cannot be absolutely certain that Marie was also a musician, it certainly seems likely that she practiced musical arts, as did many, perhaps most, trouvères in her day. She was obviously familiar with musical instruments and, like Chrétien’s Philomena who plays various stringed instruments (his text mentions the sautier, the lire, the gigue and the rote), Marie may have played them as well. In fact, she refers to one of them in the text of Guigemar, where she alludes to the playing of lais on the “harpe” and “rote” (Guigemar, 885). Did Chrétien have Marie in mind when he wrote this passage in his Philomena et Progné? I am tempted to think so, though we clearly cannot know for certain. Another detail in the Philomena that strikes the reader as a possible allusion to Marie’s text is that Chrétien depicts Philomena when she first appears to Tereüs as wearing “un samit,” the silken fabric on which Marie’s lady works the design she sends to her beloved. La pucele vint a son pere, Qui la face ot vermoille et clere; An un samit estoit laciee, Et Tereüs l’a anbraciee […]. (205-08)

Samite, a heavy silk fabric frequently woven with golden threads, was by no means an everyday fabric in the Middle Ages, but was used rather in a display of wealth for both festive or sacred occasions. It would become the fabric inevitably mentioned in visions of the Holy Grail in the thirteenth-century Queste del Saint Graal and subsequent texts. Already in Marie’s work, the sacral nature of the fabric is

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implied, as the lady wraps the body of the bird, symbolically transformed into a holy relic by her action. Her gesture is echoed by her beloved’s enshrinement of the body of the bird in a chasse or reliquary, also used to encase sacred objects in the twelfth century. Ovid’s Philomela, on the other hand, is depicted only as dressed in “rich apparel,” (“ecce venit magno dives Philomela paratu, divitior forma” [VI: 451-52]) while the fabric depicted in both Chrétien’s and Marie’s texts is both more specific and identical. Just as the nightingale’s body is wrapped in samite in Marie’s text, so in Chrétien’s tale does Philomena, whose name had by that time become synonymous with “nightingale,” first appear draped in samite. The odd coincidence of the two “nightingales” covered with the same fabric seems certainly more than mere chance, and once again, we seem to have an interesting incidence of intertextuality, where both works depart from their Ovidian source in precisely the same way. The two texts differ markedly from Ovid’s as well in their descriptions of the lady’s reaction to the violence done on her person or to the creature that symbolized her love and on which her husband had enacted his violence. Ovid depicts Philomela as immediately decisive in her weaving of the tapestry to inform her sister. His only reference to her grief is a single line: “But great grief has clever wits, and in misery cunning comes. She hangs a foreign thread upon her loom […]” (“[…]grande doloris/ ingenium est, miserisque venit sollertia rebus:/ stamina barbarica suspendit […],”VI. 574-76) and begins to weave. Both Marie and Chrétien extend the moment of grief, inserting a preliminary delay and uncertainty before the making of a decision about what the women will do. Of the two, however, the lady in Laüstic acts most decisively. Marie’s telling of the moment, while longer and more elaborate than Ovid’s, is nonetheless less than half the length of Chrétien’s, without the amplificatio that characterizes his work. Marie uses only 12 lines to describe the lady’s reaction to her husband’s violent killing of the nightingale: La dame prent le cors petit; Durement plure e si maudit Ceus ki le laüstic traïrent, E les engins e les laçuns firent, Kar mut li unt toleit grant hait. ‘Lasse,’ fet ele, ‘mal m’estait! Ne purrai mes la nuit lever Ne aler a la fenestre ester,

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U jeo suil mun ami veer. Une chose sai jeo de veir: Il quid[e]ra ke jeo me feigne; De ceo m’estuet que cunseil preigne.’ (121-32)

Chrétien, on the other hand, takes twenty-eight lines to present Philomena’s grief and indecision, before she comes upon a way to let her sister know of her plight. Like Marie’s lady, Chrétien’s gives way to grief before conceiving the idea of the tapestry as a means of communication: Ençois vivoit [Philomena] e de sa vie Li pesoit mout et chascun jor Li renoveloit sa dolor Li traïtre, li vils maufez Qui de s’amor iert eschaufez, Et mervoilles li despleisoit Qu’a force toz ses buens feisoit De li cil qui l’avoit traïe. Mout eüst grant mestier d’aie Et mout vosist, s’ele peüst, Que sa suer son estat seüst; Mes ne set angin porpanser Par quoi el li puisse mander, Car n’a message que i aut Et la parole li deffaut, Car s’ele avoit bien le message, Ne porroit ele son corage Mostrer ne dire an nule guise. D’autre part rest an tel justise Qu’el n’a ne congié ne leisir De fors de la meison issir. Comant? Por quoi? Qui la retarde? Qui? La vilainne qui la garde Cui Tereüs l’ot commandee. Mil foiz se fust de li anblee S’ele poïst, mes ne li lut. Einsi mout longuemant estut, Tant qu’an la fin se porpansa, Si con besoingns li anseigna, Qu’an la meison avoit filé, Que mout an avoient filé Antre la vieillete et sa fille, Ne ne li falloit une ostille A feire une cortine ovree; Si s’est de tel chose apansee Par quoi el cuide estre seüre

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Que tote sa mesavanture Iert sa seror manifestee. (1062-99)

Though Chrétien’s Philomena, like Ovid’s Philomela, weaves a tapestry to tell her story to her sister, while Marie’s lady embroiders samite, Chrétien takes pains to point out that his lady, like Marie’s, is skilled at embroidery as well. Among Philomena’s talents, which were those of the perfect courtly lady, he underscores her ability to work “un porpre vermoille” (189). In fact, she had no equal in the world at this skill, he tells us, in arabesques and many lively figures “Seüst ele an un drap portreire” (193). It is a curious and seemingly gratuitous detail to include in describing a woman whose primary talent with fabric, a focal point for the work, will prove to be her weaving. It is possible that this detail, like various others, may have been suggested to Chrétien by Marie’s Laüstic. The mention in Marie’s text of the lady’s no longer being able to stand at her window, a central and essential architectural feature of the tale, may also have evoked a response in Chrétien’s text, for here again he introduces an element absent from his Ovidian source. The introduction of Philomena’s window from which she can see her sister’s city, provides the impetus for sending her the tapestry. Though Ovid evidently saw no need of it, the window plays a pivotal role in the two French texts. Both ladies are tacitly forbidden to stand by the window after the violence done, in the case of Philomena, on her person, and in the case of Marie’s lady, on the nightingale. Chrétien points out that, since Philomena’s mistreatment at the hand of Tereüs, she has not stood near a window or a door, presumably a forbidden act to keep her from trying to escape. However, in defiance and disobedience, she leans out her window, as Chrétien describes the scene: La ou ele s’iert apoiiee A la fenestre un petit liee, Antre les bois et la riviere Vit la cite ou sa suer iere, Si comance a plorer mout fort Si con cele qui reconfort Ne pooit de son duel avoir. (1165-71)

Where Chrétien’s Philomena experiences only grief, the window has been a source of joy, now lost, for Marie’s lady. Like Philomena, from

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her window she could see the place where the loved one was, and it was her opening in an otherwise barren world to a place of hope and solace. Although it plays a similar role for Philomena who can see the place where her sister is, she goes a step further. Disobeying her captor by gazing from the window, she uses her grief as a signal to provoke her guardian’s pity and persuade her to do her errand and deliver the tapestry to her sister. One other significant detail seems to signal a link between Chrétien’s and Marie’s texts that is absent in the Ovidian source–the creation of a small receptacle in which to place the physical remains, not of the beloved but of an animal sacrificed to that love, as an act of memory and devotion. Readers of Marie will remember well, as we have already noted above, the response of the lover when the lady has her nightingale wrapped in the embroidered samite and delivered to his home. In an act of devotion he commissions the creation of a golden vaisselet or chasse encrusted with precious stones in which he seals the body of the slain bird. Un vasselet ad fet forgeér Unques n’i ot fer në acer, Tut fu d’or fin od bones pieres, Mut preciüses e mut cheres; Covercle i ot tres bien asis. Le laüstic ad dedenz mis, Puis fist la chasse enseeler […]. (149-55)

Similarly Chrétien’s Progné, upon learning of the supposed death of her sister puts on mourning “an remanbremant” (998), a phrase resonant of Marie’s oft-repeated “pur remembrance.” Sacrificing a bull to be burned in memory of her sister, Progné gathers up its ashes, which she places in a small white vessel (“un pot blanc,” 1038), to be buried in a sarcophagus in lieu of her sister’s body. In both texts the surrogate bodies of the beloved, though both remain alive, are encased and honored in a small vessel created to commemorate the love they shared. In the text of Ovid, Procne merely orders the creation of a sepulcher, a cenotaph, in honor of her sister, but there is no mention of the small coffer that plays such a central role in both Marie’s and Chrétien’s texts. Just as the “an remanbremant” suggests an intertextual echo, so does the language used to describe the throwing of the bloody object recall a similar moment in the other work. In Chrétien’s text, Philomena

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throws the bloody head of Itis into the face of Tereüs, just as the husband in Laüstic throws the bloody body of the mangled bird at his wife. Although the gesture itself might be perceived as derivative of the Ovidian source, there is a remarkable similarity of language in the texts of Marie and Chrétien at the moment it occurs that cannot be explained by the source. Marie writes: “Sur la dame le cors geta, / Si que sun chainse ensanglanta. (117-118). Chrétien’s text repeats the same root words, in somewhat altered grammatical form: “Si li a tote ansanglantee / La teste an mi le vis gitee” (1411-1412; my emphasis). The parallelism of the language cannot be explained away as mere echoes of the original Ovidian text, which reads, “prosiluit Ityosque caput Philomela cruentum / misit in ora patris” [VI, 658-59]. We return now to our initial question. Could one of the authors have known the other’s text? I believe the evidence suggests that such was the case, and scholars have been finding intertextual echoes between the works of the two authors for many years, though without focusing on the two texts in question here. The three critics who have seriously undertaken studies of the chronology of Marie’s texts, Ernest Hoepffner, R. N. Illingworth, and Glyn Burgess, have all suggested that the Laüstic was among the earliest of Marie’s tales, and, though dating is still imprecise, Burgess suggests that the first lais, written probably on the continent before Marie came to England, could have been composed as early as the 1150’s, well before any critic has dated the works of Chrétien de Troyes.10 Such dating is still speculative, and while there are certainly critics who have suggested that, in other lais, Marie may have echoed Chrétien, most particularly Lanval, which both W. T. H. Jackson and Don Monson have seen as a parody of the Lancelot, still others argue for her influence on him, even in Lanval.11 10 A number of Hoepffner’s articles deal with issues of chronology. See, in particular, “Pour la chronologie des Lais de Marie de France,” Romania, 59 (1933), 351-70; 60 (1934), 36-66. He includes more pointed comments on the Laüstic in his “Marie de France et l’Enéas,” Studi Medievali, new series 5 (1932), 272-308. See R. N. Illingworth, “La Chronologie des Lais de Marie de France,” Romania, 87 (1966), 433-75; Glyn S. Burgess, “The Problem of Internal Chronology in the Lais of Marie de France,” Zeitschrift für französische Sprache und Literatur, 91 (1981), 133-55. 11 See W. T. H. Jackson, “The Arthuricity of Marie de France,” Romanic Review, 70 (1979), 1-18; Don Monson, “L’Idéologie du lai de Lanval,” Le Moyen âge, 93 (1987), 349-72. Arguing most recently against this influence and in favor of the impact of Lanval on Chrétien’s Lancelot is Sally Burch, “The Scene at the Stream in Lanval,

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Thus, these issues of who came first, who influenced whom, or whether, in fact, their works may have been interspersed are far from resolved, though I hope that the evidence presented here will add in some measure to the discussion. In the final analysis and under the uncertain circumstances, these may not be the most important questions that can be posed in regard to these two works. Nonetheless, based on the evidence, I think that we can safely conclude, first of all, that one of these authors knew the other’s work and, more importantly, that they were using essentially the same source materials in quite different ways, both in terms of style and narrative, to create their own textual worlds and announce their unique approaches to the creative task. Perhaps it is, in fact, this difference in narrative technique, evident in these works of two relatively young poets, that is in the end of greatest importance in comparing these two tales. In his study “Courtly Contexts for Urban Cultus: Responses to Ovid in Chrétien’s Cligés and Marie’s Guigemar,” cited in footnote one above, Robert Hanning has concluded in terms of these two tales that Chrétien de Troyes’s is essentially Ovidian, while Marie’s is antiOvidian. He contends that Chrétien, by focusing on the engin inherent in the subject matter of Cligés, is echoing within a twelfth-century context the emphasis on subterfuge and dissembling that is the very essence of Ovid’s Ars amatoria. Marie’s Guigemar, on the other hand, he argues, is fundamentally anti-Ovidian, “a reaction against the Ovidian premise […] that love is a passion subject to artful control” (p. 46). He sees the lai as one characterized by “impassioned, imperative directness” in terms of the love language, expressing “a sincerity absolutely foreign to Ovidian love strategy” (p. 51). That both Chrétien and Marie were well acquainted with Ovid’s work is indisputable, for both poets make direct allusions to Ovidian sources at various time in their works, and I concur with Hanning that both take a programmatic stance with regard to Ovid’s work in relation to their own. The one that Hanning posits for Marie reminds us to some extent of that of Christine de Pizan toward Jean de Meung, whose Roman de la Rose also relies heavily on Ovidian concepts of self-serving love strategies and trickery. Like Christine who perceived Jean’s concept of

the Charette, and the Mort Artu,” paper presented at the International Arthurian Society Congress in Bangor, Wales, 25 July 2002.

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love as essentially a misogynistic act of seduction, Marie seems to reject Ovid’s notion that love can be or should be self-consciously manipulated. Nevertheless, she borrows freely from Ovidian imagery, using his nightingale as into an eloquent metonym, heavy with the multivalent undertones of violence, passion, helplessness, and revenge. In the Laüstic, she draws, not on the Ars amatoria or the Remedia amoris, which she openly rejects in Guigemar, but rather on the Metamorphoses, where the transformations of form and consciousness caused by love’s passions work in concert with the painful permutation that the thwarted love in Laüstic must undergo. Marie’s lovers in Laüstic are united in their own metamorphosis wrought by love, as they, in the form of their shared love image, understood only by the two of them, are self-consciously transformed into the nightingale itself, which embodies their tale of love, as much as the nightingale, the swallow, and the hoopoe of Chrétien’s version will embody the tale of Philomena’s rape and vengeance. The two characters merge in the image of the nightingale, the lady having suffered cruelty and having been silenced by a man’s brutality, as Ovid’s Philomela is, and her lover, whom she rose at night to visit at her window, as the silenced nightingale of the troubadour lyric. The multivalence of the image becomes their final meeting place. Chrétien de Troyes was no doubt still a young poet, perhaps less sophisticated and complex than the artist of the Laustic, when he composed his retelling of Ovid’s Philomela. Although his version of the tale foreshadows the extraordinary trouvère he will become and although he makes the story his own by cleverly incorporating a number of the expository and rhetorical techniques that he will brilliantly master during his artistic career (and which he no doubt learned as a young cleric in one of the schools of the twelfth century), it nonetheless remains the minor work of a burgeoning poet paying tribute to a well-known master, Ovid. Marie de France, on the other hand, who doubtless did not have access to the depth of schooling and rhetorical training that is evident in Chrétien’s work, has managed in her Laüstic to create a piece that is far more original, far more penetrating in its piercing and painful tale of her broken lovers than that of Chrétien. The density of her text, her layers of meaning and allusion, all bespeak a more mature artist than does the Philomena et Progné of Chrétien. Although his narrative skills, which he will hone into a great art of story-telling, are already evident, Marie’s interests

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seem less focused on narration than on symbol, allusive subtlety, and a desire to capture the essence of love in a single moment, sign or gesture. In short, these two works not only encompass fundamental differences between the two poets and their artistry, they also represent vastly divergent ways of handling received materials. Chrétien shows himself to be an admirer of Ovid and an avid and fairly faithful disciple in his translatio of the Philomela. On the other hand, as Hanning has suggested for another of the lais, Marie’s Laüstic is essentially anti-Ovidian. She is an artist who made use of Ovidian materials but in the process transformed them and made them her own, while at the same time rejecting Ovid’s view of love as a manipulative game. In the Laüstic, as in many of the lais, she creates instead a text that bespeaks the more genuine passions of a silent and lonely woman trapped in a marriage without love. These two approaches, different as they are, represent essential distinctions between the two artists. Whichever artist may have known and used the other’s work, and the preponderance of evidence, in my opinion, suggests that Marie’s came first, it did not prevent either of them from developing his or her own distinct style and approach to the material, thus greatly enriching the corpus of medieval literature we enjoy today.

PHILIPPE MÉNARD

Les Prophéties de Merlin et l’Italie au XIIIe siècle ans le dernier tiers du XIIIe siècle, sans doute entre 1272 et 1279, un texte en ancien français donne des Prophéties de Merlin1 tout à fait nouvelles par rapport à celles qu’avaient écrites Geoffroy de Monmouth vers 1135 et qu’il avait insérées dans son Historia regum Britanniae.2 Comme toujours, ces révélations ont été faites après coup, post eventum. Elles s’appliquent à des événements antérieurs à la date de composition, principalement des années 1230-60. Elles expriment aussi les aspirations de l’auteur, par exemple la reconquête de la Terre Sainte. Elles concernent en partie ce qu’on appelait alors la Marche de Trévise, et elles mentionnent plusieurs cités importantes: Trévise, Vicenza, Vérone, Padoue, Ferrare, etc. Sur la douzaine de manuscrits en ancien français l’un se trouve à la Biblioteca Marciana de Venise.3 On notera le fait. Une version italienne, sans doute du premier quart du XIVe siècle, existe également.4 Il s’agit d’une rédaction en partie raccourcie, en partie différente.5 Il existe aussi une Storia di Merlino de 14806 et plusieurs éditions vénitiennes du XVIe siècle, qui mêlent le récit narratif de 1

Prophéties de Merlin, éd. Lucy Allen Paton, 2 tomes (New York: D. C. Heath & Co., 1926-27), texte publié d’après le ms. 593 de la Bibliothèque municipale de Rennes. Sur la date de l’œuvre voir les raisons présentées t. II, pp. 150-56. 2 Ed. E. Faral, dans La légende arthurienne, études et documents, 3 tomes (Paris: Champion, 1929), t. III, §§ 111-17, pp. 190-202. Geoffroy de Monmouth, Histoire des rois de Bretagne, tr. Laurence Mathey-Maille (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1992), pp. 158-73. 3 La cote citée par L. A. Paton (à savoir XXIX), p. 35, est une cote très archaïque de la Marciana. La cote ancienne est LIV. La nouvelle cote est 243. 4 La Storia di Merlino di Paolino Pieri, éd. Ireneo Sanesi (Bergamo: Istituto italiano d’arti grafiche,1898). 5 Elle est présente à la Biblioteca Marciana. Cote: Cont. 768.3. 6 Une partie du texte de l’incunable, celle où il est question de Merlin, a été publiée par J. Ulrich sous le titre I due primi libri della istoria di Merlino (Bologna: G. Romagnoli, 1884). La fin de l’édition vénitienne de 1480 est la suivante: “Tracta e questa opera del Libro autentico del Magnifico Pietro Delphino. Fo del magnifico Messer Zorzi translatato de lingua francesse in lingua italiana, scripto nel anno del Signore 1379 a di 20 novembre in Venetia e stampato del 1480 a di primo fevraio, Ducante Joanne Mocenico, Pontifice vero Sixto Papa .IIII.”

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l’ancienne Vulgate Merlin,7 des années 1225-35, et une grande partie du texte des Prophéties de Merlin.8 Même chose dans le Merlin publié à Paris en 1498 par le grand imprimeur Vérard.9 L’incunable italien de 1480 est conservé à Londres à la British Library (deux exemplaires: IB 20892 et IB 20803) et à Milan à la Biblioteca Braidense (cote: AN XIII 18). Deux manuscrits, l’un à Parme dans la Biblioteca Palatina (Palatino 39), l’autre à Rome, à la Biblioteca Vaticana (Palatinus 949), contiennent un texte voisin. L’œuvre a été écrite en français, comme la chronique de Martin da Canal, de la même époque (elle date sans doute de 1275). Le français passait alors pour la langue la plus célèbre. Martin da Canal le déclare sans ambages au début de son texte, “Les Estoires de Venise: Et por ce que lengue franceise cort parmi le monde et est la plus delitable a lire et a oïr que nule autre, me sui entremis de translater l’anciene estoire des Veneciens de latin en français” (éd. A. Limentani [Firenze: L. S. Olschki, 1972], p. 2). Le lieu de fabrication du texte des Prophéties de Merlin semble assuré: c’est Venise. Il est fait mention plusieurs fois des Bons Mariniers, qui sont assurément les Vénitiens (par exemple, ch. LIII, p. 114), et aussi des illes de mer (p. 113). On a l’impression que ce dernier terme désigne les îles de la lagune. Les Vénitiens sont sans cesse couverts d’éloges. Par exemple, on nous dit que le corps de saint Samuel qui vivait en Egypte est rapporté dans la ville des Bons Mariniers (ch. CLI, p. 200). Notons au passage qu’il existe encore une église San Samuele à Venise. Tout au long du texte les Bons Mariniers sont considérés comme les meilleurs des hommes. Martin da Canale dans sa chronique vante lui aussi la noblesse des Vénitiens, leur prouesse, leur obéissance à Sainte Eglise (I, 1). Les Prophéties de Merlin précisent que les Bons Mariniers, conformément aux ordres du pape, conduisent les pèlerins en Terre Sainte vers Jésusalem (“[…] les bons Mariniers par le commandement de l’apostoille de Rome 7 The Vulgate Version of the Arthurian Romances, éd. H. Oskar Sommer, 8 tomes (Washington: Carnegie Institution, 1908-16), t. II, L’Estoire de Merlin, 1908. 8 On trouve à la Biblioteca Marciana l’édition de 1516 (cote: Rari V 398) et celle de 1539 (cote: 90 c 210). 9 Voir Catalogue of Books Printed in the XVth Century Now in the British Museum (London: British Museum, 1908-), Part VIII, France, French Speaking Switzerland, 1949, p. 87. Un exemplaire est à Chantilly.

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conduiront les pelerins de la mer es parties de Jérusalem,” ch. CCLXXVIII, p. 309). Il est fait mention aussi des possessions vénitiennes en Orient à la suite de la Croisade, qui est ici évidemment la quatrième croisade, celle de 1204, qui a abouti à la prise de Constantinople. Les allusions aux malheurs passés de l’Italie Signalons, d’abord, la présence du nom de Marche Amoureuse dans le texte (en raison de la vie courtoise qui a rendu célèbre la Marche de Trévise et des troubadours qui ont illustré les cours aristocratiques).10 Le chapitre XXXVIII rappelle une croyance selon laquelle après la chute de Troie des Troyens seraient venus prendre souche dans la Marche (sans le dire, l’auteur pense à Anténor, le fondateur présumé de Padoue).11Merlin déclare “dedens la Marche que l’en apele la Marche Amoureuse s’est herbergie la greignor gentilité [au sens de ‘noblesse’)12 qui onques issist de Troies, et pour ce que il furent nobles se herbergerent en cel lieu amoureus et que l’en ne set en tout le monde plus delitable” (éd. cit., p. 95). A maintes reprises l’auteur du texte fait dire à Merlin que désormais cet endroit est devenu un lieu de douleur, la Marche Dolereuse. Ainsi le chapitre IX s’intitule “Du grant dommage que aura le Marche Doloreuse dedens soy” (p. 66). D’autres passages utilisent la même dénomination en raison des sanglants conflits où se sont alors affrontés les Guelfes et les Gibelins. Observons que ni directement, ni sous un travestissement la ville de Bassano n’est citée dans le texte. On peut le comprendre. La ville qui fut le fief de la famille des Ezzelini a été peu attaquée et n’a jamais été occupée par des troupes étrangères tout au long de la vie d’Ezzelino. Les affrontements ont eu lieu ailleurs: à Vérone, à Padoue, à Vicenza, à Trévise, à Ferrare, par exemple. A la mort d’Ezzelino en 1259, quand 10 Citons Aimeric de Peguilhan (d’une famille issue d’un village près de SaintGaudens), parti à la cour du marquis d’Este peut-être entre 1220 et 1230; Uc de SaintCirc, sans doute originaire d’un lieu proche de Rocamadour, qui est allé à Trévise et y a composé maintes chansons entre 1220 et 1240; Guillem Figueira, jongleur toulousain parti lui aussi dans le pays de Trévise; Sordel, qui a passé un certain temps à Trévise auprès de la famille da Romano. 11 La légende d’Anténor arrivant de Troie à Venise est présente chez Tite Live (I, 1) et la fondation de Padoue par Anténor est évoquée par Virgile (Enéide, I, 242 et ss.). 12 Je corrige le texte imprimé où se trouve la mauvaise leçon soutilleté (p. 95).

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son frère Alberic s’enfuit dans son château de San Zeno, Bassano se rend à la puissance papale. Il est question une fois d’une attaque de Bassano par une armée de Padouans en 1228,13 une autre fois en 1256.14 Un faubourg est alors incendié. Mieux vaut pour la ville de Bassano de n’être pas citée: c’est le signe qu’elle n’a pas été prise d’assaut, que ses habitants n’ont pas été jetés en prison ou passés au fil de l’épée. Comme on sait, les gens heureux n’ont pas d’histoire. Le texte fait allusion au conflit de deux clans rivaux (les Guelfes, partisans de la papauté et opposés au pouvoir impérial, et les Gibelins, partisans de l’empereur et ennemis de la théocratie) dans les villes de la Marche, source de nombreux malheurs: “[…] tout li mondes empirera, dont chascune ville sera esgaree, et en seront fetes .II. parties en chescun lieu, dont presque la moitié des hommes dou siecle en mourra” (ch. XLV, p. 102). Il suffit de jeter un œil sur les Annali d’Italia rédigées d’après les chroniques du temps par le grand érudit Ludovico Muratori et d’ouvrir par exemple le tome VII qui va de 1171 à 1300 pour s’en rendre compte.15 Entre 1230 et 1250 les interventions et opérations militaires de l’empereur Frédéric II ont suscité des affrontements durables entre les deux factions et donné une force nouvelle aux partisans de l’empereur. Naturellement les Ezzelini, maîtres de Bassano et de diverses villes de la Marche, étaient des Gibelins. Quelques villes importantes de la Marche sont présentées de manière allusive dans le texte. Il est question de Vérone appelée Marinor dans le chapitre LXX (p. 130)–, mauvaise lecture pour Marmor, Verone étant la ville du marbre. Le voyageur moderne le constate encore: le marbre rose est partout sur le sol des rues. Un jeune dragon y sera nourri, nous dit le texte. Comprenons qu’il s’agit ici d’Ezzelino, donné en otage à l’âge de cinq ans en 1198 au Podestat de Vérone par son père, seigneur de Bassano. Vérone est la première ville dont Ezzelino s’est ensuite emparé. En 1225 selon la chronique du Liber Regiminum Padue les Montecchi 13

Cronica Marchie Trivixiane, éd. Giosué Carducci et Vittorio Fiorini (Città di Castello, 1907), p. 36. 14 Voir la solide étude d’Ottone Brentari, Storia di Bassano (Bassano: Stabilimento tipografico Sante Pozzato, 1884), p. 124. 15 J’utilise l’édition des Annali d’Italia, 12 tomes, faite à Monaco (Agostino Olzati, 1761-74), aux portes de Nice, t. VII (1171-1300), 1763.

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chassent de la cité Rizardo, comte de San Bonifazio, et Ezzelino III en devient le maître (L. A. Paton, op. cit., p. 107). L’action de l’empereur Frédéric est évoquée. Le chapitre VII dit que la “Marche Dolereuse sera achaptee par roetes d’argent” (p. 63, titre du chapitre). Les roetes, “les petites roues” désignent assurément des pièces de monnaie (elles sont rondes comme des petites roues). Le texte condamne alors l’argent dépensé par Frédéric II pour se constituer des affidés. Il est surtout question dans le texte de manière voilée d’Ezzelino da Romano. Il est dit qu’en 1238 le “felon seigneur de la Marche sera sanz pitié, sanz reson, sanz Dieu, sans le monde [nous soulignons; cette dernière leçon n’est pas claire], si sera si crueus [E. Brugger a justement suggéré de corriger en cremus ‘craint’)16 de toute sa saignorie comme foudre” (p. 63). La chronique, écrite par un Guelfe, est évidemment très hostile à Ezzelino. Le problème se retrouve dans presque toutes les chroniques latines du temps. Elles ont été rédigées par des hommes d’Eglise, donc favorables au parti du Pape. Dès lors elles présentent leurs adversaires comme des monstres. Il y a peut-être quelque excès dans ces jugements partisans. Ezzelino en 1238 se trouve en possession de Padoue. Les chroniques soulignent la violence des suppôts de l’empereur. Ainsi le Chronicon Marchiae Tarvisinae et Lombardiae, (éds. Giosué Carducci et Vittorio Fiorini [Città di Castello: S. Lapi, 1916]) affirme qu’en 1237, lorsqu’Ezzelino devient le maître de Padoue, il remet à Frédéric II des nobles de la cité (optimates), que l’empereur envoie “in Apuliam, in duris caveis subterraneis, ubi ex magna parte miserabiliter perierunt” (p. 12). Le texte qualifie Ezzelino de nequissimus et de draco venenonus (p. 22). La Cronica Marchie Trivixiane de Roland de Padoue (Rolandi Patavini), éditée par les mêmes érudits (Città di Castello, 1907), donne maints exemples de violences. Elle énumère d’année en année de nombreuses arrestations, morts, assassinats. Par exemple en 1256 elle nous dit qu’Ezzelino fait emprisonner à Vérone 11000 hommes de Padoue (le chiffre semble hyperbolique), qui sont assassinés ou qui meurent dans leurs geôles (p. 203). Le titre d’un chapitre de la même 16 “Kritische Bemerkungen zu Lucy Allen Paton’s Ausgabe der Prophecies Merlin des Maistre Richart d’Irlande,” Zeitschrift für französische Sprache und Literatur, 60 (1937), 213-23, ici p. 213.

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chronique est révélateur: “De morte multorum in Padua et in Verona” (p. 106). Les malheurs de la Marche au temps des deux grands adversaires, Ezzelino et Azzo d’Este, sont évoqués. Le texte ne prononce pas une fois le nom d’Ezzelino, mais il fait sans cesse allusion à lui. Le chapitre XI rappelle que les tours fortifiées ont été abattues “par l’orgueilleus seigneur sans pitié et sanz debonereté” (ch. XI, p. 67). Il est parlé de Padoue, appelée “mestre cité de la marche […] qui est apelee Pataine” (ch. X, p. 67), soumise au pouvoir d’Ezzelino. Il est fait mention aussi de la trahison de Brescia, en août 1258, qui jusqu’alors était du parti du pape et qui s’est rendue sans combattre à Ezzelino, venu l’assiéger (ch. CCCXXII, p. 336). Martin da Canale juge aussi sévèrement la remise de la ville à Ezzelino. Les gens de Brescia eurent à s’en repentir, car leur nouveau maître n’hésita pas à les punir. Merlin prédit qu’Ezzelino périra en moins de trois ans à partir de 1258. Il sera vite châtié, annonce le texte: “et celui qui en saisine en sera le comperra mout chier avant que trois ans soient passés, que de par l’Apostoile en sera la vengeance prise” (p. 336). De fait, Ezzelino est mortellement blessé en septembre 1259 à la suite de la croisade dirigée contre lui par le pape. Il avait vainement tenté de reprendre Padoue, dont ses hommes avaient été chassés. Les gens de Mantoue et des villes lombardes triomphèrent. Le chapitre LXXIV (“Du roy de Patanie qui sera occiz,” p. 133) fait allusion à sa disparition. C’est Ezzelino qui est appelé railleusement “le roi de Padoue” (le roy de Patanie). Ses hommes et lui-même sont, d’ailleurs, par moquerie qualifiés de paiens de la région de Padoue (poien de Patanie). Il est aussi question de Trévise dans le texte. La ville est désignée par une périphrase. Elle est appelée la ville “qui departie sera en senefiance de son non en trois parties” (ch. XCVI, p. 147). Nous avons affaire à un jeu de mots étymologique: Trévise signifierait pour l’auteur la ville aux trois parties. En fait, Trévise n’a jamais été divisée en trois parties distinctes, ni partagée entre trois factions hostiles.17 Elle s’est tour à tour rendue à Ezzelino en 1239, puis à son adversaire Azzo d’Este. Alberico da Romano, seigneur de Bassano, brouillé avec son frère, s’est uni aux adversaires du parti impérial et a pris Trévise 17

Sur les événements voir Muratori, pp. 233, 247, 322, 339.

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en 1239. Il doit la défendre contre Ezzelino, qui essaie de la reconquérir en 1256. Les deux frères se réconcilient ensuite. A la mort d’Ezzelino, une expédition conduite par les Vénitiens oblige Alberico à fuir à San Zeno, et elle s’empare assez aisément de la ville. De loin en loin on trouve donc dans les Prophéties de Merlin diverses allusions aux événements de la Marche de Trévise dans le deuxième tiers du XIIIe siècle. La fabrication de l’hermétisme Il faut toujours des obscurités dans une œuvre qui prétend être une prophétie politique et religieuse, une histoire de la fin des temps. Nostradamus, l’auteur des Centuries astrologiques (1555), agit de la même façon au XVIe siècle. Plusieurs procédés sont utilisés par l’auteur du texte. 1) D’abord “la technique du mélange,” provoquant un effet de trouble, de confusion, d’incertitude et visant à créer une première obscurité. Mélange d’anecdotes exemplaires, comme le chapitre XXXIV (“De la royne de Tarsie qui montera sur ung mauvais pallefroy,” p. 91), de références à la littérature arthurienne (par exemple le chapitre LXII, “De Merlin qui parla à la Dame du Lac”), d’obscures évocations des événements du temps (chapitre LXIX “De la guerre de Lombardie,” p. 128), d’annonces de calamités s’abattant sur des pays entiers, tel le titre du chapitre LXIII (“De la famine qui sera en Angleterre. Et quant le Dragon de Babiloine18 naistra ne seront veues nulles estoilles au ciel, et de la mer d’Escoce et de Logres qui sechera”). 2) Le “désordre de la composition,” faite d’un entassement d’éléments hétéroclites, contribue à l’opacité de l’œuvre. Le titre des premiers chapitres le montre bien. Enumérons-les avec quelques commentaires: I. “De l’apostole de Romme qui sera noiés en mer.” Bref récit d’un pape à venir qui quittera Rome au temps du Dragon de Babilloine, c’est-à-dire l’Antéchrist, qui se réfugiera dans une île et qu’un des auxiliaires du Dragon fera périr en mer.

18

Le Dragon de Babylone est une figure de l’Antéchrist.

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II. “Du roi d’Illande qui fera ardoir tous ceus qui devers le menistre du Dragon se tendront.” Quelques lignes sont consacrées à un roi d’Irlande, qui voudra faire brûler tous les partisans de l’Antéchrist, mais un miracle divin éteindra le feu, car Dieu ne veut pas la mort du pécheur. III. “De la damoiselle de Galles qui vint en la chambre ou Merlin estoit.” Cette jeune femme aura un enfant dans un délai d’un an. Son fils deviendra roi d’un pays appelé Bellistan. Il sera couronné par le roi Arthur et la dame sera épousée par le roi d’Irlande. Aucune continuité ne relie ces prédictions disparates. Cela contribue à l’effet de brouillage voulu par l’auteur. 3) Un point très remarquable dans la fabrication du texte: l’importance des références arthuriennes. Une masse considérable de courts chapitres concerne des personnages ou des motifs arthuriens. Il est question, par exemple des conquêtes du roi Arthur,19 de Perceval que l’on voit dans diverses aventures,20 de la Dame du Lac, qui finit par enfermer Merlin dans une tombe dont il ne peut sortir,21 du lignage du roi Pelinor, dont descendra un chevalier qui achèvera la Quête du Saint Graal,22 etc. Le narrateur procède comme si ses auditeurs connaissaient parfaitement la matière arthurienne. Cette technique allusive relève sans doute du désir de créer une certaine opacité. L’auteur a lu le corpus du Lancelot-Graal, mais aussi le Tristan en prose (par exemple il parle de la Roche aux Senes, p. 122), la Suite du Merlin, Guiron le Courtois. Ses lectures étaient vastes. Il serait intéressant de savoir s’il connaissait les versions italiennes: la Tavola Ritonda, le Tristano Riccardiano ou le Tristano Veneto. Des recherches seraient à conduire à ce sujet. Une question se pose au sujet de toutes ces références arthuriennes. Si l’on croit que l’auteur des Prophéties de Merlin est un franciscain comme l’a soutenu L. A. Paton,23 comment peut-il se faire que ce 19

Voir le ch. LV, p. 116. Voir chs. CLXXXV-CLCCCVI, pp. 231-32; ch. CCXXIV, p. 265; chs. CCXXXI-CCXXXIII, pp. 270-71; ch. CCXXXIX, p. 278; ch. CCXLVIII, p. 286; ch. CCLXXXIII, p. 313; chs. CCLIX-CCLX, pp. 294-95. 21 Voir chs. CXX-CXXXI, pp. 162-72. 22 Voir ch. CXCII, p. 236. 23 T. II, pp. 222-28. Elle s’appuie sur les motifs de la corruption des prélats, de la purification de l’Eglise, de l’arrivée de l’Antéchrist. A vrai dire, les deux premiers ne sont pas fréquents. Elle fait valoir que le seul texte à citer les Prophéties de Merlin est 20

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religieux ait passé tant de temps à lire des romans arthuriens? Par ailleurs, il fait des remontrances aux hommes de son temps, y compris, le cas échéant, aux hommes d’Eglise et à la papauté. L’hypothèse avancée, selon laquelle les matériaux arthuriens seraient une addition ultérieure, une interpolation, semble une trop habile esquive, que rien ne justifie. L’écrivain, d’autre part, connaît bien le français. C’est un homme cultivé. Contentons-nous d’observer le fait, sans prétendre apporter ici d’explication à ce problème complexe et difficile. 4) “Dissimulation du nom des lieux” La pratique de l’énigme est constante. Parfois subsiste l’initiale du mot: “De la cité .M. qui aura non .V. la doulereuse” (p. 93). Le lecteur doit deviner qu’il s’agit de Vérone, appelée à l’origine Marmor, la ville du marbre. Autre exemple: le texte parle des gens de “.V.V.V.” et de “P”. Il s’agit des gens de Vérone et de Padoue, qui finiront par échapper au pouvoir d’Ezzelino. Ailleurs un chapitre (ch. LVI, p. 117) nous informe qu’une guerre commencera en 1257 entre “ceulx de Ou et ceulx de Pou.” Le jeu sur les toponymes pourvus de la même désinence est manifeste. Ici nous sommes en pleine fiction. En effet, si l’on regarde les événements de l’année 1257 dans les Annali d’Italia de Muratori (t. VII, pp. 325-29) on ne voit rien de semblable. En cette année Ezzelino réside à Verone. Il met à sac la région de Mantoue. Padoue lui a échappé depuis juin 1256. Il est impossible de croire que Pou puisse désigner Padoue. Une géographie imaginaire est parfois présente. 5) Le “recours aux périphrases” L’emploi de périphrases et d’allusions appartient aussi à l’écriture du texte. Ainsi le personnage appelé “le champion qui mourra en contumace” (ch. LXXXVI, p. 142), désigne assurément Frédéric II. L’auteur fait référence aux diverses excommunications lancées par les

celui d’un auteur franciscain, Thomas le Toscan. Elle croit que le texte des Prophéties (pp. 95-110) mentionne le fameux prédicateur franciscain allemand Berthold de Regensburg lorsqu’il est question de l’evesque Bertous d’Alemaigne. On doit remarquer, toutefois, que le personnage est maltraité dans le texte, car on le raille. Elle suggère que l’auteur a pu être un des frères du monastère franciscain de la petite île de San Francesco del Deserto, où une communauté s’est établie à partir de 1228 (p. 226). Elle considère que le rédacteur devait être un des Zelanti, mais d’esprit modéré, un homme semblable à Salimbene, et non un Spirituel ardent et révolté contre l’Eglise de son temps.

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papes contre lui en 1227, en 1228, en 1239 enfin, sans parler de la sentence de déposition de l’empire en 1245. Charles d’Anjou, vainqueur en Toscane, serait désigné (s’il s’agit bien de lui) par l’expression “le fils du champion à la tête d’or” (“li fius du champion au chief d’or,” ch. CLXXVI, p. 222). La tête d’or semble une image de la couronne royale. Charles d’Anjou, favorable au Souverain Pontife, aidé par la papauté, est, en effet, couronné roi de Pouille et de Sicile en 1266. 6) “L’annonce obscure et répétée d’épouvantables calamités” Il est sans cesse question dans le texte de fléaux, de désastres, de cataclysmes cosmiques. Guerres redoutables sur terre, entraînant des destructions de villes: “[…] sera commencie une guerre es parties des François, dont toutes les villes seront essillies” (ch. LXXV, p. 134). Extermination des humains: “[…] il en morra de mort plus de .II. C. mile hommes” (ibid., p. 134). De terribles perturbations affectent les éléments naturels: la terre cesse d’être solide et engloutit les hommes, l’eau se déchaîne en affreuses tempêtes, l’air tourbillonne et prend forme d’effrayants ouragans, des fumées pestilentielles sortent des eaux marines (ch. LII, p. 112), des pluies diluviennes tombent du ciel (ch. CCXV, p. 255), des raz-de-marée engloutissent les rivages (ch. CCXC, p. 316), les mers se dessèchent (ibid., p. 123). Les incendies, et notamment les grands feux nés de la foudre, sont assez fréquemment évoqués (par exemple ch. CLXII, p. 209, où le feu céleste brûle tout, y compris la terre et la mer jusque dans leurs profondeurs les plus secrètes, “jusques en abisme”). La tradition apocalyptique Le texte des Prophéties de Merlin s’inscrit assurément dans le courant de la littérature apocalyptique.24 L’idée de décadence est fréquente dans les Prophéties de Merlin. Le texte emploie 24 Sur l’influence, réelle ou prétendue, de Joachim de Flore sur la littérature courtoise voir Eugène Anitchkoff, Joachim de Flore et les milieux courtois (Paris: Droz, 1932; rpt. Genève: Slatkine, 1974). Sur le courant apocalyptique voir, par exemple, R. K. Emerson, The Antichrist in the Middle Ages (Seattle, WA.: Univ. of Washington Press, 1981); Cl. Carozzi, La fin des temps (Paris: Stock, 1982); W. Verbeke, The Use and Abuse of Eschatology (Louvain: Presses Universitaires de Louvain, 1988).

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constamment le mot empirer. Ainsi le titre du chapitre CXLVI: “Quant les gens yront en empirant, ausi feront toutes choses” (p. 194). L’auteur estime que tout se dégrade. La dégénérescence de l’univers tient, à ses yeux, aux péchés commis par les hommes, à leur absence de piété et de religion. D’où la colère divine qui s’abat sur les mortels. Présence de païens, ennemis de la vraie foi, existence d’hérétiques appelés mescreans (ch. CLXXV, p. 120), manœuvres du diable en ce bas monde (ch. XXVI, p. 85), autant de thèmes inquiétants. Le Jugement final (le Juise, ch. XXX, p. 88) est évidemment mentionné, car le motif de la fin des temps est traditionnel dans la littérature apocalyptique. Pour l’auteur, le soleil et la lune cesseront de tourner dans le ciel (ch. CCCVII, p. 326). L’ordre cosmique sera brisé. A plusieurs reprises il est question du Dragon symbolisant l’Antéchrist. L’auteur prend un plaisir malsain (c’est sans doute de l’humour noir) à peindre la méchanceté du Dragon, les morts qu’il provoque. Un des derniers chapitres du texte rappelle sa mauvaise nature: “Et li Dragon de Babilloine sera si aspre et si felon et si cruel et si mauvés que nus ne pourra durer encontre lui” (ch. CCCXXVI, p. 338). Le personnage du dragon est un lieu commun de la littérature apocalyptique. Dans le livre des Prophéties de Merlin, son apparition annonce la fin des temps. Certes saint Michel mettra à mort ledit dragon (ch. XXXVI, p. 93). Mais les derniers temps du monde seront épouvantables. Notre auteur ne renonce jamais au climat fantastique et terrifiant qu’il a créé. L’auteur s’inspire-t-il en partie des idées de Joachim de Flore, ce moine calabrais (1132-1202) qui joua un rôle important comme prophète et visionnaire, avant que ses idées fussent condamnées au concile du Latran en 1215 pour ses vues sur la Trinité, puis en 1235 pour le scandale de l’Evangile éternel, tiré de ses œuvres? Mieux vaut penser aux continuateurs de Joachim, qui ont été nombreux au XIIIe siècle. Nous disposons, parmi bien d’autres travaux, sur la pensée prophétique de Joachim et sur les développements nouveaux apportés au cours des siècles d’une excellente étude de Marjorie Reeves.25 Grâce à elle on peut faire la distinction entre les visions de Joachim et celles de ses continuateurs. 25

The Influence of Prophecy in the Later Middle Ages: A Study in Joachimism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969).

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A côté des œuvres authentiques de Joachim plusieurs textes lui ont été faussement attribués: ainsi les Prophéties de la Sibylle d’Erythrée (Vaticinium Sibillae Erithreae), datées du milieu du XIIIe siècle, ou encore un Commentaire sur les Sibylles et sur Merlin (Expositio abbatis Joachimi super Sibillis et Merlino), qui serait des environs de 1254, ainsi que d’autres vaticinations.26 Nous ne trouvons pas d’idées hérétiques dans les Prophéties de Merlin en ancien français.27 Le texte reste parfaitement orthodoxe. L’auteur inconnu ne se présente pas comme un révolutionnaire. Il ne veut pas substituer un nouvel Evangile à l’Evangile traditionnel. Il ne condamne pas l’Eglise comme institution. Il critique de loin en loin quelques excès commis par la curie romaine. Mais il reste profondément fidèle à la tradition chrétienne. M. Reeves consacre un chapitre entier à la “Popular Reputation” de Joachim au cours du XIIIe siècle (pp. 71-75). On a cru que Joachim, inspiré par l’esprit prophétique (prophetico dotatus spirito), avait annoncé qu’un empereur de l’empire romain germanique mourrait excommunié, sans les sacrements de l’Eglise, tel un être engendré par le démon (recte dici potest daemonis filius).28 La plupart des lecteurs du XIIIe siècle ont appliqué spontanément cette annonce à l’empereur Frédéric II. Un point de ressemblance entre notre texte et l’œuvre de Joachim de Flore revue par ses successeurs, les Zelanti: les jugements portés sur le clergé. Les Prophéties de Merlin ne portent pas aux nues les hommes d’Eglise. De temps en temps elles dénoncent leurs fautes. Il est fait mention en plusieurs passages du goût du clergé pour l’argent, de la simonie, du népotisme, des injustices de la Curie romaine. Parfois les appétits sexuels des ecclésiastiques sont relevés (ch. CII, ch. CCXLIV, etc.). Les cardinaux sont appelés par métaphore les tireors de cordes ( ch. XI, p. 68, etc.). La version italienne précise bien que le personnage 26 Il existe des textes latins qui s’intitulent Tractatus de Antichristo et de fine mundi ou bien Liber de magnis tribulationibus. Voir le ms. Lat. III, 177 (nouvelle cote: 2176) de la Biblioteca Marciana. Ce dernier se trouve à la suite des prédictions de Joachim et se prétend rédigé par Merlin (collectus ex vaticiniis prophetarum Dandali et Merlini). 27 Le problème se pose pour les prophéties latines attribuées à Merlin. Il serait utile de les examiner: par exemple à Venise deux mss. de la Biblioteca Marciana (ancienne cote lat. XIV, CCLXXI = nouvelle cote 4577 et ancienne cote lat. III, CLXXVI = nouvelle cote 2176). Leur texte est différent des Prophéties en ancien français. 28 M. Reeves, p. 75.

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appelé uno di tiradori di corde est un évêque devenu cardinale. L’image de la corde fait allusion, non point aux cloches, mais sans doute aux cordons de la bourse, donc à la cupidité. Ajoutons que la notion d’Antéchrist est un élément important de la tradition joachimite. Pour Joachim de Flore il y aura plusieurs venues de l’Antéchrist, incarnation des forces du mal. La principale précèdera le dernier temps du monde, l’Age spirituel. Parfois au XIIIe siècle Frédéric II a été considéré comme un Antéchrist. N’est-il pas mort excommunié et sans repentance?29 Des textes prophétiques le soutiennent. Les inquiétudes des contemporains s’y manifestent. L’étude de Franz Kampers, Kaiserprophetieen und Kaisersagen (München: H. Lüneburg, 1895) fait place à Frédéric II (pp. 107-44). Les Prophéties de Merlin ne disent pas clairement que l’empereur soit un Antéchrist, mais elles le laissent entendre. Concluons en quelques mots. Les Prophéties de Merlin constituent une œuvre bizarre, unique dans toute la tradition arthurienne. Il est évident que la personnalité d’Ezzelino da Romano, le seigneur de la Marche, est profondément antipathique à l’auteur. Il blâme les violences qui se sont multipliées de 1225, date de la prise de Ferrare par Ezzelino et ses partisans, jusqu’à 1260, fin de la dynastie. Tout est mêlé dans cette œuvre: mise en cause du pouvoir impérial, critiques de la papauté et de l’âpreté au gain des cardinaux. Mais il est clair que le texte prend constamment parti pour les Guelfes et condamne leurs adversaires. Le narrateur inconnu se plaît à inventer une fantasmagorie d’horribles malheurs. Il a l’imagination fertile, le goût du macabre, le désir de prédire des destructions et des exterminations. Très peu de sourires dans ce long ensemble. La terre ressemble à un enfer. L’avenir s’annonce épouvantable. L’auteur prend un plaisir, peut-être malsain, a évoquer malheurs et calamités. Le conteur laisse vagabonder son imagination. Les allusions aux événements de la Marche de Trévise semblent donc enfouies dans un amalgame fantastique, dans un ensemble de fictions tourmentées et désordonnées. Mais elles laissent apparaître, toutefois, des souvenirs précis des terribles affrontements des Guelfes et des Gibelins. Telle est l’atmosphère complexe de cette œuvre fiévreuse et curieuse. Malgré 29

Muratori, p. 295.

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ses répétitions et parfois ses faiblesses d’écriture, elle mérite de retenir l’attention des chercheurs et du grand public cultivé. Elle appartient au patrimoine commun de la France et de l’Italie.

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Le miracle et les gués de l’aubépine: signe de salut et seuils de l’aventure dans la matière de France et de Bretagne u soir du désastre de Roncevaux, l’empereur Charlemagne de retour pour la seconde fois sur les lieux du drame laisse éclater sa douleur et s’apitoie longuement sur la dépouille de son neveu Roland. Alors que son entourage observe la scène dans un silence pesant, l’empereur exprime son dégoût de la vie. Rapidement toutefois, tant pour faire diversion à une déploration si poignante que pour le rappeler à son devoir de chef de l’armée, Geoffroi d’Anjou interrompt ces pensées mortifères en lui faisant cette suggestion: “Par tut le camp faites querre les noz / Que cil d’Espaigne en la bataille unt mort; / En un carnel cumandez qu’hom les port” (2947-49). Bientôt, des ordres sont donnés et, si l’on excepte les dépouilles de Roland, Olivier et Turpin qui seront ramenées en France, les chevaliers chrétiens tombés “au champ d’honneur” sont assez rapidement enterrés sur place. La tâche pourtant n’était pas mince eu égard à l’état du champ de bataille où les 20000 morts de l’arrière-garde française étaient entremêlés à plus de 4000 Sarrasins (1685 et 587). Cette relation–on l’aura aisément reconnue–suit la version du manuscrit d’Oxford de la Chanson de Roland.1 Or, il en va tout autrement dans la tradition des Rolands rimés (à partir de 1150-60 et après selon les différentes versions). Après la défaite, l’empereur se résigne à enterrer les corps des chevaliers chrétiens afin de leur éviter d’être profanés par les animaux sauvages qui rôdent aux alentours. Mais dans ce champ de carnage où, dans une vision d’horreur, les cadavres des guerriers français se mêlent indistinctement à ceux des Sarrasins une question–question d’ordre tout pratique–se pose cette fois, soulevée par l’entourage de l’empereur: “Coment les sevreron?” (ms. Venise 7, 6176).2 Face à cette situation délicate, Charles, selon son habitude, s’en remet à Dieu 1

Éd. Ian Short (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1990). Ed. Joseph J. Duggan. Je remercie vivement ce dernier de m’avoir permis d’utiliser le texte encore inédit de son édition destinée à remplacer celle de Raoul Mortier. 2

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et à la prière: “que nos en face voire division” (6182), “Faites sevrance de la gent Apolin / que crestïen conoissom le chemin” (6209-10). Comme à l’accoutumée, Dieu ne fait pas défaut à son fidèle serviteur, mais il lui prodigue cette fois son aide en effectuant un miracle peu ordinaire: La voix del ciel li tramist saint Martin3 qui en sevra le legnage Chaïm, car sor chascun fist croistre un albespin. Encore les voient li gentil pelerin qui a Saint Jaque en vont le droit chemin. (6211-15)

Un sort bien différent attend en revanche les cadavres des Infidèles: “De Sarracins n’i pot un sol coisir / car Deus les fist espines devenir,4 / poignant et aspres, si ne pöent florir” (6220-22). Après cette séparation miraculeuse par des “marqueurs” végétaux verdoyants ou stériles commence le travail peu ragoûtant du creusement des charniers, fosses communes où les corps des chrétiens sont déposés par groupes de soixante ou cent (6228-29). Et Dieu, dans son immense bonté pour ses fidèles, va faire un nouveau miracle végétal en faisant pousser des 3 On aura peut-être remarqué dans la relation du miracle des aubépines la présence insolite de saint Martin comme médiateur entre Dieu et l’empereur. Dans une laisse à rimes en “in” (326), l’association “Martin / albespin” pourrait certes relever d’une simple question de versification, mais certains éléments réunis par Philippe Walter, “L’épine ou l’arbre-fée,” PRIS-MA, 5 (1989), 95-108, pp. 103-04, m’incitent à croire qu’elle fait partie d’une tradition qui présente le saint comme un “maître des arbres” (cf. ch. 13 de la Vie de saint Martin de Sulpice Sévère, dialogue entre Iseut et Marc dans le Tristan de Béroul: “Sire, estïez vos donc el pin? / –Oïl, dame, par saint Martin!,” 475-76). On peut encore ajouter d’autres indices qui vont dans ce sens. Notons d’abord que l’anecdote tirée de Sulpice Sévère fut reprise par Jacques de Voragine pour montrer précisément que “les végétaux lui obéissaient aussi” (La légende dorée, tr. J.-B. M. Roze [Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1967], t. 2, p. 339). La tradition populaire a quant à elle conservé l’association plus particulière entre le saint et l’aubépine. Dans la région d’Auxey, on raconte que saint Martin ayant enfoncé son bâton dans la montagne, celui-ci donna naissance à un ébeaupin (nom régional de l’aubépin) (Albert Colombet, La Côte-d’Or mythologique [Dijon, L’Arche d’Or, s.d.], p. 14). Eugène Rolland signale par ailleurs qu’un peu partout en France les cenelles (fruits de l’aubépine) sont appelées “pommes de Saint-Martin,” tandis qu’on les appelle “poires de Saint-Martin” dans certains départements compris entre l’Aisne et la Savoie (Flore populaire ou histoire naturelle des plantes [Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, 1967], t. 5, pp. 154-55). 4 Var. ms. Châteauroux: “car Deus les fist en spines devenir.”

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coudres “belles et droites, fresches et verdoiant, / qui a toz jor i sunt aparissant” (6257-58). Une fois coupés, ces arbustes vont servir à confectionner les civières sur lesquelles seront placés les corps de Roland et d’Olivier (6259-60) qui seront emportés de Roncevaux en France. Tels sont les événements extraordinaires, empreints à la fois de tragique et de merveilleux, que l’on peut résumer sous le nom de “miracle des aubépines et des ronces.” Absent de la version d’Oxford de la Chanson de Roland et du Pseudo-Turpin, ce miracle figure avec quelques variantes dans les versions rimées du Roland français,5 dans la Karlamagnús saga (ch. 40),6 dans Karlmeinet (p. 756, 491, 34ss)7 et dans Karl der Grosse du Stricker (10851ss).8 Philippe Mousket mentionne encore une version de ce miracle dans sa Chronique rimée (qui s’arrête en l’an 1243):9 Quar à cascuns Francois asist Une aubespine florisant; Et li paien furent gisant Lait et hideus, et sor cascun Ot I sek arbre noir et brun. (8617-21) 5

Cf. Les textes de la Chanson de Roland, éd. Raoul Mortier, 10 tomes (Paris: Édition de la Geste Francor, 1940-44), ms. de Châteauroux, t. 4, laisses 335-36; ms. de Paris, t. 6, 255-56; ms. de Cambridge, t. 7, 229-30, ms. de Lyon, t. 8, 116-17. Le miracle est en revanche absent du ms. Venise 4 (cf. t. 2, laisses 283-84). 6 Dans la Karlamagnús saga (ch. 40), c’est Nemes (Naimes) qui suggère à l’empereur de prier Dieu afin qu’Il distingue les corps. Ce n’est que le lendemain matin que les Francs constatent que des buissons recouvrent à présent complètement le corps des Sarrasins, tandis que ceux des chrétiens sont toujours visibles. Il n’y donc pas directement de “miracle des aubépines” dans cette version. Les corps de Roland et des Douze Pairs sont ensuite emportés à Arsis (Arles) sur des brancards, sans qu’il y ait eu auparavant de “miracle des coudres” (Karlamagnús Saga: The Saga of Charlemagne and his Heroes, tr. Constance B. Hieatt, 3 vols. [Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1975-80], vol. 3, parties v-x, pp. 283-84). Dans le Ronsasvals occitan, c’est un lion surgi suite aux prières des Francs qui distingue les chrétiens en les frappant de sa patte (1675-81); voir Gérard Gouiran et Robert Lafont, éds., Le Roland occitan: Roland à Saragosse; Ronsasvals, 10/18 (Paris: C. Bourgois, 1991), p. 240. 7 Référence citée d’après Jules Horrent, La Chanson de Roland dans les littératures française et espagnole au moyen âge, (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1951), p. 188, n. 1. 8 Karl der Grosse von dem Stricker, éd. Karl Bartsch (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter & Co, 1965). 9 Chronique rimée de Philippe Mouskes, éd. Baron de Reiffenberg, 2 tomes (Bruxelles: M. Hayez, 1836), t. 1, p. 338.

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Arbre de mort donc, mais aussi arbre d’élection divine, l’aubépine (spina alba) “carolingienne” est le signe qui concrétise la promesse réitérée de salut faite aux guerriers français par l’archevêque Turpin (lassie 89, 1134-35 et laisse 113, 1478-80) et qui ouvre aux chrétiens un Au-delà qui ne peut qu’être identifié avec le Paradis céleste, le jardin d’Eden dont la porte leur est désormais rouverte par le sang du martyre.10 L’association de l’aubépine avec la double notion de martyre et de salut devait être solidement ancrée dans la tradition chrétienne occidentale, puisque dès le Ve siècle Marcellus Empiricus, médecin de Bordeaux, indiquait que la couronne du Christ crucifié était faite d’épine blanche surnommée aussi salutaris herba (Rolland, p. 143). Force est néanmoins de constater que le miracle des aubépines et des ronces n’a connu qu’une faveur limitée. Tard venu dans la tradition du Roland, il n’a jamais réussi véritablement à s’imposer comme motif complet dans d’autres épopées. Quelles raisons peut-on mettre en avant pour expliquer cet “échec”? On a vu que pour la scène d’enterrement des morts de Roncevaux, le plus vieux Roland faisait le choix du réalisme et la présentait sans complication aucune. De même, dans la Chanson d’Aiquin (ca. 1170-90), c’est encore le réalisme qui prévaut. Face à une situation similaire, les hommes de Charlemagne se livrent à un simple “tri manuel” sur le champ de bataille: “Isnellement ont lours gens desevré, / D’ovec paens ont crestïens osté. / Le roy fist ung charnier bien oupvré” (1062-64).11 Pourquoi les Roland rimés font-ils donc le choix du miracle chrétien? Il n’est guère facile de répondre avec certitude à cette question. On peut s’en tirer à peu de frais en parlant de tendance à la surenchère au miracle dans les Roland rimés. De manière plus intéressante, Rita Lejeune et Jacques

10

L’association sacramentelle positive de l’aubépine avec la mort était encore perçue à la fin du XIXe siècle, comme l’atteste une coutume de la région de Bar-leDuc (vers 1898). En cas d’orage, on devait saisir une branche d’aubépine en main en récitant la formule suivante: “Aubépine, je te prends, / Que si la mort me surprend / Dans la maison ou dans les champs / Tu me serves de sacrement” (Rolland, p. 160). Là encore, l’aubépine s’avère être l’arbre de la “bonne mort.” 11 Aiquin, ou, La Conquête de la Bretagne par le roi Charlemagne, éd. Francis Jacques, Senefiance 8 (Aix-en-Provence: CUERMA, 1979).

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Stiennon12 ont suggéré que le miracle aurait eu pour objectif d’expliquer le nom de Rencesvals.13 Il faut néanmoins admettre que, si tel est bien le cas, la tentative fut plutôt maladroite, puisqu’il est question dans le miracle d’albespins et d’espines et que le nom de Rencesvals interprété en “Val des ronces”14 conserverait plutôt le souvenir des épines liées aux païens que des aubépines des martyrs chrétiens. En revanche, il est clair que le jongleur, selon un procédé herméneutique en boucle, utilise la présence réelle d’aubépines montrées aux pèlerins sur le lieu de la bataille (cf. 6214-15) pour servir de preuve à la véracité du “miracle des aubépines et des ronces.” Motif tardif, apparemment mal conçu, voire “inutile,” le miracle des aubépines et des ronces s’est néanmoins perpétué, à l’image d’un greffon débile et mal assuré, à travers les avatars mutilés de quelques récits épiques ou populaires. C’est ainsi qu’on le retrouve–amputé– dans une légende de Quarré-les-Tombes dans l’Yonne mentionnée en 1854 par l’abbé Jacques-Félix Baudiau. Curieusement, ce dernier entrelace à ce sujet ce qu’il appelle une “vieille tradition populaire” et un miracle rapporté par le remanieur anonyme du Girart de Roussillon en alexandrins daté entre 1330 et 1334, comme si elles étaient complémentaires. Or, il n’en est rien: aussi bien les protagonistes que les motifs narratifs diffèrent profondément. Les deux récits ont toutefois en commun d’“expliquer” la présence insolite des très nombreux sarcophages de pierre15 qui se trouvent au pied de l’église

12

La légende de Roland dans l’art du Moyen Age, 2 tomes (Bruxelles: Arcade, 1966), t. 1, pp. 236-37. 13 Selon P. Raymond, le toponyme Rencesvals est le résultat d’un processus linguistique assez complexe. Il s’agirait au départ d’un toponyme basque qui aurait été par la suite latinisé et romanisé (Rozaballes dans la Nota Emilianense, Rosçabal au XIIe siècle), puis déformé et réinterprété par étymologie populaire sous l’effet de l’attraction de “ronces” < rumices (cf. Dámaso Alonso, Primavera Temprana de la Literatura Europeana [Madrid: Ed. Guadarrama, 1961], pp. 148-51). Ces observations de nature linguistique et légendaire s’accordent avec l’opinion de Jules Horrent, p. 188, qui conclut que la présence de ce miracle dans la deuxième scène funéraire des versions rimées et scandinave du Roland ne plaide guère en faveur de son ancienneté dans la tradition épique. 14 Le substantif ronce apparaît pour la première fois vers 1175. 15 On peut en voir encore aujourd’hui une bonne centaine; cf. Patrick Périn, “Le Problème des sarcophages-cénotaphes du haut Moyen-Age: à propos de la nécropole de Quarré-les-Tombes, site d’une bataille légendaire,” dans La Chanson de geste et le

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Saint-Georges de Quarré, sarcophages qui donnent à cette commune morvandelle une partie de son nom. Selon la “vieille tradition populaire,” une grande bataille (légendaire) avait au IXe siècle opposé au lieu-dit Le Champ-Cullan près du bourg les armées des Francs chrétiens et des Infidèles sarrasins.16 Six mille guerriers avaient trouvé la mort. Le peuple, poursuit l’abbé Baudiau, raconte que Renaud, fils d’Aymon, prince des Ardennes, l’un des héros de cette bataille, épuisé de fatigue, était entré dans la forêt voisine et après s’être assis au pied d’un arbre, s’était endormi au chant du rossignol, après avoir attaché son cheval au tronc d’un vieux chêne. Or, tandis que le héros reposait, les deux armées s’étaient à nouveau affrontées. Stimulé par les cris et le cliquetis des armes, le cheval, dans son impatiente ardeur, s’enterra jusqu’au ventre à force de trépigner sur place! Brusquement tiré de son sommeil, Renaud sauta sur son coursier, en maudissant le rossignol, et s’en vint à la rescousse de ses troupes qui fléchissaient. Alors qu’il touchait en bout ses ennemis d’un simple chevron, une voix lui cria: “Frère Renaud, touchez, je vous prie, en fauchant, / Et vous en abattrez sitôt mille que cent.” Dès lors, les Infidèles tombèrent comme des épis sous la faux du moissonneur. Le sol était jonché de milliers de cadavres. Le peuple ajoute qu’après la victoire chrétienne,“il poussa des buissons d’épine sur les fosses des païens et que des tombes, envoyées du ciel, reçurent les dépouilles des bons.” On raconte encore que, maudit par Renaud, le rossignol ne chanta plus dans le bois du Roi où le héros s’était endormi.17 L’abbé Baudiau, on l’a dit, entrelace avec cette légende populaire quelques vers du Girart de Roussillon en alexandrins.18 Or, si l’on se reporte à l’édition critique procurée par E. Billings Ham (d’après le ms. S, Montpellier, H-349), on s’aperçoit que le récit épique est très différent de la tradition populaire rapportée plus haut. Les protagonistes ne sont plus les Français guidés par Renaud et les mythe carolingien. Mélanges René Louis, éd. R. Louis, 2 tomes (Saint-Père-sousVézelay: Musée archéologique régional, 1982), t. 2, pp. 823-35. 16 Selon une autre version, l’affrontement aurait opposé les Francs chrétiens et les Normands. 17 J.-F. Baudiau, Le Morvand ou essai géographique, topographique et historique sur cette contrée, 3e éd. (Paris: Librairie Guénégaud, 1965), pp. 110-12. 18 Ils sont tirés de la copie du ms. M, Montpellier, Faculté de Médecine, H-244, établie en 1721 par Jean Bouhier de Savigny, membre du parlement de Dijon (aujourd’hui ms. Bibl. de Troyes, 742).

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Sarrasins, mais Girard de Roussillon et le roi Charles (Martel). Au soir de la sanglante bataille de Vaubeton où Girard et le roi se sont affrontés dans la région de Pierre-Perthuis, si les dépouilles des grands feudataires sont rapidement emportées dans leurs pays, le champ de bataille reste jonché de milliers de cadavres. Comme le note le remanieur: “Les autres qui demorent couvient sepulcre querre” (4258).19 Mais comment faire? Girard et Berthe prient pendant deux jours et jurent de ne manger que du pain d’orge jusqu’à ce que tous les chrétiens soient mis en “noble sepulture” à Quarrees. C’est alors que Dieu “fist pour aux [“eux”] tres grant miracle: / Il trouverent le main [“matin”] pour chascun habitacle, / Les tres plus biaux sarcuz, ja plus biaux ne verrez” (4265-67). Dans le contexte de cette bataille entre chrétiens, on est étonné de voir juste après ceci la mention de Sarrasins: “en croz tuit ansamble mis furent / Nom pas ou les Christiens ne pres dou cimatiere, / Dyables en leur enfer en font souz aux litiere” (4272-74). Il doit s’agir en fait des trois rois sarrasins (et de leurs hommes) qui combattaient avec Charles mentionnés précédemment au vers 3797. Comme on le voit, aussi bien la “vieille tradition populaire” que l’épisode du Girart de Roussillon en alexandrins présentent des ressemblances indéniables avec le “miracle des épines et des ronces” des versions rimées de la Chanson de Roland: une bataille gigantesque et acharnée qui laisse des milliers de cadavres confondus et qu’un miracle vient distinguer afin de permettre un enterrement différentiel. Abstraction faite de l’incursion forestière de Renaud, la version populaire est plus proche de la tradition carolingienne: on y retrouve le classique affrontement des chrétiens et des Sarrasins, le “miracle des épines” se reproduit autour des fosses des païens. En revanche, dans cette tradition la partie qui constituait le “miracle des aubépines” est structurellement remplacée par l’apparition miraculeuse des tombeaux venus du Ciel: elle y joue vis-à-vis de la présence réelle des tombeaux de Quarré-les-Tombes le même rôle “explicatif” que les aubépines montrées aux pèlerins dans la légende carolingienne. En revanche, dans le Girart, la question ne porte pas tant sur la distinction des cadavres mêlés–ils sont pour la plupart chrétiens–que sur la difficulté 19

Girart de Rossillon. Poème bourguignon du XIVe siècle, éd. Edward Billings Ham (New Haven:Yale Univ. Press, 1939).

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d’offrir une sépulture à la masse considérable des corps. C’est cette difficulté que résout le “miracles des tombeaux” qui supplée avantageusement au creusement de centaines de fosses communes! Si la mention des Sarrasins peut être un souvenir des Roland rimés, dans le contexte local de Quarré-les-Tombes, elle fait néanmoins l’effet d’un plaquage maladroit. Pour le propos plus général de cette étude, on notera en outre avec intérêt que l’absence du miracle des aubépines dans ces deux récits s’accompagne d’une disparition de toute héroïsation chrétienne explicite. Si l’aubépine a disparu des récits précédents, elle joue en revanche un rôle assez important dans Maugis d’Aigremont, une chanson du début du XIIIe siècle rattachée au cycle de Renaut de Montauban ou des Quatre Fils Aymon. Cette chanson reprend le symbolisme funéraire de l’aubépine présent dans la tradition carolingienne, tout en le replaçant dans un contexte général de féerie totalement étranger aux Roland rimés. A la Pentecôte, lors d’une fête donnée à la cour du duc Buef d’Aigremont, une esclave sarrasine (fille de l’émir de Palerme) au service de la duchesse enlève le puîné des jumeaux (le futur Maugis) que cette dernière vient de mettre au monde, bien décidée à l’emporter vers Palerme. En route, après avoir dépassé peu avant midi le détroit de Messine (le Far), elle décide de prendre un peu de repos: “En une large lande soz l’espine à la fee, / Ileques s’aresta et fist sa reposee” (377-78; nous soulignons dans toutes les citations).20 Mais bientôt surgissent d’un bois situé non loin de cette “(aub)épine de la fée” un lion et un léopard affamés qui ne font qu’une bouchée de la ravisseuse qui meurt bientôt dans un ultime repentir. Heureusement pour l’enfant, les deux fauves non encore rassasiés s’entre-dévorent lui laissant ainsi la vie sauve. Sur ces entrefaites, la véritable “maîtresse des lieux,” la fée Oriandre qui chevauchait dans les parages décide à son tour de se reposer, comme à l’accoutumée, sous l’arbre auquel elle donne son nom: “Soz l’espine ramee docement descendoit” (479). Elle découvre alors les dépouilles sanglantes des fauves et de l’esclave, puis elle 20 Maugis d’Aigremont, éd. Philippe Vernay (Berne: Francke, 1980). On retrouve l’équivalent des vers 377-78 et 382-83 de cette édition dans un fragment récemment retrouvé de cette chanson, fragment datant de la seconde moitié du XIIIe siècle; cf. Marianne J. Ailes, “Deux fragments inconnus de Maugis d’Aigremont,” Romania, 116 (1998), 415-30, p. 424.

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entend les vagissements du bébé: “En son giron le met, li enfes li rioit” (489). Elle décide alors de l’emporter dans son château de Rocheflor (Rosefleur dans la version en prose). La chanson de Maugis s’inspire de la tradition–largement celtique, on le verra bientôt–qui fait de l’aubépine l’arbre d’élection des fées (Walter, “L’épine,” pp. 95-108) et une borne de l’Autre Monde. Cette féerie et les prestiges qui l’accompagnent sont aussi immédiatement associés avec l’enfant anonyme et “orphelin.” Avant même d’être baptisé du nom de Maugis par la fée, il est en effet à deux reprises qualifié d’“enfant sous l’aubépine” (“L’enfant […] qui est desoz l’espine, 463-64; “l’enfes soz l’espine,” 471). Arraché à ses parents, cet “enfant de l’espine” sera élevé dans un milieu saturé de magie et d’enchantements grâce à la fée (chrétienne), au nain Espiet et au magicien Baudri, respectivement neveu et frère de cette dernière. C’est d’ailleurs de Baudri que Maugis l’enchanteur tiendra sa connaissance des “arts de Tolède.” L’aubépine marque encore deux fois la carrière du jeune héros. Plus tard, alors qu’il aura déjà conquis le cheval-faé Baiart, il tuera un Sarrasin et s’emparera de son armure. Pour la revêtir, Maugis descend “par desouz une espine” (1200). Puis, il rencontre un chef païen qu’il transperce de son gonfanon: “Mort l’a jus trebuchié desouz .i. aube espin” (1214). Ainsi, dans Maugis d’Aigremont, comme dans la geste carolingienne, la Mort et les cadavres sanglants sont au rendez-vous de l’aubépine. Comme dans les Roland rimés, l’aubépine de Maugis est le théâtre d’un scénario de partage essentiel. Mais alors que l’aubépine du Roland rimé avait permis de distinguer les dépouilles des chevaliers chrétiens, conférant ipso facto à ces derniers le statut de saints martyrs, l’aubépine-faée de Maugis se présente comme le lieu du partage entre la vie et la mort. En effet, desoz l’espine, la mort des fauves, puis celle des païens voués à l’Enfer devient la condition sine qua non de la survie miraculeuse du héros qui y conquerra aussi plus tard ses armes. En outre, alors que l’aubépine “carolingienne” devient, à travers son épiphanie miraculeuse, le lieu d’une distinction identitaire et même d’une suridentité héroïque (sainteté par le martyre), l’aubépine de Maugis est au contraire le lieu où s’origine l’ambiguïté identitaire qui va désormais définir ce maître de l’illusion, magicien et bon larron, puisqu’étant revêtu de l’armure du païen, il assumera extérieurement l’identité de ce dernier et, pour un temps, ne sera pas même reconnu de la fée Oriandre qui deviendra plus tard son amante.

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L’association de l’aubépine avec Renaud de Montauban, Maugis d’Aigremont et la geste des Quatre Fils Aymon perdure dans l’épopée tardive et dans la tradition populaire. En ce qui concerne la chanson de Renaut de Montauban, on sait que l’un des épisodes principaux, le “traquenard de Vaucouleurs,” se situe en Gascogne. Or, une légende locale de la proche Saintonge revendique l’honneur d’avoir été le site de cet épisode auquel elle donne même un dénouement tragique inconnu de la tradition médiévale. On raconte en effet à Saint-Agnant (au sud de Rochefort en Charente-Maritime), là même où Bayard le cheval-faé a fait jaillir une fontaine de son sabot, que dans la combe de la petite plaine situé à gauche du lieu-dit Vaucouleurs les quatre frères sont tombés dans une mortelle embuscade. On affirme aussi que Maugis, leur cousin, a planté sur leur tombe un aubépin: “L’aubépin fleurira chaque année au début de mai et il défleurira au 1er juin (à “l’issue de mai”), à l’heure de leur cruelle mort. L’aubépin est là, gros et creux, tel un vieux saule; ses branches vertes lui font une jeune couronne. Personne ne laboure “la tombe.” On dit qu’un laboureur ayant essayé d’y mettre la charrue, le soc neuf s’émoussa au contact d’une armure. Depuis, nul n’a renouvelé le geste sacrilège et la tombe reste inviolée.”21 Dans ce dernier exemple, on retrouve donc l’association de Maugis, de Renaud et de l’aubépine, ainsi que le symbolisme funéraire de l’aubépine lié à la tradition carolingienne. Tout en conservant un rapport avec la mort et l’Au-delà, les apparitions de l’aubépine dans la matière de Bretagne vont s’ordonner selon une série de motifs narratifs entièrement différents. L’un des récits les plus importants à cet égard est le Lai de l’Espine qui date de la fin du XIIe siècle. Situant son action dans la géographique aussi floue que séductrice d’une Bretagne pétrie de légendes et d’aventures merveilleuses, ce lai s’ouvre sur le motif des amours naissantes et contrariées de deux enfans aristocrates élevés ensemble à la cour. Dans son désespoir et faute de pouvoir poursuivre les jeux de la passion amoureuse auxquels il s’est livré jusqu’à présent, le jeune garçon–fils naturel du roi–demande à être fait chevalier et se propose d’établir sa réputation guerrière en se rendant en terre étrangère. Son père refuse et l’invite sagement à attendre l’aventure dans son propre royaume. Un 21

Aurore Lamontellerie, Mythologie de Charente-Maritime (Paris: Le Croît vif, 1995), pp. 249-50.

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soir cependant, lors d’une veillée, après qu’un jongleur irlandais eut chanté des lais et que des chevaliers eurent racontés plusieurs aventures merveilleuses survenues en Bretagne, une jeune fille déclara que: […] au gué de l’Espine, en la nuit de la saint Jehan, en avenoit plus qu’en tout l’an, mais ja nus chouars chevalier cele nuit n’i iroit gaitier. (190-94)22

Piqué au vif par le reproche indirect de couardise, le jeune impatient s’engage alors publiquement à tenter l’épreuve nocturne et annuelle du gué. On aura reconnu jusque-là le schéma classique du couple antagoniste Arma-Amor qui structure tant de romans médiévaux, qu’ils appartiennent ou non à la tradition arthurienne. Plus insolite est, comme on va le voir, le mode de reconquête de la femme aimée, ainsi que l’acquisition de la gloire chevaleresque par le jeune héros. Cette singularité narrative tient pour l’essentiel au caractère hautement mythique du lieu de l’action principale, à ce “gué de l’aubépine.” En ce moment cardinal et quasi solsticial de l’année qu’est la nuit (veille) de la Saint-Jean (23 juin), le jeune chevalier se rend en armes au gué pour gaitier (226). Pour sa part, son amie mortifiée entre dans un verger et se met à prier Dieu afin qu’Il ramène son ami sain et sauf de l’aventure. S’étant assise sous un arbre greffé (une ente), elle fait sa prière, s’accoude sous l’arbre et s’endort bientôt. Le conteur intervient personnellement à ce point pour déclarer son incompréhension face à un événement qui marque une rupture radicale vis-à-vis de l’ordre naturel des choses: mais je ne sai confaitement, qui de desous l’ente fu prise e au gué de l’Espine mise, la u ses amis ciers estoit; mais ne fu gaires k’il i soit, car repairiés est a l’espine, dormant i troeve la meschine. (266-72) 23

22

Les Lais anonymes des XIIe et XIIIe siècles, éd. Prudence Mary O’Hara Tobin (Genève: Droz, 1976).

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Cette séquence de motifs (s’allonger sous l’arbre, s’endormir, être transporté magiquement)24 du Lai de l’Espine se retrouve dans L’Estoire de Merlin (ou Merlin-Vulgate), mais avec quelques effets d’inversion ou de décalage. Dans ce récit en prose daté d’environ 1230-35, la fée Viviane prie avec insistance Merlin de lui enseigner le moyen de “faire un biau lieu bien convenable qu[’elle] puisse fermer par art si fort qu’il ne puist estre desfais.”25 Ainsi pourront-ils, dit-elle, abriter leurs amours quand il leur plaira. Merlin qui sait pourtant à quoi s’en tenir sur les intentions réelles de Viviane est si souspris d’amour qu’il accède immédiatement à sa requête. Peu après, il se retrouve enfermé dans une tour magnifique. On ne peut que conclure qu’il a été transporté à son insu de la forêt à sa prison dorée. Mais dans quelles circonstances s’est effectué ce déplacement magique qui l’isole définitivement du monde des vivants? La réponse à cette question nous est fournie par le texte, dans le passage qui précède immédiatement: […] et tant qu’il vindrent a un jour qu’il aloient main a main devisant pour euls deduire parmi la forest de Broceliande, si trouverent un buisson bel et vert et haut d’une aube espine qui estoit tous cargies de fleurs, si s’assistrent en l’ombre, et

23

Voir Charles Thuriet, Traditions populaires de la Haute-Saône et du Jura (Paris: Emile Lechevalier, 1892). Bien que le motif du transport magique soit un lieu commun du folklore international, ce transport magique de la femme aimée sur le lieu de l’aventure est fort rare dans la tradition bretonne médiévale. Dans une légende de la Haute-Saône, un croisé fait prisonnier par les Sarrasins et menacé d’une mort cruelle implore la Vierge: “Sa prière fut exaucée, une nuit sa prison s’ouvre et tout à coup il se retrouve dans sa province natale, au milieu des broussailles […]” (pp. 97-98). 24 On retrouve cette même séquence dans le Sir Orfeo anglais (déb. du XIVe siècle): au début du mois de mai, Heurodis entre dans un verger, s’asseoit sous un ympe-tre (“ente”), s’endort, puis se voit mystérieusement transportée au royaume du Roi de Féerie. Orfeo l’y retrouvera aussi sous un ympe, mais toute cette séquence est “démonisée,” interprétée comme une chute dans le péché selon Sharon Coolidge, “The Grafted Tree in Sir Orfeo: A Study in the Iconography of Redemption,” Forum (Muncie), 23 (1982), 62-68, pp. 64-66. Ce n’est probablement pas un hasard si dans le Lai de l’Espine la jeune fille qui mentionne l’aventure du Gué de l’Espine le fait juste après que le jongleur irlandais a terminé de chanter le Lai d’Orphée, une œuvre aujourd’hui perdue (183). Voir aussi le lai de Tydorel (O’Hara Tobin, p. 214, 29 et ss.). 25 The Vulgate Version of The Arthurian Romances, éd. H. Oskar Sommer, 8 vols. (Washington: Carnegie Institution, 1908-16), L’Estoire de Merlin, vol. 2, p. 452.

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Merlin mist son chief el giron a la demoisele26 et elle le commencha a tastonner tant qu’il s’en dormi. Et quant la damoisele senti qu’il dormoit, si se leva tout belement et fist un cerne de sa gimple tot entor le buisson et tout entour Merlin: si commencha sez enchantemens et puis s’ala seoir deles lui […]. (Sommer, p. 452)

On constate que là encore, c’est une aubépine qui sert à la fois de marqueur géographique et de point de départ, voire de “tremplin,” au passage d’un monde à l’autre. La même séquence de motifs est encore reconnaissable dans les Merveilles de Rigomer en dépit de son réarrangement et de son adaptation à un contexte narratif différent. Un chevalier en quête d’aventures nommé Engrevain parvient au fond d’un val à la nuit tombée. Ne pouvant plus progresser, il décide de se reposer: “Lor descent, por dormir s’acline / Tot droit dalés une aubespine” (8231-32).27 A ce point, la séquence classique bifurque, car cette fois le sommeil n’est guère au rendez-vous: bientôt Engrevain entend des voix, puis aperçoit une clarté qui émane de l’intérieur de la montagne à travers une sorte de porte (8266-71). Une fois de plus, on constate que l’aubépine est liée à une “aventure” (8272), puisque l’ouverture est celle d’un palais souterrain où habite “une gent faee”(8379) qui retient une dame d’une beauté éblouissante28 que le héros va réussir à délivrer. Dans ces deux derniers récits, s’il y a bien une aubépine, il n’y a en revanche pas le moindre gué. Dans les Merveilles de Rigomer, cette absence s’explique par le fait que l’Autre Monde y est souterrain, plutôt que délimité par un cours d’eau: c’est en fait l’ouverture lumineuse qui tient lieu de gué. Dans L’Estoire de Merlin, l’absence de gué va de pair avec l’absence de combat physique: la fée Viviane triomphe de Merlin par l’amour et par la ruse, ayant enfermé à jamais l’objet de son désir. Au-delà de ces situations atypiques, on doit s’interroger sur le sens de ce “gué de l’Aubépine,” lieu de passage sacré entre deux rives. Il s’agit, bien sûr transposée en termes féodaux et chrétiens, d’une manifestation de la frontière entre notre monde et l’Autre Monde. Mais 26 Ce geste inverse celui de la fée Oriandre vis-à-vis du bébé Maugis (498; cf. supra). 27 Les Mervelles de Rigomer von Jehan, éd. Wendelin Foerster, 2 vols. (Dresden: Gesellschaft für romanische Literatur, 1908-15), vol. 1. 28 Il s’agit de la dame de Sotain Herbert qui, enlevée par un vent violent (8115), s’était mystérieusement retrouvée dans une sorte de sidh où la “gent fae” était en train de célébrer ses noces avec le sire de la montagne.

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le passage n’est nullement anodin. On observe en effet que cet endroit charnière est aussi qualifié de gué aventurous (“périlleux,” 226) et fait en outre figure de lieu mythique consacré par la “coutume,” puisque l’on retrouve cette même expression associée à l’aubépine dans le Tristan et Iseut de Béroul. Ayant accepté de révéler aux trois félons le secret du roi Marc, mais ne voulant pas trahir sa promesse de ne pas enfreindre son pacte de silence, le nain Frocin leur déclare: […] je merrai les trois de vos Devant le Gué Aventuros. Et iluec a une aube espine, Une fosse a soz la racine. (1319-22)29

On connaît la suite: Frocin divulgue le secret des oreilles de cheval du roi Marc (marc’h “cheval”),30 après avoir introduit sa tête dans la fosse, prétendant s’adresser directement à l’espine,31 non aux félons: “Espine, a vos, non a vasal” (1332-34). Un Gués de Blance Espine est aussi mentionné par deux fois dans les Merveilles de Rigomer (7040, 9433). “A mai entrant” (7021), le roi Arthur s’y rend avec ses chevaliers dont Gauvain. C’est de là que ce dernier part avec 60 chevaliers en quête de Lancelot enfermé dans une prison souterraine à 29

Cf. Tristan et Iseut. Les poèmes français. La saga norroise, éd. Philippe Walter (Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 1989). 30 Il est curieux de relever chez les Kabyles un rapport similaire entre l’aubépine et la métamorphose animale d’un homme. Dans ses Poésies populaires de la Kabylie, Hanoteau signale que les femmes adultères chantent cette étrange invocation de magie érotique: “Salut, aubépine, les hommes t’ont nommée aubépine; moi je t’appelle le caïd qui commande. Transforme mon mari en âne, à qui je ferai porter de la paille” (cité d’après Angelo de Gubernatis, Mythologie des plantes [New York: Arno Press, 1978] [1878], vol. 1, pp. 128-29, n. 3). Ici, l’aubépine a un pouvoir directement métamorphosant. 31 L’aubépine était encore considérée comme un interlocuteur sacré dans certaines pratiques folkloriques. En Gascogne, quiconque blessé par l’arbrisseau l’avait insulté ou maudit en lui lançant des imprécations ne pouvait guérir qu’en se mettant à genoux devant lui et en lui adressant d’humbles excuses: “Cau demanda perdoun au broc blanc, se l’an ensurtat” (Césaire Daugé, Le Mariage et la famille en Gascogne d’après les proverbes et les chansons, 2 tomes [Bayonne: Jean Curutchet, Édition Harriet, 1983], t. 2, p. 233). Dans l’Albret, les fiévreux en quête de cure s’adressaient directement à l’arbre en ces termes: “Adieu, buisson blanc: / Je te porte du pain et du sel / Et la fièvre pour demain” (Stéphane Signollet, L’aubépine [Arles: Actes Sud, 1998], p. 76).

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Rigomer, un avatar de l’Autre Monde où règne Dionise en attente d’un époux. Plus tard, on organise un grand tournoi au Gués de Blance Espine, mais certains chevaliers vont bientôt eux aussi en profiter pour s’élancer vers Rigomer (9433ss). L’idée et la coutume de marquer d’une aubépine l’emplacement d’une zone charnière dangereuse appartiennent en fait au vieux fonds indo-européen, notamment romain. A Rome, une légende rapportée par Ovide32 raconte en effet comment la nymphe Carna ou Craniè (honorée aux Calendes de juin), après avoir été déflorée de force par Janus le dieu bifrons s’était vue attribuer en compensation par celui-ci le gond de porte et l’aubépine comme attributs, cette dernière étant destinée à écarter toute influence maléfique des portes (et des ouvertures en général). Ces croyances et ces pratiques relatives au caractère apotropaïque de l’aubépine placée sur les seuils se sont perpétrées jusqu’à l’époque contemporaine à travers la tradition folklorique moderne. Dans plusieurs régions de France, un brin d’aubépine piquante accroché au seuil de la maison, des étables ou des écuries, notamment au 1er Mai, jouait naguère encore un rôle protecteur contre les influences pernicieuses des sorciers et des revenants (Signollet, p. 74). Mais que viennent faire les héros de la matière de Bretagne sur le “gué de l’aubépine,” “gué aventureux” ou “gué périlleux”?33 Comme on l’a vu, ils y viennent essentiellement en quête d’aventures. De manière plus précise, comme dans le Lai de l’Espine l’aventure prend souvent la forme archétypale d’un combat (souvent nocturne) sur le gué34 contre un puissant adversaire (surnaturel au départ), défenseur du 32

Les Fastes, tr. Robert Schilling, 2 tomes (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1993), t. 2, Livre VI, pp. 74-77 et pp. 167-69, nn. 37, 38, 41, 46, 50. 33 Cette dernière expression se rencontre dans Le Bel inconnu de Renaut de Beaujeu (éd. G. Perrie Williams, Paris, Champion, 1983), 323, 529, 545, 1009, 1214, 6026. On y retrouve le même schéma d’affrontement entre un héros et un gardien du gué à propos d’une Demoiselle. 34 Cf. Tom Peete Cross, Motif-Index of Early Irish Literature (New York: Kraus Reprint, 1969 [1939]), pp. 234, 356, motifs F151.1.4 et H1561.2.3 et Anita GuerreauJalabert, Index des motifs narratifs dans les romans arthuriens français en vers (XIIeXIIIe siècles) (Genève: Droz, 1992), p. 110, motif H1561.2.3. Voir aussi Tom Peete Cross, “The Celtic Elements in the Lays of Lanval and Graelent,” Modern Philology, 12 (1915), 1-60, p. 20, n. 1 et surtout Laurence Harf-Lancner, Les Fées au Moyen Age (Paris: Champion, 1984), pp. 348-75 et Roger Sherman Loomis, “The Combat at the Ford in the Didot Perceval,” Modern Philology, 43 (1945), 63-71, pp. 64-65 qui citent

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passage et amant ou époux (voire prisonnier) d’une femme merveilleusement belle, maîtresse du domaine ou du château de l’Autre Monde. Dans Diu Krone de Heinrich von dem Türlin (ca. 1230), la reine Ginover se moque d’Artus, son époux, paralysé par le froid de l’hiver et fait l’éloge d’un mystérieux chevalier (Gasozein de Dragoz) qui, revêtu d’une mince tunique blanche, patrouille toute la nuit le “gué devant Noirespine” (“Den furt vür Noirespine”)35 en chantant des chansons d’amour. Cette même nuit, ce dernier défait au gué trois chevaliers d’Artus et s’empare de leurs chevaux. Après avoir combattu contre Artus, il lui annonce qu’il vient réclamer la reine.36 Comme l’a montré Roger Sherman Loomis, le motif du “combat sur le gué” provient plus particulièrement de la tradition galloise mettant en scène un combat sur le gué entre un “prince de l’Hiver” et un “prince de l’Eté” pour la possession d’une “reine” de l’Autre Monde. On relève ce scénario dans le mabinogi de Pwyll où le héros éponyme rencontre Arawn, roi d’Annwfn (l’Autre Monde), monté sur un cheval gris. Après avoir pris la place et la semblance de ce dernier, il partage le lit de sa femme Rhiannon (mais reste chaste), puis à la fin de l’année il affronte et défait de nuit au milieu d’un gué Hafgan (“Eté Blanc”), l’autre roi d’Annwfn et ennemi mortel d’Arawn. A preuve de la pérennité de ce scénario, on peut citer le fait que jusqu’à la fin du XIXe siècle, un combat rituel opposait encore le 1er Mai dans le sud du pays de Galles les armées de ces deux princes. Or, le capitaine des nombre d’œuvres de la littérature irlandaise et de la matière de Bretagne médiévale où ce motif intervient. Le combat sur le gué existe aussi dans la tradition épique (Chanson de Roland, 2993-94, Girart de Roussillon, 5414-15, Saisnes, réd. AR, 2296-311), mais il y revêt généralement soit le caractère collectif d’un Jugement de Dieu, soit un caractère individuel à valeur non initiatique. Il en est de même dans le Roman de Thèbes (8466-67, 8547-60) et dans Guillaume d’Angleterre (2986-92). A noter que ce motif narratif s’appuie sur un référent historique réel, notamment au haut Moyen Âge; cf. René Louis, “Une coutume d’origine protohistorique: les combats sur les gués chez les Celtes et chez les Germains,” Revue Archéologique de l’Est et du Centre-Est, 5 (1954), pp. 186-93 et Paule Le Rider, “La Parodie d’un thème épique: le combat sur le gué dans Aucassin et Nicolette,” dans La Chanson de geste et le mythe carolingien, t. 2, pp. 1225-33. 35 Die Krone (Verse 1-12281), éd. Fritz Peter Knapp et Manuela Niesner (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 2000), p. 117, 3424 et ss. Il semble bien que “l’épine du gué” apparaisse blanche vue du côté de notre monde et noire (comme son défenseur, généralement lié à l’hiver) vue du côté de l’Autre Monde. 36 Un scénario similaire se trouve dans De Ortu Waluuanii (ca. 1280).

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armées du prince de l’Hiver tenait en main un bâton d’épine noire.37 A Lille, la Fête de l’Espinette comportait un combat entre le vieux roi et le nouveau roi. Quelles que soient les déformations que le romancier allemand (ou sa source) a fait subir à la matière traditionnelle, il est clair qu’Artus fait ici figure de roi de l’Hiver et que le chevalier légèrement vêtu, disciple du dieu Amour, est un avatar du roi de l’Eté.38 Dans le Didot-Perceval en prose (ca. 1200), Perceval désarçonne Urbain, le fils de “le roïne de le Noire Espine,”39 défenseur lui aussi d’un “Gué Perellos” et d’un château invisible. Suite à la défaite d’Urbain, une troupe d’oiseaux noirs attaque Perceval. Ce dernier réussit à en blesser un qui se métamorphose aussitôt en une belle jeune fille, bientôt emportée par les autres oiseaux. Urbain explique qu’il s’agit de la sœur de sa maîtresse et de ses suivantes.40 Roger Sherman Loomis a montré qu’Urbain correspond à Urien, père d’Owain (Yvain) et époux de Morgen (Morgain la Fée), cette dernière étant l’équivalent de la galloise Modron et de l’irlandaise Mórrígan (“Grande Reine”). Or, justement dans l’épopée irlandaise intitulée Aided Con Culaind (“La Mort de Cúchulainn”) (versions B), pour constater la mort du héros,41 la déesse de la guerre Bodb (ou Badb, équivalent de la 37 Roger Sherman Loomis, “More Celtic Elements in Gawain and the Green Knight,” The Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 42 (1943), 149-84, pp. 17374. 38 Voir aussi la gravure sur bois illustrant un ouvrage d’Olaus Magnus (1555) mettant en scène au 1er Mai un combat équestre entre l’Eté et l’Hiver (Antoinette Glauser-Matecki, Le Premier Mai ou le cycle du printemps [Paris: Imago, 2002], p. 94). 39 Un “sire de la Noire Espine” est mentionné dans Yvain ou le Chevalier au Lion de Chrétien de Troyes (4699, éd. David F. Hult [Paris: Livre de Poche, 1994]). La place manque ici pour comparer le combat sur le gué périlleux de l’Aubépine et l’affrontement d’Yvain et d’Esclados le Roux la nuit de la Saint-Jean à la “fontaine perillouse” ombragée par un pin magnifique dans la forêt de Brocéliande. 40 The Didot-Perceval, éd. William Roach (Philadelphia: The Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 1941), pp. 195-02. Cf. aussi ibid., pp. 70-73, un épisode similaire dans la Seconde Continuation Perceval attribuée à Wauchier de Denain; voir aussi Loomis, “The Combat,” p. 65, n. 10 qui cite d’autres textes similaires. 41 Dans l’épopée irlandaise, Cúchulainn fait figure de grand maître des gués. Il doit cette consécration au fait qu’il est l’un des rares humains à avoir visité l’Autre Monde durant Samain (1er novembre) et à en être revenu; cf. Bernard Sergent, Celtes et Grecs. I. Le Livre des héros (Paris: Payot, 1999), pp. 170-72, 175, qui rassemble les principaux textes où le héros fait figure de gardien des gués. Dans la Táin Bó Cuailnge

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Mórrígan ou Mórrígu) se métamorphose en corneille, puis se pose “sur le buisson d’aubépine en face de lui, si bien que ‘l’aubépine de la corneille’ est le nom du buisson d’aubépine dans la plaine de Muirthemme.” Auparavant, le héros avait rencontré au “Gué de la Veille” (Ath na Foraire)42 une jeune lavandière en train de laver ses dépouilles ensanglantées et qui n’était autre que la fille de Bodb.43 Cette Bodh (et ses équivalents) est, comme le précisent Françoise Le Roux et Christian-J. Guyonvarch “l’aspect guerrier de la divinité féminine souveraine, épouse convenant à une divinité masculine, guerrière et souveraine elle aussi.”44 Dans le Lai de l’Espine déjà mentionné, le héros traverse le gué, désarçonne un Chevalier Vermeil, s’empare de son cheval blanc aux oreilles rouges (311-13, 418-26), retraverse le gué, puis confie l’animal merveilleux à son amie restée sous l’aubépine. Le Chevalier Vermeil traverse à son tour le gué (vers notre monde), accompagné cette fois de deux autres chevaliers, mais annonce qu’il ne s’agit que d’une joute pour l’honneur. Si le motif et le sens du combat sur le gué paraissent bien suivre une ferme orthodoxie, il n’en est pas de même pour d’autres éléments traditionnels qui, incompris, sont réinterprétés dans un cadre féodal. Dans le lai, la jeune femme est certes bien de notre monde, mais une expression comme “la meschine / qu’il [...] trova desous l’espine” (489-90) pourrait suggérer que, dans un état antérieur du lai ou dans sa source, celle-ci avait une origine féerique (l’origine de son père n’est pas précisée).45 D’autre part, si dans ce lai, lors du combat la conquête de la femme de l’Autre Monde est (“La Razzia des vaches de Cooley”), tout comme le héros du Lai de L’Espine, il affronte sur un gué trois adversaires, les trois fils de Nechta qui habitent un “pays limitrophe” du royaume de Conchobar. Plus tard, il lutte au milieu du gué de la rivière Dee, mais son adversaire est cette fois son compagnon d’armes Ferdiad qui a été trompé par Medb, la reine guerrière de la province de Connacht (James Mackillop, Oxford Dictionary of Celtic Mythology [Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 2000), col. 116b et 213b; cf. aussi précisions dans Le Rider, p. 1228). 42 Il est précisé dans la Táin Bó Cuailnge que ce gué marque l’endroit où se tenait en permanence un champion qui veillait sur la frontière d’Ulster; cf. Christian-J. Guyonvarc’h, tr., “La Mort de Cúchulainn,” Ogam, 14 (1962), 393-508 et 625-34, p. 631, n. § 46). 43 Guyonvarc’h, Ogam, p. 499, § 42 et Ogam, 13 (1961), 507-20, p. 519, § 28. 44 La Souveraineté guerrière de l’Irlande. Mórrígan, Bodh, Macha (Rennes: OgamCelticum, 1983), p. 43. 45 Cf. Harf-Lancner, pp. 359-60.

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remplacée par celle d’un cheval-faé, on doit se souvenir que l’irlandaise Macha et la galloise Rhiannon se rattachent, par leurs associations avec le cheval, à l’Epona continentale, l’une des formes de la Grande Déesse des Celtes continentaux qui est une divinité aux chevaux. En outre, Epona dont les images protègent le seuil des écuries en Gaule se présente parfois aussi avec des fleurs. Si le lai de L’Epine distord les schémas mythiques hérités du vieux fonds celtique, l’œuvre de Béroul dépasse bien évidemment la simple reprise de ces schémas traditionnels. Pour la comprendre dans une juste perspective, il faut néanmoins la saisir à la fois dans sa dimension traditionnelle et dans sa dimension novatrice. Côté traditionnel, notons que, par delà les réaménagements considérables dûs au génie narratif de Béroul, il est possible de retrouver dans l’épisode du Mal Pas du Tristan et Iseut de Béroul les grandes lignes du combat sur le gué de l’Aubépine. Notons aussi que le Gué Aventuros qui désigne en fait un endroit précis du marécage du Mal Pas et qui permet d’accéder à la Blanche Lande est bien “marqué” par une aubépine: “Un poi aval, lez une espine, / Torne a un gué lui et Andrez” (3876-77).46 En outre, que fait-on à ce Gué Aventuros signalé par une aubépine? D’une part, c’est le lieu où les chevaliers se réunissent pour bohorder (“jouter,” 3712); d’autre part, c’est l’endroit où, comme dans la plupart des récits précédents, Tristan affronte et défait trois adversaires, les félons auxquels il fait “mordre la boue” (3788ss), mais c’est aussi et surtout l’endroit où la reine apparaît, à travers le serment ambigu de justification, comme une reine que s’échangent à intervalles un vieux roi et un jeune amant (2676-79, 3434-37). Une œuvre comme l’Ystoria Trystan (ms. gallois du milieu du XVIe siècle) montre qu’Arthur avait fait accepter à Tristan le jugement suivant: Iseut se partagerait entre les deux hommes selon le rythme de deux saisons de six mois: la saison où les arbres n’ont pas de feuilles et celle où ils en ont. “Marc choisit 46

Ce site se trouve au confluent des rivières Tressillian et Truro dans la Cornouailles anglaise. Il a aujourd’hui pour nom le Mal Pas ferry (éd. Ph. Walter, p. 173, n. 1). Un document de Cornouailles datant du Xe siècle mentionne aussi un Hryt Eselt “gué d’Iseut” (Jacques Chocheyras, Tristan et Iseut. Genèse d’un mythe littéraire [Paris: Champion, 1996], p. 257; cf. aussi pp. 105-06, 113). Il y a aussi une Blanche Lande dans le lai de Désiré à l’orée du domaine féerique (9, 118, 271). C’est aussi le lieu d’habitation de l’ermite de “la Noire Chapelle” (11) qui semble s’interposer entre le héros et la fée.

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l’époque où il n’y a pas de feuilles, parce qu’alors les nuits sont plus longues.”47 Peut-on mieux dire que la reine se partage entre un roi de l’Hiver et un roi de l’Eté?48 Côté innovation, il faut porter au crédit de l’extraordinaire créativité de Béroul cette scène inoubliable toute empreinte d’une verve et d’une démesure “grotesques” au cours de laquelle, au rebours des épisodes canoniques, c’est le jeune amant “lépreux” qui transfère au vieux roi, son oncle, la femme qui les sépare et les unit.49 La plupart des autres récits nous donnent à voir la défaite du précédent défenseur du gué de l’aubépine par son nouveau rival. Autre jeu possible d’inversion avec la tradition, alors que dans Pwyll, c’est Rhiannon qui, accusée d’avoir tué son fils, est contrainte par son mari de porter un licou d’âne et de porter sur son dos les visiteurs jusqu’au seuil de la demeure, dans l’épisode du Mal Pas, c’est Tristan qui, revêtant une identité similaire à March-aux oreilles-de-cheval, se fait asne (3918) pour porter la reine Iseut à son mari de l’autre côté du Gué Aventuros. Plus tard, surgissant entièrement revêtu de noir de la Blanche Lande (3999-4002), il passe pour un chevalier-faé appelé “li 47 Traduction tirée de Philippe Walter, Le Gant de verre. Le mythe de Tristan et Yseut (La Gacilly: Artus, 1990), p. 320. 48 Selon Claude Gaignebet, A plus haut sens. L’ésotérisme charnel et spirituel de Rabelais, 2 tomes (Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, 1986), “lorsque l’Hiver meurt, au 1er mai, le fils qu’il a engendré, l’Eté, le trompe. A cette date, par exemple le roi Marc, aux oreilles de cheval, perd Iseult au profit de Tristan. Le 1er mai est dans tout l’Occident la grande fête des ânes et des cocus. Les relations s’inversent au 1er novembre, lorsque Marc retrouve sa femme”(t. 1, p. 389). Ce rythme calendaire n’est pas précisé chez Béroul. On sait seulement que lors de l’épisode du Mal Pas la Blanche Lande est fleurie et que la chaleur déclenche le tonnerre (4082-85, 4113-14). 49 On rencontre déjà un schéma assez similaire dans le texte gallois intitulé Culhwch ac Olwen (XIe siècle). Poussé par un sort qui le contraint à ne pouvoir épouser d’autre femme qu’Olwen, fille d’un géant monstrueux nommé Ysbaddaden Pencawr (“Aubépine Tête [“Chef”] des Géants”), Culhwch se met en quête de celle-ci. Mais le géant refuse de lui donner sa fille, car il mourra le jour où elle partira avec son époux. Pour se débarrasser du jeune homme, il l’envoie accomplir quarante “travaux” réputés impossibles avant de consentir à lui accorder Olwen. Dans un premier temps, le géant sera blessé, mais ne pourra pas être tué avant que sa fille ne se marie avec le héros. Il s’agit là d’un schéma qui s’apparente à celui du conte de le “Fille du Diable” (conte-type AT 313; cf. Pierre Gallais, La Fée à la Fontaine et à l’arbre [AmsterdamAtlanta, Rodopi, 1992], p. 181). “Aubépine Chef des Géants” déclare à un moment donné que le roi Arthur lui rend hommage (information signalée par Annalee Rejhon que je remercie). Même si le géant est par la suite vaincu, il est évident que l’aubépine en tant qu’emblème est en rapport avec la “souveraineté” guerrière.

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Noirs de la Montagne” (4016), joute avec des adversaires et retraverse le gué (4068). Aussi sûrement que l’ichthus des Catacombes était le signe de la promesse de salut offerte à l’humanité pécheresse et rachetée, l’aubépine “carolingienne” s’offre aux vivants comme un signe funéraire d’origine divine qui, dans son apparition fulgurante et lumineuse, sépare instantanément–et pour l’éternité–les élus des damnés de la Chanson de Roland. Joignant passé, présent et futur, il sert aussi à fixer dans la mémoire des survivants et des pèlerins à venir l’emplacement du martyre et du miracle des preux. Néanmoins, le caractère maladroit ou purement local du motif semble bien en avoir entravé la diffusion dans la matière de France. Face à la “singularité” du miracle des aubépines, la luxuriance des aubépines, notamment aux abords des gués, dans la matière de Bretagne offre un saisissant contraste. Mais cette luxuriance ne doit pas faire illusion. Ces arbres et ces rameaux fleuris signalent toujours le même accès vers l’Autre Monde et vers sa Dame unique sous ses multiples avatars: Dame Orgueilleuse, fée enchanteresse ou retorse, voire pucelle fragile et timide, autant de visages de la Grande Déesse celtique; derrière le cheval ou la jument au poil lumineux, derrière la corneille au plumage d’encre noire, c’est encore et toujours elle qui se profile en ses modalités diverses. Admirable jeu kaléidoscopique des harpeurs et des romanciers “bretons” avec la matière celtique traditionnelle! Tous ces épisodes chevaleresques de combats sur le gué, souvent placés sous le signe de l’aubépine, combats ou “coutumes” centrés autour de la conquête d’une femme de l’Autre Monde merveilleusement belle et de la capture de chevaux-faés sont en définitive dérivés d’un vieux schéma mythique des Celtes mettant en jeu la rivalité entre deux adversaires qui s’affrontent pour la conquête d’une déesse incarnant la Souveraineté guerrière. Cette épreuve débouche, pour le vainqueur, sur une “hiérogamie” qui lui confère à la fois le titre royal (ou un statut héroïque) et la possession de la terre. Alors que le miracle des aubépines “carolingiennes” exaltait, au-delà du sacrifice collectif des héros, la puissance et l’infinie générosité de Dieu envers ses fidèles, les combats sur le gué de l’Aubépine manifestent dans tout son éclat le caractère foncièrement individuel de l’initiation chevaleresque, entée sur la tradition mythique et légendaire des anciens Celtes.

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Marie’s Use of Monologue and Dialogue in the Lais n both historical narrative and in romance, writers have long made extensive use of monologue and dialogue as narrative devices. In Book III of The Persian Wars Democedes the Crotoniat, a Greek skilled in medicine, cured Darius of his illness at Susa. When Atossa, the daughter of Cyrus and the wife of Darius, was afflicted with a boil on her breast, she called for Democedes to heal her discreetly. He did so, but he gained a promise that she would afterward return a favor. This favor was to speak to Darius about invading Greece. In the following few pages of direct discourse between Darius and Atossa, she persuades him that he should set aside his plans to invade Scythia for a much more important and advantageous invasion of Greece. This moment in the narrative was, in the mind of Herodotus, one of the most important of his entire history, for it was from this colloquy that the great conflict between Persia and Greece began. Scholars propose that Herodotus had received the details of Democedes’ role in the events from descendants whom Herodotus had encountered in Magna Graecia. Clearly, though, no exact dialogue between Atossa and Darius could remain verbatim. Yet Herodotus chose, probably for dramatic purposes, to present the moment as if he had a copy of the precise language each speaker used. Among historians such a practice became common. In his Peloponnesian War Thucydides often presented direct dialogue or a transcripted discourse as in the famous funeral oration of Pericles (Book II, Chapter VI) in which he praised the tradition of the citizen soldier of Athens as the great model for the current generation to emulate. In this panegyric one finds the leadership qualities of the renowned Pericles, but one also finds a characterization of the best of Greek society. This speech is not so much a document purporting to be an exact witness to the very words Pericles used, but it captures the essence of what he said. This method of reportage became standard among the best historians of the day. In his Roman History Appian, the Greek-born official from Alexandria, who wrote his book on Roman affairs in Greek in the first half of the second century A.D., used the technique frequently. In Book II, Chapter XI of the Civil Wars Appian takes advantage of the confrontation between Caesar and Pompey at Pharsalus to sum up in

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the commanders’ respective speeches what he considers to be the essential characteristics of each man’s position. Pompey speaks of his own desire to delay battle to cause Caesar to become depleted of supplies; he tells his men that fighting now is their desire so they should fight with hope and knowledge of their many previous victories. Contrarily, Caesar’s direct address to his men emphasizes the importance of the immediacy of battle and the knowledge of their great fortune which has always allowed them to triumph over superior numbers and extreme adversity.1 Rome’s best known historian, Livy, who wrote in the greatest years of the Roman Empire during the reign of Augustus, used direct address in his Ab Urbe Condita even in recounting the legendary tales of the ancient Roman past; hence he dramatizes the rape of Lucretia by Sextus Tarquinius in quoting his threats to her and her narrative of what transpired to her husband and Lucius Junius Brutus, the savior of the republic.2 One could easily trace this common historical practice through the Middle Ages in the Historia of Richer, written during the period when Gerbert was Archbishop of Reims (991-998),3 or in the works of Ordericus Vitalis and William of Malmesbury, well known historians in the first half of the twelfth century and both particularly aware of French, Norman, and English affairs. If the use of direct speech is common in historical writing from the earliest times to reveal the writer’s interpretation of the situation, events, or character, a technique close to dialogue, monologue, is developed, often in debate form, to reflect the mental state of a given character in the fictional, historical narrative we call romance. In the greatly influential Argonautica Apollonius of Rhodes, the epic poet of Alexandria, Egypt in the late third and early second century B.C., recounts the first of the renowned love romances in the story of Jason

1

Appian, Roman History, trans. Horace White, 3 (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 2000; 1913), Book II, Chap. XI, pp. 361-65. 2 Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, trans. B.O. Foster, I (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1988; 1919), Book I, Chap. LVIII, pp. 201-203. 3 Richer, Histoire de France (888-995), ed. and trans. Robert Latouche (Paris: Champion, 1930-37).

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and Medea.4 When Cypris (Aphrodite) approaches Eros for help in the gods’ plans, she acknowledges that he is an “unutterable rogue” and disobedient. Yet he is needed to overcome Medea, the devotee of Hecate. The arrow of Eros makes Medea look on dumbfounded as “speechless amazement seized her soul” (213). As Eros laughed loudly “her heart panted fast through anguish, all remembrance left her, and her soul melted with the sweet pain […]” (215). Here one finds the characteristic speechlessness and amazement of the “traditional” lover, the loss of intellect through the loss of memory of what she had learned, and the antithesis (“sweet pain”) which becomes the very means of defining this kind of love in future works. At night Medea has a dream in which her parents fall into contention with the stranger to whom she is so attracted. In the dream Medea chooses the stranger and neglects her parents, who were seized by “measureless anguish” (p. 237). After seeing her sister Chalciope, who pleads on behalf of “the stranger,” Medea spends the night in anguish. She lies awake reflecting on her situation. Should she not leave Jason to his fate? If she helps him, she knows that the Colchians will mock her and she will become known as the maiden who yielded to a mad passion forsaking her parents for a stranger. She considers suicide to save her from disgrace and even takes the drug chest on her lap. But then she sets it aside and eagerly awaits the dawn when she can go to Jason. Ovid made popular this form of debate within the character through the use of the inner monologue both in his Heroides and in the Metamorphoses. In Book VII of the Metamorphoses he retells the story of Medea to show how a person dominated by the passion of love can commit the most horrible crimes imaginable. Ovid takes up the story after Jason has arrived at Colchis and Medea has already seen Jason and become infatuated. He notes that she has tried to overcome her madness (furorem) by reason. Frustrated, she comes to the conclusion that some god must be opposed to her. Perhaps, she thinks, this is what is known as love. Medea is now torn between two arguments. Desire urges her one way, reason the other (“aliudque 4 Apollonius of Rhodes wrote the first version of the Argonautica in Alexandria without much success. He gave a successful revised edition after he left Alexandria for Rhodes. He later returned to Alexandria as librarian at the famous Library of Alexandria in 196 B.C. The story of Jason and Medea inspired Virgil’s narrative of Aeneas and Dido and various love stories in Ovid.

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cupido, / mens alius suadet,” 20-21). Verses 22-73 offer the conflicting arguments of mens and cupido. In this debate the pros and cons are presented in alternating statements. Medea asks herself why she should love a foreigner instead of someone her own country might offer her? Is his fate not in the hands of the gods? Against this seemingly harsh conclusion, Medea questions what he has done to merit such punishment. Clearly he will die without her help. She pities his youth and nobility. She would have to have a stone heart or be the child of a tigress not to help him. The conclusion to this argument is followed by another. Should she betray her father? Medea reflects that Jason will undoubtedly sail away and marry another, a Greek woman. This thought leads her to conclude that then he would deserve death. Yet she is persuaded that the loftiness and grace of Jason’s soul will not permit him to be so deceitful and forgetful of the pledge he will make to her before the gods. An inner voice urges her to act: Jason will marry her and take her to Greece where she will be celebrated. But, she asks, should she leave her father and native land? Another voice tells her that she will be going to a greater country renowned for its art and culture. Moreover, she will be with the man she loves and he will protect her in his arms. Again a voice warns Medea to look ahead, to see the great wickedness before her and to flee (“quin adspice, quantum / adgrediare nefas, et, dum licet, effuge crimen,” 70-71). After Medea had spoken “ante oculos rectum pietasque pudorque / constiterant, et victa dabat iam terga Cupido” (72-73). Medea’s reason prevails in these arguments and she attempts to follow Ovid’s principle that one must flee love to escape it. At that moment, however, she sees Jason and the flame within her rises up and effaces the arguments of reason. Ovid presents this inner debate within the monologue to show the clearly logical arguments in favor of supporting her own father and people and not thwarting the will of the gods as opposed to the illogical arguments supported only by her own desire that she would find acceptance among the Greeks and that Jason would not leave her for a woman of his own country. Ovid especially uses the monologue to advantage in the cases where there is a conflict between reason and desire. In Book X he develops the painful inner debate that Myrrha undergoes in her growing incestuous love for her father Cinyras. In Book IX Byblis emerges from a deceitful erotic dream of incestuous desire for her brother, Caunus. In the inner debate that follows Byblis’ desire sweeps away

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every argument her reason presents against her unnatural desire even to the extent that she pursues her pious brother across Asia Minor. In the Heroides Ovid presents the famous love of Ariadne for Theseus. Like Medea she helps Theseus overcome her father and homeland by revealing to him the way to overcome the labyrinth and the Minotaur. She too discovers the folly of following her desire when Theseus abandons her to die alone on the island of Naxos.5 Ariadne awakens to find that Theseus has left her on the desolate island. She climbs the mountain and glimpses the sails of his ship on the horizon. Her “monologue” is really a kind of address to Theseus, but it is essentially a monologue of her thoughts and anguish about what she has done for Theseus and how her love is costing her the love of family and homeland. The monologue and dialogue came by way of Ovid and Virgil into the vernacular narrative of the mid-twelfth century in France. In the Old French version of Virgil’s Aeneid, the Roman d’Eneas, the author embellishes Virgil’s narrative concerning the encounter between Lavinia, the Latin Princess, and Eneas, the Trojan hero destined to found the new Latin people. Lavinia’s mother wishes her daughter, Lavinia, to marry the indigenous prince, Turnus, and give him her lands. She argues that Turnus nobly fights for Lavinia because of love, whereas for Eneas the marriage will be merely a convenient way to acquire the land. But in making this argument, Lavinia’s mother must explain to an enquiring Lavinia “what is this thing called love.” In an amusing dialogue drawn from Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, Remedia Amoris, and the Amores, the queen tries to interest her daughter in love, this encounter which mingles so much pain with pleasure. There is here the same irony as in Marie de France’s Guigemar, in which the old husband has painted the walls of his wife’s bedroom with Venus burning Ovid’s book (it must be the Remedia Amoris) and excommunicating anyone who would reject love. In this he presumably means love for himself and not the newcomer. Just so here. Because Turnus loves Lavinia, the queen speaks on behalf of love. But to Lavinia, who is not in love with Turnus, her mother’s description is uninteresting: “Onc de bon mal n’oï parler,” says 5

Ovid, Heroides et Amores, trans. Grant Showerman (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1986), Heroides X, 1-152.

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Lavinia. Her mother answers: “Amors n’est pas de tel nature / com autres maus.” Lavinia replies: “Ge n’en ai cure.”6 But shortly thereafter Lavinia is looking down from the walls of the city on the Trojans. There she sees Eneas and discovers what her mother has been instructing her about: “Quant voit que eschiver n’en puet, / vers Eneam a atorné / tot sun corage et son pansé” (8062-64). The text (8047-81) describes how love has struck Lavinia and has her in his power. Then follows Lavinia’s long monologue (8083-399) in which she affirms that she is indeed caught by the love of which the queen spoke. She laments her infortune and determines to hide her love from the queen. Lavinia reproaches herself for her folly and yet recognizes that she can do nothing. Both the dialogue between the queen and Lavinia and the monologue of Lavinia became staples of the romance narrative of the twelfth century. Chrétien de Troyes used both devices for dramatic purposes and for exploring in monologue the most important questions of his narrative. One need only think of Erec et Enide, Chrétien’s first extant romance, and the dialogue that follows Enide’s meditation on the slanderous accusations being made against Erec’s reputation as a knight. In the crisp exchange that follows Erec’s question to Enide concerning what she had said Enide lies to Erec in trying to evade his enquiry. It is Enide’s lie that makes Erec wonder what she really thinks herself. Does she in fact secretly fear that the slanderers may be right? Other dialogues of great importance occur later in the romance. In Erec’s reconciliation with Enide he confirms that he was testing her and that he now knows that she loves him (despite her repeated disregard of his request that she not speak). Moreover, he makes what may be the most important statement of the romance in declaring that they can now return to the way they had been before. Here one finds no indication that Erec has learned some kind of correction for his previous conduct. In fact Erec does not even allow that there was anything wrong with their previous manner. This dramatic moment, as significant as it is, is often ignored by scholars who cling to the idea that Erec is somehow at fault here and learns as much during the quest.

6

J. J. Salverda de Grave, ed., Eneas. Roman du XIIe siècle, 2 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1968), vol. II, 7938-40.

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But even more important than the significant dialogues in Erec’s first romance are the many monologues of Enide. It is safe to say that the most important analysis of Erec et Enide comes in Enide’s own self-questioning reflections. To be sure the individual encounters Erec has are important for establishing his prowess and for the conflict between his prohibition and her inner debate about obeying him or not. But even more significant are Enide’s self-reflective monologues on her relation with Erec and what she had done. As Enide stays awake in the woods or awaits the dawn, her own self evaluation focuses on her original reaction to the remarks of the slanderers and what it indicated about Enide’s blame in what happened between her and Erec.7 Before considering the use of dialogue and monologue in Marie’s Lais, one should note the vastly different restrictions of the short lai (between little more than 100 to just under 1200 lines) in comparison with the six-thousand-line or more romance narrative of Chrétien. One might think that Marie’s need to cut her narratives would all but eliminate dialogue and monologue in favor of the narrative. Contrarily, one is struck by the fact that Marie devotes so much attention to these moments. If anything, her narratives give greater emphasis to dialogue than do the longer romance works. Whereas the longer romance often has its moments of great resolution in decisive narrative action, Marie tends to use dialogue to bring to life significant turning points in the narrative. Not unlike the historian’s use of the commander’s speech to his troops before battle to bring to the fore the reasons for the battle, the great importance of the outcome, and the urgency of their situation, Marie halts the narrative drive of the text to dramatize a particular moment. In Le Fresne the wedding between Fresne’s sister Codre and Gurun has been arranged. Fresne, who has been Gurun’s concubine, has just spread her own blanket on the bed in the wedding chamber because she found the bedclothes unworthy of Gurun and the event. When the mother of Fresne brings Codre into the bedchamber to prepare for the wedding night, she sees the blanket and it recalls to her the one she gave to her baby the day she abandoned her many years earlier. Instead of narrating the dramatic moment, Marie has the mother address the 7

See my article, “Mercury’s Philologia and Erec’s Enide,” Romance Philology, 56 (2002), pp. 1-22.

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chamberlain and then Fresne directly about the blanket. In her answer, Fresne also notes the ring that she had received from “l’abeesse” her aunt. When the mother sees the ring, the confirming second piece of evidence, she loses consciousness in her emotion. Another excellent example of Marie’s use of dialogue in this dramatic manner is in the two hundred forty-four line lai, Les Deus Amanz. In line 184 the young woman feels her lover weakening as he carries her up the mountain and urges him to drink the restorative potion: “‘Amis,’ fet ele, ‘kar bevez! / Jeo sai bien que vus [a] lassez: / Si recuvrez vostre vertu!’8 This is the turning point of the narrative. The young man rejects her plea in his desire to reach the summit as soon as possible. In Milun Marie reserves the moment of significant dialogue until Milun confronts the young knight whose great renown has eclipsed his own. When Milun is unhorsed, the young knight perceives his white beard and courteously and apologetically asks him to remount. Milun sees the distinguishing ring on the young man’s finger and asks where he obtained it. In the next twenty-five lines the young man tells the story of his life and is united with his father after twenty years. In Lanval Marie describes Lanval’s unfortunate situation in Arthur’s realm and his encounter with the fairy mistress. Now Lanval’s life and situation are completely changed as he has the funds to exercise largesse. But the queen’s approach to him changes his life immediately. The queen’s offer of love and his rejection of her occupy more than thirty lines of the narrative. By quoting their interview verbatim Marie captures the drama of the queen’s offended pride and her insult of Lanval. Moreover, only by quoting Lanval’s words directly can one appreciate the virulence of his response to her and the excessive language “Dunt il se repenti sovent” (290). Not only does Lanval declare his love more beautiful than the queen, ‘Une de celes ke la sert, Tute la plus povre meschine, Vaut meuz de vus, dame reïne, De cors, de vis et de beauté, D’enseignement et de bunté.’ (298-302)

8

Marie de France, Lais, ed. Alfred Ewert (Oxford: Blackwell, 1965; 1944), vv. 185-87. All future citations of the Lais are from this edition.

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It is these precise words of excess, of course, that will structure the remainder of the lai and the trial that follows, for Lanval now must not only produce his lady, something she had warned him about, but he must prove that even her lowliest servant is more beautiful than the queen to prove the truth of what he said and thus avoid the charge of slander. Marie rarely uses dialogue in unimportant situations. On two occasions she has a character recapitulate events that the reader already knows. The instance in Guigemar, when Guigemar is asked to tell his story to the young woman, seems the most gratuitous. The reader has already been through the narrative so it hardly seems necessary for Guigemar to spend twenty-six lines (311-36) recounting what the reader already knows. But in the instance in Eliduc one can see the reason for Marie having Guilladun tell of Eliduc’s deception and her own innocence in following him abroad: ‘Dame, jo sui de Logres nee, Fille a un rei de la cuntree. Mut ai amé un chevalier, Eliduc le bon soudeer; Ensemble od lui m’en amena. Peché ad fet k’il m’enginna: Femme ot espuse; nel me dist Në unques semblant ne m’en fist. Quant de sa femme oï parler, De duel kë oi m’estuet paumer. Vileinement descunseillee M’ad en autre tere laissee; Trahi[e] m’ad, ne sai quei deit. Mut est fole quë humme creit.’ (1071-84)

By her words and unaware that Guildeluec is Eliduc’s wife, one can see the effectiveness of having Guilladun proclaim her ignorance and hence innocence. What is fascinating here is the twist Marie places on the usual Ovidian scenario of a young woman who foolishly leaves her own country and family for love only to be betrayed by the man. It helps explain the unusual conclusion of Marie’s narrative. Whereas Eliduc does lead Guilladun astray, he does not do so merely for his own pleasure. Unlike Ovid’s mythical male characters, Eliduc acts with conscious concern for Guilladun and does not simply abandon her. It is this that allows Marie not to bring harsh judgment on him

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despite his betrayal of Guildeluec. Guildeluec does not seem to blame Eliduc for having fallen in love with another woman. Marie also seems to judge him for his conduct and not his emotional attachment. In fact, after Guildeluec hears Guilladun explain her situation, it is she who defends Eliduc’s conduct to the grief-striken girl. Marie also uses dialogue for moments in which there is a significant warning that defines the narrative. In Les Deus Amanz the king’s daughter explains to the young man that she knows that he is not strong enough to carry her to the top of the hill without special assistance (84-87). And she explains that she loves her father too much simply to run off with her lover and cause her father such grief (8892). Instead she proposes that he go to her aunt in Salerno for the strength-giving medicine (93-116). This moment provides a potentially happy ending for the lai, but we know that the young man’s lack of mesure when on the hill undoes the young woman’s thoughtful preparation. In Guigemar the hero receives a warning from the dying doe after she has been fatally wounded by Guigemar during the hunt. Until this scene in the story Guigemar’s life has been defined by his lack of interest in marriage even to the extent that many suspected that he had no interest in women. Now the wounded doe warns him that he cannot be cured from his own wound unless he does fall in love: ‘Oï, lase! jo sui ocise! E tu, vassal, ki m’as nafree, Tel seit la tue destinee: Jamais n’aies tu med[e]cine! Ne par herbe ne par racine Ne par mire ne par pociun N’avras tu jamés garisun De la plaie ke as en la quisse, De s[i] ke cele te guarisse Ki suffera pur tue amur Issi grant peine e tel dolur Ke unkes femme taunt ne suffri; Et tu ref[e]ras taunt pur li, Dunt tut cil s’esmerveillerunt Ki aiment e amé avrunt U ki pois amerunt aprés.’ (106-21)

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At this point the narrative changes in that Guigemar realizes that he must leave his own country (he knows that he loves no woman there) and go “en aventure.” In Lanval the fairy mistress changes Lanval’s life entirely in providing him with the means to become a popular knight in Arthur’s court, but she also warns him (143-50) that he may not ever let anyone know about her or he will lose her forever. This, of course, also foreshadows what will happen and defines the remainder of the narrative. In Yonec the hawk-lover gives the young woman an explanation that is not unlike that of the fairy-mistress in Lanval: “‘Dame,’ fet il, ‘quant vus plerra, / Ja l’ure ne trespassera.’” Thus she can see him whenever it will please her. But he warns her of the potential consequences: ‘Mes tele mesure esgardez Que nus ne seium encumbrez: Ceste vielle nus traïra, [E] nuit e jur nus gaitera.’ (199-204)

In the case of the hawk-lover, however, the foreshadowing is of his death and not just the end of their seeing one another. Just as he feared, the lovers are discovered and the lover is killed. Marie also uses dialogue to present conflicts and crises in her narrative. In Lanval we have looked at the scene between the queen and Lanval in which they insult one another. And we have seen the confrontation between Milun and his son and the resolution of the lai which follows immediately upon the conclusion of their encounter. In Laüstic, the shortest of Marie’s lai after Chevrefoïl, the narrative turns on the subtle confrontation between the wary husband and his wife. When she has told him her reason for getting up at night, an insult to him because of its implication that he does not know “joïe” and that her love lies elsewhere, the angry husband not only traps the bird but sarcastically addresses her wakefulness as if he were concerned for her welfare: ‘Dame,’ fet il, ‘u estes vus? Venez avant! Parlez a nus! J’ai le laüstic englué, Pur quei vus avez tant veillé. Desor poëz gisir en peis: Il ne vus esveillerat meis.’ (105-10)

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Marie might have told us about the husband’s anger and how he responded. But a third person narrative once removed, no matter how well and vigorously reported, could never equal the powerful, emotion-filled violence of these few lines in which the husband pretends to be answering her comment about hearing the laüstic as if he were doing her a kindness. For the most part poets reserve the discussion and debate over love for the monologue. But Marie twice uses the dialogue to examine the question of love. In this amusing exchange between Guigemar and the lady, the young man tries to persuade the lady that she need not resist his sexual advances long. Only a loose woman (“Femme jolive de mestier”) must make the man wait a long time to emphasize that she is not accustomed to being an easy conquest. But the lady “de bon purpens” and who has both “valur” and “sens” will not remain too reserved when she has found a man “a sa manere.” Then the couple will take their pleasure privately without anyone knowing of it or having heard about it: “Bele dame, finum cest plait!” (526) This is a curious argument set against the background of the debate over love at the time. It is clearly in the young man’s amorous interests to persuade the lady to accept his love, but his logic naturally places the emphasis on the free granting of love once the woman has found a man to her liking. It is amusing that she is so easily persuaded that delay is unnecessary to her honor: La dame entent que veirs li dit, E li otreie sanz respit L’amur de li, e il la baise. Desore est Guigemar a aise. (527-30)

In another important dialogue, this time in Equitan, the king and the seneschal’s wife discuss the possibility of having love between two people of different stations in life. The king discloses his love for her but she argues that she would be ill advised to enter into such a relationship with him because he is so wealthy and powerful and her husband is his vassal (117-36). The king would naturally think that this love was in his possession and at his command. She continues her argument by stating that love is of no value if the parties are not equal:

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Amur n’est pruz se n’est egals. Meuz vaut un povre[s] hum lëals, Si en sei ad sen e valur, [E] greinur joie est de s’amur Quë il n’est de prince u de rei, Quant il n’ad lëauté en sei. (137-42)

The idea that love must be freely given reminds one immediately of the logic of Héloise who proclaimed love incompatible with marriage because the marriage contract requires love to be given. Because love can only be given freely, it cannot exist in marriage. The twist on this argument is that it does not concern marriage, but substitutes the requirement from rank. Here he would consider her love his by right of rank and so, she argues, love is only worthy if between equals. The king cleverly turns her argument to his own advantage by telling her that such calculations really are beneath love, that such considerations are only a “bargaine de burgeis” (152). The king tries to take the high ground. Love has nothing to do with position and wealth. Clearly a “riches princes de chastel” would love a poor woman even if she had only “sun mantel” as long as she were “curteise e franche de curage” (156). To prove himself to be of this generous and noble cast of mind, the king says: “Ma chiere dame, a vus m’otrei! / Ne me tenez mie pur rei, / Mes pur vostre hum e vostre ami!” (169-71). The king’s “high-minded” argument and his willingness to become not just her equal but her vassal is punctuated by his condemnation of base people who deceive: “Cil ki de amur sunt nov[e]lier / E ki se aturnent de trichier, / Il sunt gabé et deceü” (163-65). Although it is difficult to imagine how the king does not see the self-condemnation in his assertion, one can see that the king’s new position as the “vassal” of the seneschal’s wife will lead to disaster. The discussion of love probes the question whether there can be love between unequal partners. The king rejects his title to superiority, but the result is not equal partners but an upside down relationship in which the king becomes the underling and accepts the dominant role of the seneschal’s wife. Another significant use Marie makes of dialogue is in revealing a person’s character. It should be noted here that Marie’s characters often show their flaws or good qualities in what they say, perhaps even more than in what they do. In Les Deus Amanz the young lover, so prudent in following the king’s daughter’s advice in going to Salerno

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for the necessary strength-enhancing potion, nonetheless reveals his youthful lack of mesure in contradicting the girl’s urgent insistence during his climb up the hill: “‘Amis,’ fet ele, ‘kar bevez! / Jeo sai bien que vus [a]lassez: / Si recuvrez vostre vertu!’” In this crucial moment the young boy rejects the girl’s advice to drink the potion answering her common-sense urgency with a spurious response that pausing to drink would delay their joy unnecessarily while he drank the potion. In Le Fresne Marie uses dialogue to reveal the mother’s own uncharitable nature. When she hears that her neighbor has had twins, she maliciously implies that no woman can have twins unless she has had sexual relations with two men. Marie has the woman’s words spoken in open court in front of everyone. This makes the damage of the slanderous remarks even greater as the lady of the court speaks with a certain authority. Her husband makes it clear that such an opinion is not believed by the enlightened person, but the damage has been done. The fact that Marie has the woman speak in front of people rather than privately to her husband reveals her poor judgment. Later, when she has twins herself, she expresses her remorse that she condemned herself in open court when slandering her neighbor. But at this point she is unwilling to accept the shame and even considers killing one child: “‘Un des enfanz m’estuet murdrir: / Meuz le voil vers Deu amender / Que mei hunir e vergunder’” (92-94). But those who served her refused to allow her to make such a catastrophic mistake: “De hummë ocire n’est pas gas.” (98) At the lai’s conclusion the mother recognizes the blanket and ring she had given to her daughter nearly twenty years earlier. Here she could have remained silent and hidden her crime, but her emotional response to her bereft daughter’s plight no longer allows her to hide her guilt. Marie not only makes her confess her crime in open court, “Oiant tuz, dist, ne ceil [e] mie” (449), but she has her acknowledge her unjust accusation against her neighbor: ‘Sire, quant parduné l’avez, Jel vus dirai; si m’escutez! Jadis par ma grant vileinie De ma veisine dis folie; De ses deus enfanz mesparlai: Vers mei meïsmes [mes]errai.’ (465-70)

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When one says that Marie reveals character in her use of dialogue, one must understand this in the medieval sense of character. All men have free will to choose to do good or evil. When they choose to oppose God, that decision and their actions establish their character. In the Conquête de Constantinople Villehardouin takes great care to record the promises made by the men representing the crusade in negotiations with the Venetians for naval passage to the Holy Land. Promises are the formal decisions made to support an agreement. If men follow their good promises with deeds, then there is harmony between the world of thought and action. When they did not fulfill their promises, the Fourth Crusade went astray. In the Christian perspective redemption allows the human being an opportunity to erase his past and set a new course in eternity. This the mother does in her confession with her husband’s guarantee of pardon and the mother’s crime, though it caused her daughter much pain, is removed. The father’s own statement expresses it all with no hint of recrimination: ‘[…] De ceo sui liez; Unques mes ne fu [i] si haitiez; Quant nostre fille avum trovee, Grant joie nus ad Deu donee, Ainz que li pechez fust dublez.’ (485-89)

Neither Fresne nor the husband questions how the mother could have done what she did. Man’s capacity to act selfishly is well established. What matters is repentance and the willingness to confess, to bear the burden of one’s sin. Yet, in Christian terms, those that are “heavy laden” find rest. The father’s answer focuses not on the pains of this life but on the gift that God had restored to them their daughter in time to save the family from a real grief of permanent alienation. In Eliduc Marie presents one of the more complicated lais in the collection. It is interesting that Marie names the work not after Guildeluec, Eliduc’s wife, and the figure in the lai whose good character and understanding restore life to Guilladun and happiness to all, but after Eliduc, the man who betrays his wife, lies to the foreign king he serves, and deludes the king’s daughter. Each of these deceptions is underscored by Marie in having them “acted out” in dialogue form. In other words, Eliduc must voice his own lies and not merely have them mentioned.

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After Eliduc has left his wife (because some have slandered him to the king) and has been serving a foreign king, he falls in love with the king’s daughter. Marie describes how the daughter confesses her love for Eliduc and asks for his response: ‘Dame,’ fet il, ‘grant gre vus sai De vostre amur, grant joie en ai; [E] quant vus tant me avez preisié, Durement en dei estre lié.’ (519-22)

There is no doubt here that Eliduc has the perfect opportunity to reveal his marriage to Guilladun but he chooses not to do so. Rather he leads her to believe that he returns her love. He goes on to say that he can do nothing until he has served his pledge to her father. She then offers herself completely to Eliduc and, Marie says, “Bien s’esteent aseüré” (537) though “A cele feiz n’unt plus parlé” (538). Eliduc has accepted an unspoken commitment that he cannot keep. Earlier, in monologue, he had professed his desire to maintain loyalty. Although he could not keep himself from loving her: ja ne li querra amur Ke li [a]turt a deshonur, Tant pur sa femme garder fei, Tant pur ceo qu’il est od le rei. En grant peine fu Elidus. (473-77)9

But Eliduc’s private vow to keep faith with his wife was belied by the open dialogue in which he made an avowed commitment. This leads to his later return to Guilladun, even though he is married, and to open lies to his wife about why he must return to the foreign territory and leave her again. He must feign to her that his grief and morose attitude are not her fault but he is grieved that he has promised the foreign king to return to his service (727-32). When he returns to Guilladun, he tells her that they must leave together in the evening–no discussion with her father and no marriage for her. They are in the position of proscribed lovers, the lovers of the alba, the adulterous lovers Tristan and Iseut or Abelard and Héloïse. Their love is an 9

It is noteworthy here that Marie innovates in having the man have the inner debate in monologue, something more often given to the woman in the Ovidian tradition.

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outlaw existence outside the ban of society. On the ship Guilladun learns her true situation and falls unconscious. She is not dead nor can she live in her current status. Eliduc cannot move forward in life in his current dilemma: he cannot continue to love Guilladun and not betray his wife if life is to go on. Guilladun might be his concubine in another setting (Le Fresne), but she cannot live with Eliduc in society. It is as if she were in suspended animation. This situation can only be resolved by Guildeluec. If she acts in the way one would expect an ordinary human being to react, the situation must end in grief for all three of them. If Marie had chosen to remove her from the story by death, the moral dilemma would remain unresolved. Only Marie’s focus on a love of another dimension removes the obstacle and resolves the dilemma in happiness for all. Guildeluec’s love for Eliduc transcends her mortal love for him in that she wishes to see Eliduc and Guilladun happy. As discussed earlier, it is she who understands Eliduc’s dilemma and defends his actions to Guilladun. One can only say here that Eliduc is pardoned. His sin of thought, never quite translated into open betrayal of his wife, has led to the impasse. It is interesting that he never confesses and repents as did the mother in Le Fresne, he is merely granted “grace.” He is saved despite his sins as man is saved without really meriting it. And his “salvation” depends on the greater understanding of Guildeluec and her love for him. Marie pauses on Guildeluec’s reflection and has her express her thoughts openly to her valet: ‘Veiz tu,’ fet ele, ‘ceste femme, Que de beuté resemble gemme? Ceo est l’amie mun seignur, Pur quei il meine tel dolur. Par fei, jeo ne me merveil mie, Quant si bele femme est perie. Tant par pité, tant par amur, Jamés n’avrai joie nul jur.’ (1021-28)

By using direct dialogue to express the wife’s character through her own words, Marie lays emphasis on the moment and underscores the woman’s compassion and love. In the Metamorphoses and the Heroides Ovid makes popular the use of the monologue for inner debate on ethical questions concerning love and its power over the individual’s ability to reason. He also uses the monologue as a meditation on love and the effects it has on the

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individual. As mentioned above, Marie’s shorter narrative form probably limited her use of the longer monologue as found in Chrétien or in the romans d’antiquité. However, she does use the monologue to describe the effects of love in a classic instance in Guigemar. Guigemar has awakened after his voyage in the unmanned boat and he looks into the eyes of the “dame” of the castle. He is so struck by love that “Tut ad sun païs ublïé” (382) and “De sa plaie nul mal ne sent” (383). He realizes that this must be the love spoken of by the doe. When he is left alone, Guigemar suffers the classic “passio” described by Ovid in the Ars Amatoria. He is “pensif” and “anguissus.” If this lady does not cure him, then he is surely destined to die. Marie’s use of description here lapses into free indirect discourse as the words seem to reflect Guigemar’s thoughts: Ne seit uncore que ceo deit, Mes nepurquant bien s’aparceit Si par la dame n’est gariz, De la mort est seürs e fiz. (395-98)

Marie then slides from the free indirect discourse into direct citation: ‘Allas!’ fet il, ‘quel le ferai? Irai a li, si li dirai Quë ele eit merci e pité De cest cheitif descunseillé. S’ele refuse ma prïere E tant seit orgoilluse e fiere, Dunc m’estuet [il] a doel murir E de cest mal tuz jurs languir.’ (399-406)

The doe had told him that the lady must also suffer for him in love or his wound cannot be cured. This is, of course, the classic love wound which only requited love can cure. Then his obsession or passio causes him to recall her words, her features, her eyes and mouth (as the god of Love tells the Amant in the Roman de la Rose). These thoughts bring joy but pain: “Entre ses denz merci li crie” (417). His pain is so intense that he almost calls out her name even though he is alone. Had he known that she too was suffering because of love, he would have found some “rasuagement” that might have relieved somewhat the “dolur” that caused him such pallor.

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But more often Marie uses the monologue to reveal an inner debate of an ethical nature closely tied to the dialogues which reveal character. In Ovid’s monologues the character’s inner debate often concerns the wisdom of leaving one’s country or family to follow the stranger. Or in the case of Byblis and Myrrha the debate is over a moral issue: the desire for incestuous love and the reasons against it. Because these monologues contain a conflict between reason and love, it is reason that suffers. Normally the character adopts the point of view of his emotions pretending that it is the more reasonable view–as Byblis does in arguing that there would be nothing wrong with her love for her brother if he did not happen by chance to be her brother. In Equitan the king reflects on his love for the seneschal’s wife and the conflict there is between his love and duty. He realizes that love has struck him and that he will do great harm if he makes love to the seneschal’s wife: ‘E si jo l’aim, jeo ferai mal: Ceo est la femme al seneschal. Garder li dei amur e fei, Si cum jeo voil k’il face a mei.’ (71-74)

The king knows that much depends on the loyalty he expects from the seneschal and the loyalty he owes his vassal. One might say that such obligations made and kept are the basis of civilization. Moreover, he also perceives what great personal injury he would do his loyal vassal: “Si par nul engin le saveit, / Bien sai que mut l’en pesereit. Thus both from a public and private viewpoint the king’s conduct would be very injurious. He understands this, yet in the next breath his desire invents a spurious argument in support of his love: ‘Mes nepurquant pis iert asez Que pur li seië afolez. Si bele dame tant mar fust, S’ele n’amast u dru eüst! Que devendreit sa curteisie, S’ele n’amast de druërie.’ (77-82)

The king’s first conclusion can be seen either as a most selfish choice of oneself over someone else or one might imagine that it would be, according to rank, worse for the king to suffer than his vassal. His next argument is a pretense of concern for the seneschal’s wife and,

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perhaps, Marie’s sarcastic remark against certain attitudes at court which might be considered sophisticated in some circles. Were she not to have “druërie,” the poor woman would be deprived of her “curteisie”! The king’s next argument is that every man would act as he is: “‘Suz ciel n’ad humme, s’ele amast, / Ki durement n’en amendast’” (83-84). If every man would return love to this woman if she loved him, can he be blamed for having fallen in love with her? And, finally, the seneschal himself cannot be so selfish as to think that he can keep such a woman all to himself: Li seneschal, si l’ot cunter, Ne l’en deit mie trop peser; Sul ne la peot il nient tenir: Certes jeo voil od li partir.’ (85-88)

He concludes his argument by returning to the earlier reference to the pain he knows that his actions would cause the seneschal. But this time he concludes that the seneschal should not be so unreasonable to be hurt. Surely he cannot think that he could keep his wife selfishly to himself. In Yonec Marie uses the monologue to express the “imprisoned” wife’s predicament and her thoughts (67-104). She laments her “destinee” that has her locked up in a room never to be free unless death should relieve her (“Ja n’en istrai si par mort nun,” 70). She questions the old man’s jealousy that keeps her even from going to hear mass. He must have been baptized in the “flum d’enfern,” she speculates. She even curses her parents for having married her to him. At this point one might expect her to meditate some crime for her deliverance. Rather she wishes for the kind of magic escape to which ladies of old could resort in her country when “aventure” brought them “chevaliers” for lovers that only they could see: ‘Si ceo peot estrë e ceo fu, Si unc a nul est avenu, Deu, ki de tut ad poësté, Il en face ma volenté!’ (101-04)

This can only be the lai version of the “epic prayer” where the chevalier prays for his miracle citing biblical precedent as proof that it can be if God wills it. It is curious that the lady prays to God for a lover and even stranger when her hawk-lover appears. Aware of the

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extraordinary event and now frightened that the shape-changing hawk was not sent by God, the lady makes the hawk-lover go through a ceremony of the Eucharist to prove that he is not a fiend. In Chaitivel the lady’s ethical lament is of quite a different order. After she has watched her four lovers in the tourney and realizes that three are dead and the other wounded in such a way as to be a lover no longer, the lady laments: ‘Lasse,’ fet ele, ‘quei ferai? Jamés haitie ne serai! Ces quatre chevalers amoue E chescun par sei cuveitoue; Mut par aveit en eus granz biens; Il m’amoënt sur tute riens. Pur lur beauté, pur lur prüesce, Pur lur valur, pur lur largesce Les fis d’amer [a] mei entendre; Nes voil tuz perdre pur l’un prendre. (147-56)

What Marie brings out most strikingly in the monologue is the subject of the lady’s lament. She expresses no pity for the three that are dead and nothing for the wounded survivor. Her lament is that her great loss means that she will never be happy again. In Eliduc the ethical question follows the Ovidian models rather closely. After revealing her plight to the chamberlain (337-50)–that she has fallen in love with the new mercenary of her father and must have him for a husband or die from grief–she sends word by her servant to Eliduc. During his absence she meditates on her situation: ‘Lasse, cum est mis quors suspris Pur un humme de autre païs! Ne sai s’il est de haut gent, Si s’en irat hastivement; Jeo remeindrai cume dolente. Folement ai mise m’entente. Unques mes ne parlai fors ier, E or li faz de amer preier. Jeo quid kë il me blamera; S’il est curteis, gre me savra; Ore est del tut en aventure. E si il n’ad de m’amur cure, Mut me tendrai [a] maubaillie; Jamés n’avrai joie en ma vie.’ (387-400)

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She laments that her heart has been taken over by a man from another country, the classic Ovidian situation. She does not even know if he is of the high nobility. If he leaves her quickly, she will remain in grief. She has set her heart on him even though she first spoke to him “ier.” Now she is seeking his love actively! If he has no interest in her, she will be miserable the rest of her life. This monologue reveals to the reader the state of mind of Guilladun. Clearly she is ready to give up everything for Eliduc. Like the women in Ovid’s Heroides and Metamorphoses she can see that her decision is precipitate and unwise, placing her life’s happiness in the power of someone who may not even be of her own station. Having this information revealed in monologue not only heightens the dramatic moment but it prepares one better for Guilladun’s collapse. We understand the potential impact on her from the monologue and her expressed feeling that she would no longer have a reason to live without Eliduc. At first glance one might expect to find more use of monologue and dialogue in the longer romances of the period. They are more imitative of history and they follow in the love traditions of Virgil and the medieval Eneas. But it has long been accepted that the lai differs from the roman in the quality of aventure that we encounter in each form. In the roman the hero seeks aventure and often succeeds in his aventure through his prowess and use of arms. The amorous theme of the roman is often closely linked to the knight’s aventure and is dependent on the outcome. In Marie’s lais the principal character, often a woman, has the aventure come to him (or her). The aventure is always closely linked to love and the outcome of that love is dependent upon the resolution of the aventure. But the resolution of the aventure does not depend on feats of arms; rather it is the result of personal decisions the characters make or of turns of event that reveal or force personal decisions. Because of this the monologue and dialogue have a much larger role proportionately in the lai than in the roman. Curiously, however, we have seen that Marie used the dialogue much more frequently than the monologue. This may well be the result of the brevity of the form. The greatest use of monologue is in the longest lai, Eliduc. But the use of dialogue for dramatic purpose and as a conclusive device is everywhere in the lais. This is probably attributable to the fact that the principal action of the lai often involves decisions made by someone that affects the life of another character.

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The resolution of both lives is effected by the decisions that are made. What better way for Marie to underscore and vivify the result and at the same time cause that moment to stand out than to have it played live before the reader as if it were transpiring then, as if we were hearing the voices of the characters at that very moment. Marie’s narratives have long been applauded for their timeless observations on human nature and for the fact that they seem timeless in their appeal. It is appropriate that Marie found a narrative technique that would give her works an immediacy of impact without divorcing them from that charming larger narrative frame listeners and readers have always loved, “Il y avait une fois […].”

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Le siège de Narbonne dans le Siège de Barbastre et Buevon de Conmarchis ien éloignée de la réalité historique, l’œuvre de fiction qu’est le Siège de Barbastre,1 composée à la fin du XIIe siècle ou au début du XIIIe siècle2 et appartenant au cycle de Narbonne,3 caractérisé formellement par un vers orphelin en fin de laisse, “relève d’une application de plus en plus systématique du procédé de l’extension généalogique. Le choix qui est fait de s’intéresser à un des frères de Guillaume les moins en vue, Beuves de Conmarchis, est un signe évident de secondarisation.”4 Toutefois, si Beuve est dans tout le cycle un personnage assez effacé, le ou les créateurs du Siège de Barbastre n’ont pas pour autant voulu faire de lui un héros conquérant à l’instar de son illustre frère Guillaume, et ont choisi de le faire capturer par les Sarrasins sous les murs de la cité de son père, Narbonne, puis emmener à Barbastre, qui sera finalement prise par les Français: dans cette chanson, “la guerre de conquête n’est pas recherchée mais subie.”5 C’est au siège de Narbonne, soit à l’épisode liminaire de cette fable, où se noue l’intrigue, que nous avons choisi de nous intéresser, d’abord dans la chanson anonyme, puis dans Buevon de Conmarchis,6 le remaniement qu’a exécuté Adenet le Roi à la fin du XIIIe siècle. Nous souhaiterions simplement montrer que la première version 1

Nous utiliserons l’édition de B. Guidot (Paris: Champion, 2000). Cf. B. Guidot, pp. 40-41. 3 Ce cycle comprend Girart de Vienne, Aymeri de Narbonne, les Narbonnais, le Siège de Barbastre, Guibert d’Andrenas, la Mort Aymeri. 4 C. Cazanave, “Quand les correspondants épiques d’une ‘vraie’ croisade s’ouvrent de plus en plus largement au romanesque: du Siège de Barbastre assonancé au Barbastre du Roman en prose, constat de quelques transformations,” dans L’Epique: fins et confins, éd. P. Frantz et al. (Besançon: Presses Universitaires Franc-Comtoises, 2000), pp. 61-91, p. 66. 5 C. Cazanave, “Barbastro/Barbastre ou quand la légende épique s’empare d’un territoire appartenant à l’histoire,” dans Le Territoire: Etudes sur l’espace humain, Cahiers CRLH-CIRAOI n°3, Saint-Denis, Publications de l’Université de la Réunion, (Paris: Didier-Érudition, 1986), pp. 31-50, p. 38. 6 A. Henry, Les œuvres d’Adenet le Roi. Tome II, Buevon de Conmarchis (Brugge: De Tempel, 1953). 2

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comporte quelques étrangetés auxquelles le remaniement a tâché de remédier.7 En 544 vers très alertes, entre l’usuel prologue (1-5) et un prologue interne (539-44), le conteur du Siège de Barbastre a su, avec talent et énergie, dérouler l’action qui mène, en une journée, de Narbonne à Barbastre; avec énergie et talent mais au détriment, parfois, de la clarté ou de la vraisemblance. Voici les faits tels qu’ils se présentent dans cette version. Puisqu’il faut que Beuve soit capturé par les Sarrasins à Narbonne, Beuve est donc à Narbonne au début de la chanson: Li quens fu a Nerbone, sa grant cité fondee; Sez filz ot departis, chascuns ot sa contree, N’ot que Guillaume o lui a la chiere membree, Bueve de Conmarchis, Ermengart la senee. (7-10)

Quelle est la raison de sa présence en ces lieux? Le Siège de Barbastre n’en dit mot. Pour le savoir, c’est ailleurs qu’il faut chercher. En effet, les compilateurs qui ont organisé le cycle de Narbonne se sont évertués, à la fin des Narbonnais,8 qui précède dans le cycle le Siège de Barbastre, à rendre cette présence plausible: tandis que tous les fils d’Aymeri y sont censés participer à la victoire sur les Sarrasins au siège de Narbonne9 puis, une fois les ennemis vaincus et les festivités d’usage achevées, rentrer chacun où le devoir l’appelle,10 Beuve

7

Faute de place, nous n’avons pu exploiter ici la version en prose du XVe siècle, Le Roman de Guillaume d’Orange, éds. M. Tyssens, N. Henrard et L. Gemenne (Paris: Champion, 2000). 8 Les Narbonnais, éd. H. Suchier, 2 tomes (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1898). 9 Cf. J. H. Grisward, Archéologie de l’épopée médiévale (Paris: Payot, 1981), pp. 115-16: “si les contraintes de l’organisation cyclique n’avaient pas conduit l’assembleur à différer l’arrivée de Beuve, héros du Siège de Barbastre, l’ouest eût vu s’avancer en ce point du récit également l’Aymeride manquant” (voir également la note 81 de la page 134). Du reste, dans le Siège de Barbastre, lorsque Beuve assiégé dans Barbastre envoie chercher du secours à Narbonne et charge ses messagers de rappeler à son père et à ses frères les services qu’il leur a rendus, c’est bien au siège de Narbonne que racontent les Narbonnais qu’il semble faire référence quand il rappelle l’aide qu’il a apportée à Aymeri (3469-77). 10 C’est ainsi que Guibert part à Paris pour être sénéchal du roi Louis, que Garin retourne à Pavie, Bernard à Brubant, Aÿmer à Venice, Hernaut à Gironde (Narbonnais, 7940-55): Beuve aurait dû repartir en Gascogne. Il faut noter que

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n’arrive à Narbonne qu’après la bataille, de sorte qu’il a tout loisir de séjourner chez ses parents aussi longtemps qu’il le désire: “Ainsi sejorne Bueves de Comarcis / Avec son pere plus de .v. mois o .vi.; / Vont an riviere et an bois chascun dis” (Narbonnais, 8051-53). Bien plus, dans le raccord, le jeune Beuve du début des Narbonnais est fort opportunément devenu le père de deux adolescents, Girart et Gui, ce qui correspond très exactement à sa situation dans le Siège de Barbastre. Lorsque la fin de la dernière laisse des Narbonnais annonce le retour prochain des Sarrasins vaincus à Narbonne, le récit du Siège de Barbastre n’a donc plus qu’à commencer. Puisque Beuve doit être capturé par les Sarrasins à Narbonne, les Sarrasins attaquent la cité comtale. Si le conteur a habilement préparé ses lecteurs ou auditeurs à la menace qui vient d’Espagne, notamment en annonçant à plusieurs reprises une invasion imminente (laisse I, 2838, laisse II, 61-66, laisse III, 83-84) et en répartissant sur trois laisses (III-V) l’arrivée d’un messager venant ensanglanté de Gascogne faire à Aymeri la même annonce, on ignore absolument pour quelles raisons les Sarrasins ont décidé d’attaquer Narbonne à ce moment précis.11 Certes, ils sont extrêmement nombreux, particulièrement belliqueux et bien résolus à conquérir le royaume de France (34-35), à prendre Narbonne et à régler son sort à Aymeri (37, 145-46, 160-62), mais on ne sait rien des motifs qui les ont incités à entreprendre leur expédition à ce moment-là. Sur ce point, le Siège de Barbastre se montre très différent des autres chansons du cycle qui contiennent un siège de Narbonne. Assurément, depuis qu’Aymeri, lors du désastreux retour de Roncevaux, s’est emparé de Narbonne, les Sarrasins n’ont eu de cesse de reprendre leur bien et Aymeri de défendre son fief. Cependant, tandis que, dans Aymeri de Narbonne, les Narbonnais, la Mort Aymeri, les Sarrasins choisissent, pour attaquer, un moment où ils savent la

Guillaume reste également à Narbonne (Narbonnais, 7959), sans qu’il soit précisé pourquoi, disponible pour de nouvelles aventures. 11 On ignore également pourquoi les Sarrasins ont décidé de passer d’abord par la Gascogne, mais cela permet au narrateur de faire prévenir Aymeri de leur arrivée par un messager, et c’est donc sans doute un simple artifice narratif. Curieuse coïncidence, cependant, la Gascogne est justement le royaume qu’Aymeri avait destiné à Beuve dans les Narbonnais.

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ville particulièrement vulnérable,12 dans le Siège de Barbastre, ils attaquent dans des circonstances qui, si elles leur sont objectivement très favorables (leurs troupes comptent soixante mille hommes, alors qu’Aymeri–mais les Sarrasins l’ignorent–ne dispose que de trois cents chevaliers), ne sont absolument pas vues commes telles. La motivation des Sarrasins ne s’explique, comme la présence de Beuve à Narbonne, que par la transition entre les Narbonnais et le Siège de Barbastre. A la fin des Narbonnais, l’émir de Tudèle, vaincu, s’enfuit vers la Perse (7656-59) en se jurant de revenir avant un an avec deux fois plus d’hommes (7647-49), ce que le narrateur commente ainsi: Verité fu, ainz de rien n’en fausa: Ançois un an Aymeri coreça Et son filz Bueve en Barbastre an mena, Don la chançons si bone emprès vendra. (7650-53)13

La transition entre les deux chansons est donc simple et habile qui, outre qu’elle escamote l’énorme distance temporelle qui sépare l’action des Narbonnais de celle du Siège de Barbastre,14 en vient à justifier l’existence du siège de Narbonne dans le Siège de Barbastre. Simple et habile, mais évidemment artificielle.15 Puisque Beuve doit être capturé par les Sarrasins à Narbonne et que le lieu de l’action doit ensuite se déplacer à Barbastre, il n’est pas étonnant qu’Aymeri, à Narbonne, ne soit entouré que de trois cents 12 Nous nous permettons de renvoyer ici à la deuxième partie de notre communication, “La Mort Aymeri de Narbonne: paradoxe de la tradition,” dans L'Épopée romane: Actes du XVe Congrès international Rencesvals de Poitiers, 21-27 août 2000, Civilisation Médiévale, XIII, 2 tomes (Poitiers: Université de Poitiers, Centre d'Études Supérieures de Civilisation Médiévale, 2002), t. 1, pp. 617-25. 13 Dans les manuscrits du grand cycle B1 et B2, les Narbonnais sont suivis du Couronnement de Louis et la fin des Narbonnais sert donc à introduire cette chanson (cf. Narbonnais, t. II, p. 101, laisse CCXXXIX, 14-21), mais l’annonce du retour de l’émir vaincu a été maintenue (ibid., p. 97, laisse CCXXV, 28-34). 14 Ainsi, de même que le jeune Beuve des Narbonnais est dans le Siège de Barbastre le père de Girart et Gui, Guillaume est entre-temps devenu le maître d’Orange. Est-ce pour tenter de masquer cette faille temporelle qu’on le fait rester à Narbonne à la fin des Narbonnais? 15 Peu nous importe ici que l’émir de Babylone des Narbonnais ait été remplacé dans le Siège de Barbastre par l’émir d’Espagne et l’émir de Cordes.

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chevaliers: des forces très importantes lui auraient sans doute permis de triompher des Sarrasins. Or, très étrangement, et d’autant plus, on l’a vu, que le narrateur a pris grand soin, dès la première laisse, de préparer ses lecteurs ou auditeurs à l’invasion sarrasine, et qu’il a même rendu cette menace encore plus épouvantable en la faisant intervenir au beau milieu d’une grande fête à Narbonne, où Aymeri fait adouber cent nouveaux chevaliers, le comte, apprenant que cent soixante mille Sarrasins s’apprêtent à attaquer, ne prend absolument pas au sérieux les déclarations du messager: “Vassal, dist Aymeris, ne vous esmaiés tant. L’amirans si se vante de folie moult grant. Ains que prende Nerbonne cuide je fere tant Que n’i avra mestier le pere a son enfant.” (147-50)

Plein de confiance en lui-même, Aymeri ne prend aucune disposition particulière et les réjouissances reprennent aussitôt: “Pour l’amour au message se vont esbaudissant. / Cil legier bacheler s’en vont esjoïssant / Et pour miex behourder lor lance paumoiant” (151-53). Cette insouciance générale, d’autant plus incompréhensible que le fougueux Girart, fils de Beuve, exprimait peu auparavant son regret de la paix et son désir de se mesurer aux Sarrasins (112-20), est confirmée par les paroles d’Aymeri lorsqu’il aperçoit l’avant-garde sarrasine, composée de vingt mille hommes: “Voir dist nostre messages dont nous gabions tant” (166). Aussitôt tous les chevaliers sautent en selle: il était bien temps! Les laisses suivantes font le récit d’une déconfiture narbonnaise, en trois temps. Lorsque les trois cents Français s’élancent contre les vingt mille guerriers de l’avant-garde sarrasine, l’atmosphère est particulièrement lourde et sombre: “A l’abessier des lances sont si mu et taisant / Que n’i ot on ne hu ne buisine sonnant” (185-86). Sept vers plus loin, au terme d’un violent affrontement, les Français doivent s’enfuir: “Ne porent plus souffrir no .III.C. combatant, / Ains lor livrent les dos si s’en tornent a tant” (194-95). Hermengart capturée, on fait demi-tour, on la délivre, on se remet à se battre avec énergie, “Mes tant fu aus paiens force et povoirs creüs” (306), que Beuve et ses deux fils sont abattus. Aymeri se précipite à leur secours, lorsqu’arrivent l’émir de Cordes et l’émir d’Espagne, avec vingt mille Sarrasins qui rompent les rangs dans un terrible fracas et empêchent toute intervention: “Iluec fu Guielins et Girars abatus, / Bueves de

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Conmarchis a l’amiral rendus, / Et Aymeris s’en torne” (323-25). Plus exactement, si “Aymeris s’en torne corouçous et marris” (332), ce sont tous les Français qui s’enfuient à nouveau vers Narbonne, mais, comme le précise le narrateur, soucieux de la gloire de son héros, “Aymeris va derriere con homs de moult grant pris” (337). La retraite est alors interrompue par Hermengart qui, du haut des murs, voit son époux pourchassé par dix mille Sarrasins, et crie à Guillaume de secourir son père et à Aymeri de faire face à ses ennemis. Aussitôt, Aymeri retrouve toute son ardeur guerrière et repart au combat, quant arrivent à nouveau les deux émirs et vingt mille chevaliers, de sorte qu’immédiatement, et pour la troisième mais dernière fois, “Aymeris s’en tourna” (363). Moins de deux cents vers après le début des combats, les Sarrasins encerclent la ville et installent le siège. Désespéré, Aymeri songe à livrer sa ville pour sauver les prisonniers, mais son épouse l’en dissuade énergiquement et Aymeri se range à son avis avec joie (laisse XIII). A partir de ce moment, il ne se passe plus rien dans Narbonne.16 Puisque Beuve doit être emmené à Barbastre, il est hors de question que les Sarrasins le tuent aussitôt qu’ils l’ont capturé. Telle est pourtant bien l’intention de l’émir d’Espagne, ravi d’apprendre que ceux qu’il tient sont membres de la famille d’Aymeri: “Corsols de Tabarie, toi pri que ne targier, Alés en son ce puy, fetes fourches drecier, Le linage Aymeri voudrai huy ledengier, Ja mes ne mengerai tant com soient entier!” (434-37)

Digne représentant du fier lignage, Beuve réplique hardiment que si on le tue, si même seulement on lui fait subir de mauvais traitements, son père, ses frères et tous ses parents n’auront de cesse de le venger (43948), ce qui provoque la rage de l’émir, bien décidé à faire exécuter sans tarder ses prisonniers (471-72), lorsque l’émir de Cordes, très calme, lui conseille de renoncer à son projet, en avançant un argument peu clair: “Sire, dist l’amustant, s’il vous plaist, non ferons, / Dant Aymeris li quens est de teles resons / Se tenoit un des nos n’en 16 Hermengart a conseillé à son époux de se rendre en France tandis qu’elle garderait la ville avec ses dames (395-406), mais il n’en fera rien. Il nous semble qu’il s’agissait plutôt d’une raillerie destinée à transformer l’état d’esprit d’Aymeri.

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prendroit raençons” (473-75). L’émir de Cordes semble considérer que, puisqu’Aymeri ne demanderait pas de rançon s’il capturait un Sarrasin, il est vain de tenter d’utiliser Beuve et ses fils comme otages: Aymeri ne donnerait rien pour leur sauver la vie. Cependant, rien dans les propos de l’émir d’Espagne ne laissait supposer qu’il voulait utiliser ses prisonniers comme monnaie d’échange, par exemple contre la reddition de Narbonne. De plus, si les prisonniers ne sont pas monnayables, à quoi bon les maintenir en vie? Le reste de la proposition de l’émir de Cordes est conforme aux projets traditionnels des Sarrasins dans l’univers épique,17 mais on ne comprend pas du tout quel intérêt il y a à enfermer Beuve et ses fils dans la prison de Barbastre: “Corsol de Tabarie les recommanderons, [Ses menra en Barbastre, vostre mestre donjon,] 18 Ens el fons de la chartre metra il les gloutons, Iluec les gardera bien tant que nous aillons, A feste saint Jehan nos diex aouererons, Mahom et Apolin el palés porterons, A vo filz Libanor ma fille li donrrons, Malatrie la bele qui clere a la façon. L’autr’ier conquist roys Karles la terre as Esclavons, Et nous conquerrons France, a euls si la lerons, Normendie et Bertaigne, Angevins, Borguignons, Champaigne et Loheraine, la terre as Brebençons, Et trestoute la terre de par deça lez mons. Au puy de Monloon couronner lez ferons.” (476-88)

L’émir d’Espagne, grisé par ces beaux projets, se range aussitôt à l’opinion de l’émir de Cordes, et ordonne à Corsolt de Tabarie de mener les prisonniers à Barbastre en ajoutant une recommandation de son cru: Corsolt devra les battre tous les jours et ne leur donner à manger qu’un jour sur quatre. Sans doute l’émir veut-il ce faisant

17 Cf. B.Guidot, Le Siège de Barbastre. Traduction en français moderne (Paris: Champion, 2002), p. 15: “Le poète […] reste fidèle au passé en attribuant aux émirs païens des rêves de conquête insensés. L’amustant de Cordres, pourtant relativement sage et modéré dans l’ensemble de la chanson, n’y échappe pas.” 18 Ce vers, qui ne figure pas dans l’édition de B.Guidot, établie à partir du manuscrit B2, apparaît ici dans l’édition de J.-L.Perrier (établie à partir du manuscrit de Londres, British Library, Royal 20.B.XIX) (Paris: Champion, 1926).

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ledengier malgré tout le linage Aymeri (cf. 436), mais ses intentions ne sont vraiment pas claires. Dès que Corsolt emmène les prisonniers, l’action se déroule désormais exclusivement à Barbastre (laisses XIX-XLIV), jusqu’au moment où Corsolt revient à Narbonne toujours assiégée (de ce long siège, on n’aura rien su) annoncer à l’émir d’Espagne que Beuve s’est rendu maître de Barbastre. Aussitôt, tous les Sarrasins quittent Narbonne pour Barbastre, sans qu’il soit question d’un éventuel retour ultérieur (laisses XLV-XLVII), ce qui ôte, si besoin était, toute crédibilité au siège qui s’est tenu sous les murs de Narbonne. Ce départ précipité provoque les larmes d’Hermengart, croyant que l’on emmène Beuve captif et qu’elle ne le reverra jamais, ainsi qu’une ferme résolution d’Aymeri: “Dame, dist Aymeris, dit avés vilonnie. Ne cuit que l’amirans pensse ja tel folie. Se il a mon fils pris, qu’il soit tels qu’il l’occie, Onques Diex ne fist terre ou je le lesse mie, Nulle que onques sache.” (1227-31)

Pourtant, Aymeri n’agira pas. A nouveau, tout se passe à Barbastre, jusqu’à ce qu’enfin Beuve se décide à demander du secours aux siens 19 et que ses messagers arrivent à Narbonne (laisse CXIV), où Aymeri a fait venir ses fils,20 parce qu’un providentiel pèlerin (mais la Providence ne s’est pas penchée sur tous les manuscrits) lui a appris que Beuve était emprisonné à Barbastre: “Mes Aymeris li quens avoit ses filz mandé / [Por ce c’un pelerins li ot dit et conté]21 / Que Bueve ert en Barbastre de paien enserré” (3745-46). Une fois assurée, peu après,22 l’aide du roi Louis, tout est prêt pour la conquête de Barbastre, voire de toute l’Espagne, jusqu’au Perron saint Jaque (543, 7315,

19 Cet appel à l’aide aura bien tardé: Beuve l’avait envisagé dès la laisse L, il ne s’y résout qu’à la laisse CIII! 20 Se trouvent ainsi à Narbonne Guillaume (qui y était déjà), ainsi que Garin, Hernaut, et Bernard. Guibert est en France auprès du roi Louis; Aÿmer est comme toujours quelque part au cœur de la sauvage Espagne. 21 Ce vers de l’édition de J.-L. Perrier ne figure pas dans l’édition de B.Guidot (voir la note 18). 22 C’est-à-dire, si l’on se fie aux données du récit, un an après les premiers événements de la chanson.

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7584, 7635),23 conquête dont le récit occupe le reste de la chanson du Siège de Barbastre. Lorsqu’Adenet le Roi s’est un jour avisé de remanier le Siège de Barbastre, il a prétendu vouloir en améliorer la rime sans en modifier le contenu: Pour ce qu’est mal rimee, la rime amenderai Si a droit que l’estoire de riens ne fausserai, Mençonge ne oiseuse ja n’i ajousterai Mais parmi la matere droite voie en irai. (21-24) Conment que je la rime fortement enpris aie, La verité dirai, de ce pas ne m’esmaie. (40-41)

Si “la préoccupation majeure de l’écrivain [est] d’ordre prosodique,”24 si Adenet “reproduit presque servilement le récit qu’il trouve dans sa source” (p. 21), c’est-à-dire un manuscrit apparenté aux manuscrits du petit cycle connus (pp. 19-21), si, “au début, il reste véritablement collé à l’original” (p. 34), on relève toutefois un certain nombre de passages où Adenet se distingue nettement de sa source. A. Henry, le savant éditeur de ce remaniement, ne considérait pas comme remarquables les écarts par rapport au modèle: “Adenet n’a […] pas introduit des épisodes nouveaux […]. Ses œuvres ne permettent d’ailleurs pas de supposer qu’il fut doué d’une imagination créatrice féconde ou impérieuse. Peut-on parler d’invention personnelle parce qu’on ne trouve pas dans le Siège la source des laisses IX et X de Buevon, où Adenet ne fait qu’insister sur un principe tactique particulièrement prisé à l’époque puisque, appliqué avec rigueur par les Brabançons, il leur vaudra la victoire de Woerringen en 1288: que personne, sous aucun prétexte, ne sorte des rangs? Et le combat de paroles ajouté à la laisse XLVII, entre Clarion, juché au sommet de la tour de Barbastre, et Corsolt, qui vient assiéger la ville, est-il autre chose qu’un lieu commun de l’époque? On ne peut qualifier autrement non plus la nouvelle attaque de Narbonne par l’amirant avec 23 Voir à ce sujet C. Cazanave, “Barbastro/Barbastre,” pp. 45-48, et “Une borne symbolique au bout de la via Compostella: le perron saint Jacques,” dans Les monuments et la mémoire, éd. Jean Peyras, Cahiers CRLH-CIRAOI n°8, Publications de l’Université de la Réunion (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1993), pp. 125-43. 24 A. Henry, p. 19.

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sortie victorieuse de Guillaume et d’Aimeri qu’Adenet se plaît à raconter en 150 vers (1503-1654). Ce coup d’audace lui tient particulièrement à cœur puisque, quelques vers plus loin, nous voyons de nouveau Aimeri et Guillaume sortir de la ville, rattraper l’arrièregarde des païens, puis rentrer dans la cité lorsque le gros de la troupe revient au secours de son arrière-garde décimée (laisse LXIII)” (p. 21). Nous n’avons pas l’intention de remettre en cause la remarquable analyse d’ensemble d’A. Henry; il nous semble néanmoins que, pour l’épisode qui nous intéresse, l’auteur de Buevon de Conmarchis n’a pas seulement complaisamment amplifié son modèle, qu’il s’agisse des récits de bataille ou des discours, mais qu’il s’est aussi efforcé de présenter un récit plus cohérent que celui qu’il avait sous les yeux. Comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, Beuve se trouve à Narbonne au début de Buevon de Conmarchis, et Adenet a d’abord soigneusement suivi son modèle: “Aymeris et Guillaumes et Bueves au cuer vrai / Estoient a Nerbonne […]” (BC, 30-31). Cependant, il a tâché d’expliquer la présence de Beuve à Narbonne,25 ce que le Siège de Barbastre ne faisait pas, en utilisant tout simplement les données qu’il a trouvées dans le Siège de Barbastre, qui commence par une fête d’adoubement: “Au jor de Penthecoste, si com m’oez conter, / Tint Aymeris sa court a Nerbone sor mer. / .C. chevaliers y fist de nouvel adouber” (SB, 48-50). Le Siège de Barbastre ne précisait pas qui sont ces cent nouveaux chevaliers; Adenet maintient le nombre, mais dans son récit ce sont principalement Gerart et Gui, les deux fils de Beuve, qui sont adoubés, et cela suffit à justifier implicitement la présence de leur père: En esté quant li jour sont bel et lonc et cler, Que la rose est florie et bele a esgarder, Tout droit a ce termine que m’oez deviser Fu li quens Aymeris a Nerbonne sor mer. A une Pentecouste i ot fait assambler Dames et chevaliers kanc’on en pot trouver, Car andeus ses neveus i veult armes donner, Gerart et Guielin qui moult font a loer. Pour lor amour en fist cent autres adouber. (BC, 53-61)

25

Toutefois, la présence de Guillaume à Narbonne n’est pas plus justifiée dans Buevon de Conmarchis que dans le Siège de Barbastre.

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Plus loin dans le récit, c’est Beuve lui-même, assiégé dans Barbastre, qui rappelle pourquoi il était à Narbonne quand il a été capturé: “Ha! Dieus, dist li dux Bueves, vrais rois, vrais gouvernere, Car seüst ore en France Looÿs l’emperere Conment nous sonmes ci et par quele matere, Conment l’amustans vint coiement conme lere A Nerbonne a la feste conte Aimeri mon pere, Ou pour adouber Gui et Gerart venus ere.” (BC, 1457-62)

Adenet ne se contente pas d’imaginer l’adoubement des fils de Beuve, il en développe assez longuement le motif (veillée, remise des armes, colée, discours d’invitation à la prouesse, repas de fête, exercice de la quintaine, 65-90),26 rendant ainsi son invention plus naturelle. En ce qui concerne l’attaque des Sarrasins, Adenet respecte globalement son modèle: les ennemis sont d’abord passés par la Gascogne (ce qui permet, dans Buevon de Conmarchis comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, qu’Aymeri soit averti par un messager), leur chef veut conquérir le royaume de France et se montre résolu à s’emparer de Narbonne; toutefois, chez Adenet, l’émir de Cordes27 a une raison de vouloir conquérir Narbonne qui n’apparaît pas dans le récit source: “L’amustans jure bien Tervagan et Mahon / Qu’il ravera Nerbonne, car ce fu son taion” (BC, 185-86). Cette innovation montre qu’Adenet ne s’est pas servi du raccord entre les Narbonnais et le Siège de Barbastre tel qu’il existe dans les manuscrits du petit cycle que nous avons conservés, pas plus qu’il ne s’en est servi pour trouver une raison à la présence de Beuve à Narbonne. En précisant que l’émir de Cordes veut récupérer un bien de famille, Adenet n’a pas fait preuve d’une imagination débordante,28 mais il a rationalisé son récit, en donnant un motif d’invasion plausible aux Sarrasins, alors qu’il n’y avait rien dans le Siège de Barbastre considéré isolément, indépendamment des 26 Cependant, c’est contre les Sarrasins que les qualités guerrières des deux frères vont se manifester, comme le montre une remarque d’Aymeri: “Dieus! fait il, bonne estrine a ce conmencement!” (264). 27 Dans Buevon de Conmarchis, c’est dans certains passages l’émir de Cordes qui est le chef suprême, plutôt que l’émir d’Espagne. 28 Ainsi, l’émir de Babylone des Narbonnais réclame l’héritage de Narbonne, car son grand-père en fut le fondateur (3698 et 3700-01). Dans la Mort Aymeri, un autre émir de Babylone est fils d’un roi qui possédait autrefois Narbonne (éd. J. Couraye du Parc [Paris: Didot, 1884], 584-89 et 1530-36).

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Narbonnais. Toutefois, pas plus dans Buevon de Conmarchis que dans le Siège de Barbastre, les Sarrasins ne choisissent, pour attaquer, un moment où ils savent que Narbonne peut être aisément prise. Dans Buevon de Conmarchis comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, l’arrivée d’un messager en piteux état interrompt les réjouissances à Narbonne, mais Adenet s’est écarté de son modèle en modifiant radicalement la réaction d’Aymeri lorsqu’il apprend de ce chevalier les mauvaises intentions des païens: Quant l’entent Aymeris, si hauça le menton, De maltalent et d’ire a froncié le grenon. “Amis, dist Aymeris, ce seroit mesprison; Ains en seront percié maint escu a lion Et mainte pesant targe et percié maint blazon Et en avra on taint maint vermeil siglaton, S’en erent derrompu maint hauberc fremillon, Mainte entraille coupee, maint foie et maint pomon K’il ait ja de Nerbonne nis la pieur maison, Se Dieus sauve mon cors et Guillaume et Buevon. De Nerbonne me fist Karles li bons rois don, Qui fu hardis et preus et loiaus com preudon Et Dieus par sa pitié face s’ame pardon, Car je tenrai Nerbonne, par Dieu et par son non, Tant que j’avrai la vie.” (BC, 188-202)

Aussitôt alertés par la bancloke (205), tous les Narbonnais courent aux armes et se rassemblent, et c’est impeccablement rangés qu’ils voient venir les armées sarrasines. La réaction d’Aymeri, particulièrement étrange dans le Siège de Barbastre, a visiblement heurté la sensibilité d’Adenet qui a voulu la rendre plus sensée. De même, si les troupes d’Aymeri sont, dans Buevon de Conmarchis comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, très nettement inférieures à celles des Sarrasins (cf. 221-22, 279-80), Adenet s’est ingénié à éviter à son héros une défaite pitoyable. D’abord, dans son récit, grâce à la sagesse d’Aymeri, les chrétiens sont armés, en selle et en rangs lorsque les ennemis s’avancent; ils ont de plus reçu l’ordre de ne pas rompre les rangs avant qu’on les y autorise (laisses VIII-IX). Selon A. Henry, on ne peut pas “parler d’invention personnelle,” dans la mesure où “Adenet ne fait qu’insister sur un principe technique particulièrement prisé à l’époque” (p. 21). Cependant, cette innovation permet également à l’auteur d’insister sur la prévoyance d’Aymeri (les Sarrasins sont attendus de pied ferme, ce qui n’était pas le cas dans le

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Siège de Barbastre), de montrer les Sarrasins impressionnés par les troupes françaises et décidant à leur tour de se battre en rangs (cf. 24147), et aussi de développer un élément qui n’existait qu’à l’état embryonnaire dans le Siège de Barbastre: dans le Siège (112-20), lors des festivités, Girart, l’un des deux fils de Beuve, manifestait son impatience de se battre contre de vrais ennemis plutôt que dans des exercices; Adenet a transformé ce discours en dialogue: à la fougue de Gerart (115-19) répond la modération de son frère Gui (120-33); plus loin, lorsque les troupes narbonnaises sont en rangs, il répète le motif: Gerart se montre désireux de rompre les rangs tandis que Gui fait preuve de mesure (229-38). Certes, Adenet “ne résiste pas au plaisir de faire parler tout le monde d’abondance” (A. Henry, p. 22), mais ce développement sert aussi à mettre encore davantage en évidence l’énergie mais aussi le sang-froid avec lesquels, dans son récit, les Narbonnais sont préparés à l’attaque des païens. Les combats sous Narbonne, qui occupent dans le Siège de Barbastre moins de deux cents vers, en occupent dans Buevon de Conmarchis moins de trois cents (laisses X-XIX), ce qui n’est pas beaucoup plus long, si l’on considère que les 3947 vers que nous avons conservés de Buevon de Conmarchis correspondent “à environ 2700 vers du Siège de Barbastre, tel que nous l’a transmis le manuscrit [BM, Royal 20BXIX]” (A. Henry, p. 20), même s’il est vrai qu’Adenet se plaît à développer les récits de bataille (p. 21). Mais il se plaît également à supprimer dans son remaniement ce qui pourrait nuire à la réputation d’Aymeri. Ainsi, s’il insiste fréquemment sur la faiblesse numérique des Narbonnais, il met également en valeur, bien davantage que dans le Siège de Barbastre, leur courage et l’efficacité de leurs coups. Bien plus, alors que dans le Siège de Barbastre, les Français s’enfuient à trois reprises devant leurs ennemis, dans Buevon de Conmarchis, ce n’est pas fuir que de décider sagement de cesser momentanément les combats: Aymeris de Nerbonne a Guillaume apelé: “Biaus fils, ce dist li quens, j’ai tres bien avisé Qu’il est tans que hui mais traions vers la cité. –Sire, ce dist Guillaumes, a vostre volenté Est drois que on le face.” (BC, 452-56)

Lorsque Beuve et ses fils sont néanmoins capturés parce que l’arrivée de vingt mille Sarrasins a empêché la retraite et provoqué une

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nécessaire reprise des combats, Adenet reprend à son compte la formule Et Aymeris s’en torne du Siège de Barbastre, mais précise qu’il est impossible de sauver Beuve, alors que le Siège de Barbastre était particulièrement laconique: Et Aymeris s’en torne, li preus et li gentis, De vint contes k’avoit n’en remainne que sis; Derrier venoit Guillaumes, ses brans ert mal fourbis, Car tous estoit soilliés de couper bras et pis. De rescourre Buevon fust moult entalentis, Mais la paine n’i vaut vaillant deus paresis. (BC, 511-16)

Enfin, lorsque les paiens font le siège de la ville, Adenet modifie encore les données de son modèle: ce n’est pas Aymeri, mais Hermengart qui s’abandonne au désespoir d’avoir perdu Beuve et ses fils, tandis qu’Aymeri l’invite à la résignation: “Dame, dist Aimeris, pour le cors saint Climent, / Prendons tout ce en gre que Dieus veut et consent” (556-57). Adenet paraît avoir jugé indigne la réaction d’Aymeri dans son modèle; celle qu’il introduit, plus conforme à son goût, n’est guère martiale, mais il ne se contente pas de cette rectification et développe le dialogue: à Hermengart qui l’accuse d’être responsable du malheur qui les frappe (s’il s’était replié plus tôt, le dernier combat aurait été évité, 565-69), Guillaume réplique fièrement: “Dame, ce dist Guillaumes, par Dieu omnipotent, Mieus vaut qu’il soient mort, a mon entendement, Que on peüst d’aus dire vilain reprochement; Qui ne vit a honnour, ses tans va a noient. Il n’i a autre chose, pensons dou vengement, C’est li mieus que g’i sache.” (570-75)

Ces mâles paroles annoncent le passage où, lorsque les Sarrasins abandonnent le siège de Narbonne pour Barbastre, Guillaume refuse de s’abandonner au chagrin et décide de les poursuivre (1674-85). Cependant, comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, il ne se passe désormais plus rien dans Narbonne.29

29 Après les propos de Guillaume, Adenet reprend son modèle: dans son récit, Hermengart propose à Aymeri de garder Narbonne avec ses dames tandis qu’il ira attaquer l’émir dans son campement (579-82). S’il s’agissait peut-être d’une remarque

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Dans Buevon de Conmarchis, l’émir de Cordes est enchanté comme l’était l’émir d’Espagne du Siège de Barbastre de savoir qu’il a capturé un fils et des petits-fils d’Aymeri, mais les intentions du chef païen sont bien différentes, et bien plus plausibles, sous la plume d’Adenet: l’émir projette tout simplement d’utiliser ses prisonniers pour obtenir la reddition de Narbonne: Mahonmet en jura, ou durement se fie, Que moult hasteement tolra ces trois la vie Ou il ara Nerbonne, la fort cité antie; En sa prison venra Ermengars de Pavie, Aymeris et Guillaumes, de ce a grant envie, Ou n’i avra prison n’ait la teste trenchie. (627-32)

Comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, Beuve réplique hardiment, mais pour répondre cette fois que son père ne rendrait pas Narbonne, même en échange de tous ses enfants (635-43); les paroles de Beuve provoquent la rage de l’émir qui jure qu’il fera avant le soir pendre ses prisonniers, à moins–ce qui n’est pas dans le modèle–qu’il n’obtienne Narbonne (644-49, et 650-59); très irrité par la fière réponse de Beuve, l’émir de Cordes veut tuer ses prisonniers (687-91)30 lorsque l’émir d’Espagne, tel l’émir de Cordes du Siège de Barbastre, lui conseille posément de ne pas les exécuter mais de les envoyer à Barbastre. Chez Adenet, cependant, on comprend immédiatement la sagesse de ce conseil: “Mais tout droit a Barbastre la les envoierés, Car s’en ceste besoigne de vostre gent perdés Que la gent de Nerbonne aient emprisonnés, Toujours quatre des vostres pour un des lor ravrés; Tout a tant au destruire, se il vous plaist, venrés.” (699-703)

Comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, les deux émirs projettent de conquérir le royaume de France et de l’offrir à leurs enfants, mais moqueuse dans le Siège de Barbastre (voir la note 16), ce n’est assurément pas le cas ici; mais, comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, Aymeri n’agira pas. 30 Cela ne signifie pas nécessairement qu’il renonce à se servir d’eux pour obtenir Narbonne; cf. Narbonnais, 4951-62, Guibert d’Andrenas, éd. J. Melander (Paris: Champion, 1922), 929-51 et Mort Aymeri, 1373-409.

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l’émir d’Espagne insiste ici beaucoup sur l’intérêt stratégique de leurs prisonniers, autant dans la conquête de la France que dans celle de Narbonne: “Bien avons conmencié, loés en soit Mahons, Quant le conte Aimeri en Nerbonne savons Et Guillaume d’Orenge, qui est fiers com lyons; As portes et as murs souvent les assaurrons; Se les poons conquerre, bien esploitié arons, Car c’est la flours de France, bien savoir le devons, Et de lor meillor gent en no prison tenons. A l’amirant mon oncle tous les envoierons, En la tour de Barbastre, tant que nous revenrons, Car sachiés vraiement, se nous les ocions, Ja mais de nul des nos raençon n’averons. Corsolt de Tabarie avoec aler ferons; Quant Nerbonne arons prise, nous le remanderons, En la terre de France avoec nous le menrons, En nostre avant bataille tousjours le meterons, Moult est preus Sarrazins et set toutes raisons.” (BC, 719-34)

Ainsi, ce qui était plus qu’obscur dans le Siège de Barbastre est devenu tout à fait intelligible dans Buevon de Conmarchis. En outre, Adenet supprime, dans ce passage, l’ordre donné à Corsolt de battre les prisonniers et de ne leur donner que peu de nourriture; selon A.Henry, c’est par un “souci de bienséance” que “les détails trop crus, les paroles trop violentes, les scènes de brutalité sont passées sous silence” (p. 26); il nous semble aussi que l’émir de Buevon de Conmarchis a tout intérêt, selon la logique de ses projets, de ne pas trop maltraiter ses prisonniers, tandis que celui du Siège de Barbastre pouvait s’abandonner à une cruauté facile et gratuite, dans la mesure où il paraissait ne pas vouloir utiliser ses prisonniers comme otages. Comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, à partir du moment où Corsolt de Tabarie emmène les prisonniers, l’action se déroule à Barbastre (laisses XXIX-LV) et l’on ignore tout de ce qui peut se passer à Narbonne. Toutefois, lorsque Corsolt retourne à Narbonne annoncer la défaite sarrasine à Barbastre, l’émir de Buevon de Conmarchis ne se contente pas de décider de lever le siège pour aller venger les siens, il affirme sa volonté de revenir ensuite: “Ce siege guerpirai, plus ne remanrai ci; Vers Barbastre en irons demain ou merkedi, Vengier vueil l’amirant, mon oncle et mon ami.

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Bueves et si enfant seront ars et bruï, Clarïons et li autre pendu ou enfouï, Puis renvenrons arriere en la terre Aymeri; Quant l’averons conquise, s’irons seur Loëy En la terre de France.” (1495-502)

Bien plus, l’autre émir, furieux des événements de Barbastre, décide d’attaquer aussitôt Narbonne. Dans le Siège de Barbastre, l’épisode était peu crédible, il devient ici vraisemblable. Tout le jour, les Sarrasins assaillent la ville, en vain. Au soir, épuisés, ils abandonnent; c’est le moment qu’attendaient Aymeri et Guillaume pour sortir avec leurs hommes, bien décidés à venger Beuve (1525-32, et 1549-50). Après un beau massacre, en raison du grand nombre des ennemis ils se replient sagement tout en se défendant (1589 et 1598). Les Sarrasins n’ont plus qu’à lever le siège, se jurant néanmoins de revenir plus tard. Cet épisode inédit, qu’A.Henry considère comme “un lieu commun de l’époque” (p. 21), paraît également contribuer à rendre plus plausible le siège de Narbonne, ainsi que l’état d’esprit des Narbonnais. Il en est de même, nous semble-t-il, de la réaction des Français lorsqu’ils s’aperçoivent, le lendemain, du départ des Sarrasins. Comme dans le Siège de Barbastre, Hermengart se lamente (SB 1224-26, BC 1659-68); Aymeri se laisse lui aussi envahir par le chagrin (BC 167172), alors que dans le Siège de Barbastre, il tenait un discours plein de fermeté (SB 1227), mais non suivi d’effet; Adenet a supprimé ce discours et dans son récit, c’est Guillaume qui refuse le désespoir, mais aussi qui agit;31 sous son impulsion, les Narbonnais poursuivent les païens, défont une bonne partie de l’arrière-garde sarrasine et ne battent en retraite, sagement (1749), que lorsque le gros des troupes vient au secours de son arrière-garde. Si Adenet aime à multiplier les combats, ce n’est pas ici sans souci de vraisemblance, d’autant que Guillaume n’en restera pas là: sur les conseils de son père, il part peu après à Laon informer le roi Louis de la situation. A.Henry supposait 31

A propos de ce passage, A.Henry note: “Le résultat du travail d’Adenet n’est pas toujours des plus heureux. De la laisse XLVII du Siège [soit la laisse XLVIII dans l’édition de B.Guidot], qui ne manque pas d’allure et dont la concision produit un certain effet, il “délaie” la laisse LXII de Buevon” (p. 23, n. 3). Cette remarque est parfaitement fondée d’un point de vue esthétique, mais notre réflexion ne se situe pas du tout dans ce cadre.

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que ce dernier élément était “peut-être pris au Siège de Barbastre luimême, qui raconte aussi l’événement, mais beaucoup plus loin” (p. 24); cela est bien possible, mais il y a une différence de taille entre ces deux événements: dans le Siège de Barbastre, on ne va chercher le secours du roi que lorsque Beuve le demande, depuis Barbastre, alors que dans Buevon de Conmarchis, on n’attend pas d’avoir des nouvelles de Beuve pour agir. Malheureusement, Buevon de Conmarchis étant tronqué, on ignore comment Adenet a organisé la suite de son récit et la comparaison entre les deux œuvres tourne court. Adenet le Roi n’était pas un “poète épique puissamment inspiré,”32 comme le montre très clairement l’analyse d’A.Henry, mais il était particulièrement réfléchi; dans son renouvellement du Siège de Barbastre, “son travail est guidé par une réflexion constante et des décisions motivées” (A.Henry, p. 32). Aussi, s’il est “presque toujours inférieur à son modèle” (ibid., p. 30) sur le plan poétique, il parvient néanmoins à donner à son récit une cohérence que sa source était parfois bien loin de posséder. Adenet ne s’est pas contenté d’amender la rime, il a aussi amendé l’histoire, la rendant plus intelligible, plus logique, et, il est vrai, plus sage. Les modifications qu’Adenet a introduites dans son œuvre mettent en évidence le caractère insolite du siège de Narbonne dans le Siège de Barbastre, par rapport au reste du cycle. Des Sarrasins attaquent Narbonne sans raison particulière, font un siège dont on ne saura rien, lèvent le siège sans que quiconque intervienne: cet épisode initial paraît assez artificiel et ne semble exister que pour permettre que Beuve soit capturé et emmené à Barbastre.33 Là est sans doute l’idée maîtresse de la légende: la cité espagnole devait être l’objet d’une conquête imprévue, par le truchement d’un héros malgré lui. Si l’action débute à Narbonne, c’est vraisemblablement que dans le cycle, tout commence et tout finit toujours à Narbonne.

32 J. Frappier, Les chansons de geste du cycle de Guillaume d’Orange, 3 tomes (Paris: SEDES, 1955-83), t. I, p. 37. 33 Notons que dans la version en prose, il n’y a pas de siège de Narbonne: les Sarrasins sont vaincus. Cela n’entraîne pour autant aucune modification dans la suite du récit.

WILLIAM D. PADEN

Before the Troubadours: The Archaic Occitan Texts and the Shape of Literary History or the reader of troubadour poetry who thinks of it as running from Guilhem IX to Guiraut Riquier, the whole phenomenon may seem to fit, chronologically, into the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Guiraut’s lament, “Trop suy vengutz als derriers,”1 sounds like a claim to final position. However, there are others who dispute this claim, such as Raimon de Cornet in the fourteenth century,2 or even the Catalan Jordi de Sant Jordi, who wrote Occitan poetry in the fifteenth.3 Nor does Occitan poetry come to a halt with the eclipse of the troubadours. On linguistic grounds Pierre Bec recognizes a period of Middle Occitan, from about 1350 to 1550, when there was a smaller group, called poets rather than troubadours, who wrote rather than sang, who devoted themselves primarily to religious expression, and whose works are preserved in a different group of manuscripts.4 As for the time before Guilhem IX, opinions are divided: some scholars believe there must have been earlier troubadours, since these scholars find in Guilhem’s own verse an implicit response to poetic conventions already in force, but others are willing to grant him the role of pioneer.5 Among Guilhem’s contemporaries was Eble de

1 “I have come too late.” P-C 248,17; William D. Paden, An Introduction to Old Occitan (New York: MLA, 1998), reading 29.16. 2 Active 1324-1340; Paden, Introduction, p. 332. 3 Died ca. 1424. See Hans-Ingo Radatz, “Der (wirklich) letzte Trobador: Jordi de Sant Jordi und die okzitanische Sprache,” Okzitanistik, Altokzitanistik und Provenzalistik, ed. Angelica Rieger (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2000), pp. 133-46. 4 Pierre Bec, La langue occitane, 2nd ed. (Paris: PU de France, 1967), pp. 76-91. François Zufferey, Bibliographie des poètes provençaux des XIVe et XVe siècles (Genève: Droz, 1981), p. xii. 5 For Guilhem as a successor to others, Peter Dronke, “Guillaume IX and courtoisie,” Romanische Forschungen, 73 (1961), 327-38; Dronke, Medieval Lyric, 3rd ed. (Cambridge: Brewer, 1996), p. 109. For Guilhem as a pioneer: Gerald A. Bond, The Poetry of William VII, Count of Poitiers, IX Duke of Aquitaine (New York: Garland, 1982), pp. lvi-lvii; Jean Charles Payen, Le prince d’Aquitaine: Essai sur Guillaume IX, son œuvre et son érotique (Paris: Champion, 1980), p. 11.

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Ventadorn, who taught Bernart de Ventadorn, or perhaps offered him a model to imitate.6 Unfortunately we have none of Eble’s songs.7 But even in their heyday the troubadours, with their lyric verse, were not the only poets writing in Occitan. Readers have been well aware of the Boeci, written perhaps as late as Guilhem’s time or perhaps a century earlier, around 1000 C.E.,8 and of the Chanson de sainte Foy, written perhaps around 1050 or later.9 These two figures, the male Roman philosopher baptized by the medieval poet as a Christian thinker, if not a saint, and the female child martyr, preside as tutelary presences over the birth of Occitan letters. Other, less celebrated and less familiar works complicate the spare annals of eleventh-century Occitan literature. There are the three versus limousins, in which Occitan enters liturgical performance in close coordination with Latin.10 Three religious texts were translated from French into Occitan: one drama, the Sponsus, and two narratives, the Passion of Clermont-Ferrand and the Vie de saint Léger.11 And there 6 William D. Paden, “Bernart de Ventadour le troubadour devint-il abbé de Tulle?” Mélanges de langue et de littérature occitanes en hommage à Pierre Bec (Poitiers: Centre d’études supérieures de civilisation médiévale, 1991), pp. 401-13. 7 Guilhem IX was born in 1071 and died in 1126; Eble was active c. 1096-1147. See Martín de Riquer, Los trovadores: historia literaria y textos, 3 vols. (Barcelona: Planeta, 1975), vol. 1, pp. 142-47. Riquer rightly rejects the argument by Maria Dumitrescu that Eble was the real author of the courtly songs attributed to Guilhem: see her “Eble II de Ventadorn et Guillaume IX d’Aquitaine,” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, 11 (1968), 379-411. 8 Circa 1000 C.E.: René Lavaud and Georges Machicot, Boecis (Toulouse: Institut d’Etudes Occitanes, 1950), pp. 79-85. Circa 1100-1115: Christoph Schwarze, Der altprovenzalische “Boeci” (Münster: Aschendorff, 1963), pp. 8, 11-15. Lucia Lazzerini hazards the third quarter of the eleventh century: Letteratura medievale in lingua d’oc (Modena: Mucchi, 2001), p. 34. 9 Middle or second half of the eleventh century: Ernest Hoepffner, La chanson de sainte Foy, 2 vols. (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1926), vol. 1, p. 199. After 1073: Prosper Alfaric, La chanson de sainte Foy, 2 vols. (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1926), vol. 2, pp. 2123; Lazzerini, Letteratura, p. 37. 10 See Lucien-Paul Thomas, Le “Sponsus,” mystère des vierges sages et des vierges folles, suivi des trois poèmes limousins et farcis (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1951). 11 Thomas, Le “Sponsus.” Avalle, however, has argued that the Sponsus and the Passion de Clermont-Ferrand were written in Poitevin, which he regards as one of four language zones in the Galloromance territory (Occitan, French, Francoprovençal, Poitevin). See D’Arco Silvio Avalle (text) and Raffaello Monterosso (music), Sponsus: Dramma delle vergini prudenti e delle virgini stolte (Milano and Napoli:

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is the fragmentary Alexander romance, written by Alberic de Pisançon in Francoprovençal.12 Or so we thought. Then in the 1980s three discoveries brought to light additional texts. One from the late eleventh century presents us at last with an anonymous poet (or two poets) whom we may consider a predecessor or predecessors of the troubadours. Even earlier, two other finds give us a pair of charms and a passion that date from the mid- to late tenth century. We have realized, furthermore, that we already had tenth-century Occitan in the form of latin farci, the mixture of Latin and vernacular elements in certain charters. Another discovery had been made as early as 1881: the bilingual alba, now dated in the eleventh century, which takes on a new significance in relation to the more recent finds. All of these early texts are very brief and relatively unfamiliar to readers of the troubadours. My purpose here will be to present them and to reflect on their impact on the shape of Occitan literary history. I. The term latin farci describes the linguistic medium of certain charters written from the tenth to the twelfth century. Although it has long been understood in a neoclassical viewpoint as merely incompetent Latin, it has been argued recently that this attitude is mistaken, since the scribes show themselves at times capable of writing the same material in either Latin or Occitan.13 Rather the use of the blend communicates the suitability of certain passages to a more personal or more abstract linguistic medium. Latin farci ceased to be used in the late twelfth century, not because scribes became better Latinists, but because they took to writing out entire documents in

Ricciardi, 1965); D’Arco Silvio Avalle, Cultura e lingua francese delle origini nella “Passion” di Clermont-Ferrand (Milano and Napoli: Ricciardi, 1962). The Saint Léger was written in North-Eastern French (Picard or Walloon) and transmitted by a Provençal scribe, according to Joseph Linskill, Saint Léger: Etude de la langue du manuscrit de Clermont-Ferrand suivie d’une édition critique du texte (Paris: Droz, 1937). 12 Ulrich Mölk and Günter Holtus, “Alberics Alexanderfragment. Neuasgabe und Kommentar,” Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, 115 (1999), 582-625; Ulrich Mölk, “Alberic de Pisançon,” Cultura neolatina, 61 (2001), 7-24. 13 Jérôme Belmon and Françoise Vielliard, “Latin farci et occitan dans les actes du XIe siècle,” Bibliothèque de l’Ecole des Chartes, 155 (1997), 149-83, at p. 177.

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either Latin or Occitan; the two linguistic media came to be recognized as distinct. The earliest example of latin farci in which the vernacular influences conjugated verbs (and not just nouns, as in a list of possessions) is an oath of fidelity from the Rouergue. Although transmitted in a fourteenth-century cartulary, it was probably written about 970. It comprises two parts, a convention and an oath: the first states the commitment objectively, the second in the first person. The convention begins in Latin, although it uses case-endings inattentively, and then passes to Occitan: […] et de illo Castello Marino no.l decebra ipso episcopo nec no lo li vedara, ne no lo li tolra. Sicut superius scriptum est, si ho tenra et so ho atendra ipse Gardradus de sua parte, suo sciente, si ille fuerit, fors quantum ipse Deusdet episcopus l’en absolverat. (Belmon and Vielliard, p. 157) ([…] and regarding the [castle of] Castelmary [in Aveyron], he will not do the bishop any wrong nor deny him access to it, nor take it from him. As is written above, thus he will keep [his promise] and see to it, he, Gardradus, for his part, to the best of his knowledge, if he lives, unless Bishop Deusdet excuses him.)

And the oath: Aus tu, Deusdet episcopus de Ruthenis, eu Gardrado, filius Gardrado, talem firmitatem facio ad ipso episcopo de sua vita et de sua membra et de illo Castello Marino et de illa castellania per que in eum se fidare posseat et debeat. Et de illo Castello Marino no.l decebrai, ni no.lli vedarai, ni.lli tolrai. Sicut superius scriptum est, si o tenrai et si atendrai ego Gardradus, filius Gardrado, per aquestz sainz, fors quantum ipse Deusdet episcopus m’en absolverat. (p. 158) (Hear thou, Deusdet, bishop of Rodez. I Gardrado, son of Gardrado, make the following oath to this same bishop [switching from second to third person] concerning his life and his limbs and the castle of Castelmary and the castellany, so that he may and should trust him [switching from first to third person; understand “trust me”]. And regarding the castle of Castelmary I will do him no harm, nor deny him access to it or take it from him. As it is written above, thus I will keep [my promise] and attend to it, I, Gardradus, son of Gardrado, by these saints, unless the same Bishop Deusdet absolves me.)

The language is legal template throughout, but varies in the degree of ritual emphasis or personal engagement. When Gardrado addresses the bishop (“Aus tu”) and when he pronounces the operative verbs of his oath (“no.l decebrai, ni no.lli vedarai, ni.lli tolrai […] si o tenrai et si atendrai”), when he touches the holy relics that guarantee his oath

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(“per aquestz sainz”), his words are recorded verbatim–in the vernacular. Belmon and Vielliard point out that the appearance of isolated terms in donations and of conjugated verbs in the oaths of fidelity coincided with the oldest evidence of use of Occitan as a literary language. This convergence, they claim, “permet de dater de la seconde moitié du Xe siècle la prise de conscience d’une scripta occitane indépendante du latin, prise de conscience que rend indéniable le processus de mise en écrit des serments, avec la restitution des paroles rituelles prononcées par le jureur” (p. 176). The oath sworn by Gardrado, together with the other documents in latin farci and the two literary texts discovered in the 1980s, moves the beginning of Occitan literary history back to fifty years before the earliest date posited for the Boeci, and a century and a half before Guilhem IX--to around 950 C.E. II. The earliest of the literary (that is, non-archival) texts are two charms written in a manuscript from Clermont-Ferrand, in a hand dated in the second half of the tenth century.14 Hilty thought he recognized linguistic traits from Gascony or northern Occitan;15 Meneghetti (p. 166), acknowledging that these traits differ from the standard language of the troubadours, nevertheless considered the language “generic Occitan”; Lazzerini (Letteratura, p. 14) suggests perhaps Auvergne or the Limousin. The longer of the two works is a charm against an edema or swelling: Tomida femina in tomida via sedea; tomid infant in falda sua tenea; tomides mans et tomidas pes, tomidas carnes 14

4

The charms were discovered by Bernhard Bischoff: “Altprovenzalische Segen (Zehntes Jahrhundert),” Anecdota novissima: Texte des vierten bis sechzehnten Jahrhunderts (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1984), pp. 261-63. Facsimiles: Bischoff, plate IV; Maria Luisa Meneghetti, Le origini delle letterature medievali romanze (Roma: Laterza, 1997), plate 8. 15 Gerold Hilty, “Les plus anciens monuments de la langue occitane,” “Cantarem d’aquestz trobadors”: Studi occitanici in onore de Giuseppe Tavani, ed. Luciano Rossi (Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso, 1995), pp. 25-45, at p. 28.

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que est colbe recebrunt; 8 tomide fust et tomides fer que istæ colbe donerunt. Exsunt en dolores 12 d’os en polpa [de polpa en curi] de curi in pel de pel en erpa. 16 Terra madre susipiat dolores.16 (A swollen woman was sitting in a swollen road; she held a swollen child in her lap; (4) swollen hands and swollen feet, swollen flesh that will receive this blow; (8) swollen wood and swollen iron that will give this blow. The pain goes out (12) from bone to flesh, [from flesh to skin,] from skin to hair, from hair to grass. (16) Let mother earth receive the pain.)

This is not verse, but it is rhythmic and ritualized prose. The charm first seeks to gain control over the swelling by invoking it in the patients (a woman and child) and expanding it to the road and to the instrument, presumably a knife, that will counteract it. Then, having gained control, the charm disperses the pain. Lines 1-11 are structured in terms of the key word tomid and certain verb forms, thus: (A) tomid, tomid, verb in the imperfect; (B) tomid, verb in the imperfect; (C) tomid, tomid, tomid, verb in the future; (D) tomid, tomid, verb in the future.17 The instrument is applied to the swelling,18 and the desired effect is then expressed in lines 12-16, again with repetitive rhythm, now expressing the itinerary of departing pain, thus: (D) the cure itself, (E) bone to flesh, (F) flesh to skin, (G) skin to hair, (H) hair to grass, 16 Lazzerini, Letteratura, p. 12, was the first to lineate as here, highlighting the poetic structure. Textual notes: v. 14, conjecture by Bischoff, pp. 262-63, accepted by Hilty, Meneghetti, and Lazzerini. V. 17, taerra in Bischoff, Hilty, Meneghetti, Lazzerini. The words istae and taerra are written with the ligature ae, which alternates with e in Latin texts of the period (Bischoff, p. 262). Since tærra is an obvious noncespelling I consider that the ligature here represents e, i.e. terra, whereas istæ may represent the Latin form. Susipiat: susipiant ms., Bischoff, Hilty; susipiat Meneghetti; susipia(n)t Lazzerini. 17 Regarding declension, Lazzerini (Letteratura, p. 13) considers tomides mans, tomidas pes, tomides fer as hesitations and anomalies in the early evolution of a vernacular scripta from the Latin matrix. 18 Lazzerini (p. 13n5) has adduced later analogs in which a knife is touched to an aching tooth to cure it.

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which resembles hair. The last line disposes of the pain by wishing that mother earth, the consoler, absorb it. The repetitive language produces rhymes that organize the whole: sedea / tenea, recebrunt / donerunt, dolores / dolores. The other, shorter charm is for a dislocated hand. Cum pisce in aqua fregit sua ala et resolde, si resold in ista mans qui desloge. (Lazzerini, Letteratura, p. 11) (As a fish in water broke its fin and it healed, So, in this [water], let a hand that was dislocated be healed.)

Hilty (“Monuments,” p. 30) interprets resolde, desloge as preterits, which in the language of the troubadours would look like resoldét, deslogét. The imperfect rhyme they create divides the text, basically metaphorical in structure, into two parts: the vehicle to which comparison is made (the fish) and the tenor, which is compared to it (the hand). Like the first charm, this one uses past tenses to state the ailment: fregit, resolde, desloge correspond to the past participle tomida, much repeated, and the descriptive sedea, tenea. The first charm uses the future tense (recebrunt, donerunt) to describe the cure about to be effected, then the present (exsunt, Latin EXEUNT, in the troubadours eisson, from eissir “to go out”) and the present subjunctive (susipiat) to describe the intended effect. Similarly, the second charm uses the present subjunctive (resold) for the cure. If the first charm does not involve surgery, it seems to concern an application of the knife to the swelling. The second seems to involve a medicinal bath. In both, physical manipulation is accompanied by language that seeks to gain control over the ailment and narrates its resolution. The practitioner employs both physical therapy and a talking cure.19 19

Bischoff (p. 263) points out that the same hand added a third charm, almost entirely in Latin, but incomprehensible toward the end: Sancti Petri et sancti Iohannis et sancti Martini per via ambulabant, III vergas in mans portabant. Dixit sanctus Petrus, “Toca,”sanctus Iohannes: “Stopa,” et dixit sanctur Martinus: “Non exeat gutta.” Ada fe b resepit sanguis et reducant dolorem per anima bon custa anima mala (“Saint Peter and Saint John and Saint Martin were walking along a road. They carried three rods in [their] hands. Said Saint Peter, ‘Touch’; Saint John, ‘Stop’; and said Saint Martin, ‘Let no drop go out’ […].” Apparently this is a charm against bleeding.

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III. The passion is transmitted in a manuscript that has long been held in Augsburg, but was apparently written in Strasbourg in the last third of the tenth century.20 Hilty thought the language might be Limousin, and the work might come from Saint-Martial de Limoges;21 Meneghetti (p. 168) did not disagree; Lazzerini (Letteratura, p. 14) sees possible traces of Poitevin dialect. The text, as transmitted by a German scribe, requires robust editorial intervention to be understood. A diplomatic transcription (Lazzerini, Letteratura, p. 14): alespins batraunt sos caus etabes lan staudiraunt sos lad & enlacrux lapenderaunt et oblaeid lo potaraunt si greu est apaerlaer etenlacrux lapenderat

Hilty seems to have solved the major problems, and Lazzerini has made improvements in the first line. Her critical version (Letteratura, p. 15): A[b] les puns bat[e]raunt sos caus, et ab escarn diraunt sos laus, et en la crux l’apenderaunt, et ab l’acid lo potaraunt, –si greu est a parlaer!– et en la crux l’apendera[un]t. (With their fists they will beat his cheeks, and with derision they will speak his praises, and on the cross they will hang him, and with vinegar they will give him to drink, –it is so hard to speak it!– and on the cross they will hang him.)

20 On the discovery of the Augsburg passion see Helmut Berschin, Walter Berschin, and Rolf Schmidt, “‘Augsburger Passionslied’: Ein neuer romanischer Text des X. Jahrhunderts,” Lateinische Dichtungen des X. und XI. Jahrhunderts: Festgabe für Walther Bulst (Heidelberg: Lambert Schneider, 1981), pp. 251-79. On composition in Strasbourg, Berschin and others, p. 261; Gerold Hilty, “La ‘Passion d’Augsbourg,’ reflet d’un poème occitan du Xe siècle,” Mélanges de philologie et de littérature médiévales offerts à Michel Burger (Genève: Droz, 1994), pp. 231-43, at p. 233; Hilty, “Monuments,” p. 31. Facsimiles: Berschin and others, plate VII; Meneghetti, plate 7. 21 Hilty, “Passion,” p. 242; “Monuments,” 34.

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Like the oath of fidelity, above, and the charms, this text makes conspicuous use of the future tense. Why narrate the passion in the future? Presumably in a prophecy, like one attributed to Solomon in the Mystère d’Adam, or an oracle.22 The text as reconstituted offers a well defined metrical pattern: a8 a8 b8 b8 c6 b8, which Meneghetti (p. 169) has likened to the later French rondeau. She sees the text as a prototype of the chanson à danser, like the tresca in the Chanson de sainte Foy, an early example of the paraliturgical carols that, it has been argued, were danced in medieval churches.23 IV. The bilingual alba was found in a manuscript from the Benedictine abbey at Fleury-sur-Loire.24 It is written in a hand that was at first considered of the tenth century, but more recently has been dated in the eleventh.25 It consists of three stanzas in Latin with a refrain, apparently in the vernacular, that is repeated after each one. Neumes run throughout the text. The Latin stanzas pose no problems as to their literal meaning, although their interpretation has been controversial. Among the myriad other proposals, two stand out: either the text is indeed an alba like later Occitan exemplars, a poem of the parting of lovers at dawn; or it is a religious allegory. The stanzas read as follows: 1 Phebi claro nondum orto iubare, fert aurora lumen terris tenue.

22 Mystère d’Adam, 805-10: see Lazzerini, Letteratura, pp. 15-16. Bischoff (Anecdota novissima, p. 57n2) suggested that the Augsburg passion was spoken by the Sibyl; see his study, “Die lateinischen Übersetzungen und Bearbeitungen aus den Oracula Sibyllina,” Mélanges Joseph de Ghellinck (Gembloux: Duculot, 1951), pp. 126-38. 23 Lazzerini, Letteratura, p. 16; tresca, v. 14 in Hoepffner; see also Robert Lafont, La chanson de sainte Foy (Genève: Droz, 1998), pp. 29-32. 24 Johannes Schmidt, “Die älteste Alba,” Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie, 12 (1881), 333-41. Facsimiles: Ernesto Monaci, Facsimili di antichi manoscritti (Roma: Martelli, 1881-92), plate 57; Meneghetti, plate 9. 25 Eleventh century: Bischoff, p. 263; Hilty, “Monuments,” p. 35; Lazzerini, p. 19. Tenth or eleventh: Ulrich Mölk, “A propos de la provenance du Codex Vaticanus Reginensis Latinus 1462, contenant l’aube bilingue du Xe ou XIe siècle,” Mélanges offerts à Rita Lejeune (Gembloux: Duculot, 1969), pp. 37-43; Meneghetti, p. 170. Tenth century: Schmidt, p. 334; Monaci, p. vi.

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Spiculator pigris clamat: surgite! 2 En incautos ostium insidie torpentesque gliscunt intercipere, quos suadet preco clamans surgere. 3 Ab arcturo disgregatur aquilo, poli suos condunt astra radios, orienti tenditur septemtrio. 1 (By the bright light, not yet risen, of Phoebus, the dawn brings a faint light to the lands. The watchman calls to the lazy: Arise! 2 Behold, the ruses of the enemies swell up to carry off the imprudent and the sluggish, whom the herald urges, calling, to arise. 3 The north star separates from Arcturus; the stars of heaven hide their rays; the Great Bear moves toward the east.)

Hilty, who sees the composition as an alba, reads the refrain as follows: L’alba par, ume mar, atra sol, Poy pas, a bigil, mira clar tenebras.26 (L’aube apparaît. Oh mère! Il s’approche seul. Puisque je passe à lui, ô ciel, gardien, regarde la clarté comme si c’étaient des ténèbres!)

This interpretation is strongly suggestive of the jarchas associated with Arabic and Hebrew muwashshahat, in that the girl addresses her mother, confessing her amorous turmoil. For those drawn to the jarchas, as many are, this is an attractive feature, although the alba 26

Hilty, “Monuments,” pp. 36-38. Thus the refrain in the first stanza; the second and third stanzas, instead of par, read part. The third stanza ends with bigil.

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may predate the earliest jarchas we have.27 But the interpretation does not apply closely to the language of the text. It is difficult to recognize “Oh mère” in ume mar, “il s’approche” in atra, “je passe à lui” in pas, “la clarté” in clar, and especially “comme si c’étaient des ténèbres” in tenebras.28 Nor is it clear, to me at least, what the second line means in Hilty’s view–since the girl goes to her lover, she asks the watchman to observe brightness as though it were darkness (?). Hilty’s reading is satisfactory, in some cases, on the lexical level (alba, par, sol, mira, clar, tenebras), but less so on the levels of syntax and meaning. Lazzerini offers a more satisfactory reading. Taking the -t of part in stanzas 2 and 3 as the beginning of the following word, she reads the refrain thus: L’alba par, tumet mar, atra[s] sol poypas abigit miraclar tenebras. (Dawn appears, the sea swells, the sun has gone to dark castles to destroy darkness.)29

This makes sense as part of a religious allegory which Lazzerini argues is present in the Latin as well as the vernacular, depicting the harrowing of Hell by Christ between the crucifixion and the resurrection. The sun symbolizes Christ, the dawn his coming. He has gone, abigit from Latin abeo, abire, in the preterite abiit, to the atra[s] […] poypas. Atra is Latin ater, atra, atrum, “dark”; the deletion of a declensional -s before an initial s- is an occasional feature of normal practice. Atra[s] modifies the unfamiliar noun poypas, which Lazzerini has found as the base of place-names for mounds or castles throughout the Francoprovençal region east of the Saône and north of Lyons (“Nuove osservazioni,” pp. 26-28). Hence the composition of the text can be traced to this area. The dark castles symbolize infernal 27

Lucia Lazzerini, “Per una nuova interpretazione dell’Alba bililngue,” Studi medievali, 3rd ser., 20 (1979), pp. 139-84, at p. 140. 28 “Le verbe mirar est construit ici avec un double accusatif: regarde la clarté comme des ténèbres” (Hilty, “Monuments,” p. 39). 29 “L’alba appare, è gonfio il mare [per l’incipiente sorgere del sole]; il sole discese negli oscuri castelli ad annichilire le tenebre” (Letteratura, p. 22). The sea is said to swell because it is imagined as pregnant with the sun: Lucia Lazzerini, “Nuove osservazioni sull’Alba bilingue,” Medioevo romanzo, 10 (1985), 19-35, at pp. 150-51.

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abodes. Abire poypas, “to go to the castles,” is analogous to Latin abire domum or domos, “to go home.”30 Christ has gone miraclar tenebras, to destroy (*EXMIRACULARE) evil (Lazzerini, “Per una nuova interpretazione,” p. 159). Lazzerini herself offers a second, somewhat simpler solution, only to reject it (“Per una nuova interpretazione,” pp. 161-62): L’alba par, tumet mar, atra[s] sol poy pasa, bigil, miraclar tenebras. (Dawn appears, the sea swells, the sun Then passes, watchful, to destroy black darkness.)

In this reading atra[s] modifies tenebras instead of poypas; the enjambment has a longer reach. The second solution takes the letters poypasabigil as poy pasa, bigil instead of emending to poypas abigi[t]. An emendation of one letter is slight, but the manuscript spells out abigil three times. The second reading sacrifices the poypas, and with them the harrowing of hell; instead the dawn is followed by the rising sun of resurrection. It also sacrifices the link with Francoprovençal. For Lazzerini this reading is a “cospicuo depauperamento del testo” (“Per una nuova interpretazione,” p. 161). As she concedes, however, the manuscript itself was not written in the Francoprovençal region, though it may have been the work of a monk from there (“Nuove osservazioni,” pp. 29-30). On the grounds of reluctance to make any unnecessary emendation, I lean toward Lazzerini’s second solution. Neither of Lazzerini’s readings of the refrain makes reference to a mother, a lover, or a girl; the jarcha has vanished, to be replaced by Christ’s harrowing of hell or his resurrection. If we ask about the relation of the refrain to the stanzas, other than the continuity of the allegory, we see: (1) At the first sign of dawn the watchman calls upon 30 Lazzerini, “Per una nuova interpretazione,” pp. 158-59, argues that abire in biblical Latin often means ire; that atra[s] […] poypas is an accusative of destination; and that abigit governs miraclar. As a parallel to abigi[t] poypas she offers abisse domos in a variant to Martial 1.93, but the accepted reading is adisse domos. Better examples with singular domum: tu, Daue, abi domum, “You, Davus, go home” (Terence, Andria 978); domum suam quemque inde abituros, “each man would go back to his own home” (Livy 1.50.6). With the plural: domos abeamus nostras, “let’s go home” (Plautus, Poenulus 814); ut ambo exercitus suas quisque abirent domos, “that both armies went home” (Livy 2.7.1).

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sinners to arise to meet their maker, and the refrain speaks of the harrowing of Hell or the resurrection; (2) devils beset the faithful whom the herald calls upon, and the refrain speaks again; (3) the stars move from night toward day, and the refrain […]. The stanzas sing of judgment, the refrain of harrowing or resurrection. It is not clear to me why the refrain is in the vernacular, which is one of the strongest points of the analogy to the jarcha, where the classical language of the muwashshaha expresses the lover’s desire, and the vernacular of the jarcha the girl’s response. In form the refrain offers neither rhyme nor a clear meter (the syllable pattern appears to be 9, 11).31 V. The outstanding feature in common to the tenth-century Occitan texts and the alba seems to be that they are ritualistic. Whether in law, folk medicine, religious drama or religious lyric, Occitan was brought into the written medium in circumstances where the individual engaged in formal procedures or acts in a solemn observance. I find myself echoing terms of the debate over the discovery of the individual; for Carolyn Bynum, individuality in the twelfth century was integrated into community, primarily religious community.32 In the oaths of fidelity and the charms, Christianity does not occupy the forefront, although of course it provides a backdrop for the ritual. But legal or medical ritual can also be compelling, and imply their own sense of community in legal tradition or the corporeal cosmos. These four forms of early Occitan discourse have in common a sense of intimate personal engagement, through language, in rituals that confer a certain identity. The rituals involve emotional stress or conflict. Of Gardrado we know little, except that he must have been involved in conflict with his bishop when he swore, in words transcribed in the vernacular, not to offend him again. The charms concern the pain and anxiety of a patient suffering from an edema or a dislocation. The crucifixion, for the believer, is almost impossible to speak–si greu est a parlaer! In the 31

Or 9, 12; see Meneghetti, pp. 170-71n22. “The goal of development of a twelfth-century person is the application to the self of a model that is simultaneously […] a mechanism for affiliation with a group”: Caroline Walker Bynum, “Did the Twelfth Century Discover the Individual?” Jesus as Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1982), pp. 82-109, at p. 108. 32

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alba, the faithful confront the imminence of judgment. Anguish and anxiety provoke the mother tongue. In all four discourses rituals relate to the future. Gardrado swears what he will do and will not do; the practitioner of folk medicine narrates the cure he or she will produce; the prophet foretells the crucifixion. The apparent exception is the alba, in which the refrain narrates the past descent of Christ into Hell or his resurrection, but the implication for the future judgment of all the faithful is palpable. It is judgment that the Latin stanzas ring out, alternating with the vernacular in the minor key. Occitan discourse in these four examples looks toward a resolution of conflict, a cure of illness, or a salvation of sinners to come. Finally, this discourse is frail. The texts are minimal. In latin farci and the bilingual alba, Occitan nudges its way into authoritative Latin discourse. There is latin farci in the charms too: Terra madre susipiat dolores, TERRA MATER SUSCIPIAT DOLORES; Cum pisce in aqua fregit, CUM PISCIS IN AQUA FREGIT, and in the alba: TUMET MAR, ATRA[S], perhaps abigi[t] for ABIIT. Intertextuality concerns connections with Latin and not Occitan, with the possible exception of the paraliturgical song implied in the Augsburg passion, which may relate to the tresca that would be named, perhaps a century later, in the Chanson de sainte Foy. On the other hand, the alba and perhaps the passion were sung. Despite the fragility of these texts in general, they offer at least one indication of astonishing vigor: the passion traveled, somehow, to Strasbourg and then to Augsburg. VI. The eleventh century saw Occitan discourse grow in vigor and diversity, as it expanded to produce the Boeci and the Sainte Foy, and to absorb the three texts translated from French. The three versus limousins represent a continuation of vernacular paraliturgy from the Augsburg passion. Francoprovençal, which had (perhaps) produced the refrain of the bilingual alba during the eleventh century, expanded to produce the Alexander fragment at its end. But the lyrics discovered by Bernhard Bischoff in the British Museum, in a Harley manuscript from the end of the eleventh century, are something new.33 Like the 33

Bischoff, “Altfranzösische Liebesstrophen (Spätes elftes Jahrhundert?),” Anecdota novissima, pp. 266-69. Facsimiles: Bischoff, plate V; Meneghetti, plate 12.

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Augsburg passion, the Harley lyrics were apparently written by a German scribe.34 Both are five lines long and seem to imply stanzaic form. Both carry neumes, as does the bilingual alba, indicating that they were sung. The first is relatively clear: Las, qu’i non sun sparvir, astur, qu’i podis a li voler, la sintil imbracher, sa buch schi duls baser, dussiri e repasar tu dulur.35 (Alas, that I am not a sparrow-hawk, a goshawk, so that I could fly to her, embrace the noble one, kiss her mouth so sweet, sweeten and soothe every pain.)

Dulur recalls the dolores in the first charm, but here contrasts with duls and dussiri. The anxiety characteristic of the tenth-century texts has come to be balanced by the sweetness of eros. The binary opposition of grief and imagined joy announces the affective polarity that will characterize the troubadours.36 In his desire to embrace and kiss la sintil, more familiar as la gentil if not as the donna gentil of the Dolce Stil Nuovo, the speaker imagines himself as one of the prototypical male symbols, a hunting hawk, either the sparrow hawk or

34 Lucia Lazzerini, “A proposito di due ‘Liebesstrophen’ pretrobadoriche,” Cultura neolatina, 53 (1993), 123-34, at p. 125. 35 I base this version on Lazzerini, “A proposito,” and on Lazzerini, Letteratura, p. 29. I have indented to reflect more precisely the syllable count. I substitute qu’i (v. 1, v. 2) for Lazzerini’s qui, and introduce the comma in sparvir, astur to express the alternative, translated by Lazzerini “sparviero o astore” (Letteratura, p. 29n52). In v. 2, the original ms. reading uorer was corrected by a later hand to uoler. In v. 4, I divide Lazzerini’s buchschi (“bocca”) into buch schi. 36 Pierre Bec, “La douleur et son univers poétique chez Bernard de Ventadour,” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, 11 (1968), 545-71; 12 (1969), 25-33; Bec, “L’antithèse poétique chez Bernard de Ventadour,” Mélanges de philologie romane dédiés à la mémoire de Jean Boutière (Liège: Pierre Mardaga, 1971), pp. 107-37; both articles are reprinted in Bec, Ecrits sur les troubadours et la lyrique médiévale (19611991) ([Orléans]: Paradigme, 1992), pp. 165-200, 201-31. An early example of the polarity of joi and dolor is Guilhem IX, “Ab la dolchor del tems novel.”

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the larger, more beautiful, and stronger goshawk.37 The image of the lover as falcon would have a great future among the troubadours.38 Another analog is one of the founding texts of Middle High German lyric, that of Der von Kürenberc, who perhaps wrote around the midtwelfth century. Here the image of the lover as falcon is produced in a female voice: Ich zoch mir einen valken mere danne ein jar. do ich in gezamete als ich in wolte han und ich im sin gevidere mit golde wol bewant, er huob sich uf vil hohe und floug in anderiu lant.39 (I trained a falcon more than a year. When I had tamed him as I wanted to have him and had wound his plumage with gold, he rose up very high and flew into another land.)

The hawk image intrinsically suggests the theme of distant love, which came into its own in Occitan with Jaufre Rudel. The form of the first Harley stanza appears to be well defined in terms of the rhymes written -ur, -er, in the scheme abbba. They are more exact and systematic than the rhymes we noticed emerging in the

37

“Those sparrow hawks [sperverius] that have feathers and build corresponding most closely to the goshawk [austur] are the finest […]. A sparrow hawk with spots on the tail such as one sees on goshawks is held to be most beautiful. Sparrow hawks […] are considered most attractive when they resemble goshawks that have already moulted”: Frederick II of Hohenstaufen, The Art of Falconry; Being the De arte venandi cum avibus, trans. Casey A. Wood and F. Marjorie Fyfe (Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 1943), pp. 127-28. “Aprop l’austor ven esparvers / e degra meills anar premers, / tant es cortes, pros et adreitz, / mas trop pauc dura sos espleitz”: Alexander Herman Schutz, The Romance of Daude de Pradas called Dels Auzels Cassadors (Columbus: Ohio State Univ. Press, 1945), 243-46. 38 Lucia Lazzerini, “A proposito.” Ulrich Mölk, “Zwei Fragmente galloromanischer weltlicher Lyrik des 11. Jahrhunderts,” in Ensi firent li ancessor: Mélanges de philologie médiévale offerts à Marc-René Jung, ed. Marc-René Jung, Luciano Rossi, et al. 2 vols. (Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso, 1996) vol. 1, pp. 47-51. Meneghetti, pp. 191-92. Lazzerini, Letteratura, pp. 30-32. 39 Olive Sayce, Poets of the Minnesang (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967), item 15. A second stanza follows in which the speaker says she saw the falcon again, wearing silken jesses; we understand that her lover has left her for another woman.

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charms,40 but they are comparable to the rhymes in the Augsburg passion. The passion has a well-defined meter, however, in comparison to the more diffuse Harley lyric, which appears to offer the formula 8, 7, 6, 6, 10.41 The second Harley lyric has been more resistant to interpretation. Sacramente non valent; tu speriure current; multe vel recedent per amor inclusi schevaler, Iesu Christ [ms.: iuch] tradur!42 (Vows are worth nothing; all perjuries run (abroad); many […] even receive for love […] nuns [receive] a knight, traitor to Jesus Christ!)

She sees in it a small sirventes, “a moralistic invective against unscrupulous knights and nuns ready to break their vows” (Letteratura, p. 33), perhaps an anticipation of the rivalry of knights and clerics in Guilhem IX–seen here in the clerical perspective, opposite to Guilhem’s–not to mention Marcabru. But the interpretation does not inspire great confidence, as may be seen in Lazzerini’s own retraction of some details from her publication of 1993 (“A proposito”) in 2001 (Letteratura). In the third line, she claimed at first to read 40 Notice that the emergent rhymes in the charms include feminine (sedea / tenea, dolores / dolores) as well as masculine (recebrunt / donerunt, resoldé / deslogé). The rhymes in the Augsburg passion are masculine. Those in the first of the Harley lyrics are masculine, in the second feminine (valent, current, […] edent) and masculine. The Boeci has only masculine rhymes, but the Sainte Foy has feminine as well: tresca 14 etc., braczaleira 101 etc., sana 274 etc., seboltura 413 etc., trebailla 576 etc. These early feminine rhymes undermine one of the reasons that have been adduced for denying the attribution of “Farai chansoneta nueva” to Guilhem IX: see Bond, pp. lxxvii-lxxviii, 44-47. 41 Lazzerini discusses the meter in “A proposito,” p. 130n18. 42 Lazzerini, “A proposito,” p. 134; cf. Letteratura, p. 32. In v. 2, positing a lacking abbreviation mark in ms. spiure, Lazzerini proposes speriure. I have divided Lazzerini’s long last line into vv. 5-6.

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recedent, although Bischoff had considered the first four letters illegible; later she offered simply vel…edent. At the end, she at first printed I[es]u Ch[rist], but later reverted to the ms. reading iuch. Furthermore, if multe […] inclusi is a noun phrase meaning “many nuns,” the enjambment is strained. The versification, too, defies easy formulation. The first three lines have feminine endings but do not rhyme unless we take them to rhyme on the unstressed final syllable, as happens in Medieval Latin poetry, or to stress that final syllable (as Lazzerini argues, “A proposito,” pp. 132-33n24). Perhaps amor rhymes with tradur, later traidor. If the first three lines do rhyme, the scheme might be aaabcb. The syllabic pattern might be 6’, 5’, 5’, 3, 6, 6 (reading, in desperation, inclusi schevaler / Jesu Christ traidor). If there is a stanza here it is difficult to define. VII. The early texts provide precious documentation on the emergence of Occitan as a vehicle of literary culture. The roots of Occitan literary history can now be traced to around 950 C.E. In that first half-century we have a range of small texts in law, folk medicine, and religious drama. These texts have in common that they are ritualistic; they express emotional stress or conflict; they refer to the future; and their voice is very frail. With the turn of the millennium, the eleventh century saw religious lyric (in the alba) and a greater variety of more extended works. Finally, just as the century was about to end, come the first experiments known to us in Occitan lyric expressing either praise or blame of love. The background of tenth-century works sets in relief the lyrics in the Harley manuscript and the troubadour songs that would come later. The first Harley lyric expresses yearning comparable to the emotional stress of the tenth-century works, but this yearning is private rather than ritualistic, and it is expressed in the negative indicative and the past subjunctive rather than the future. If Lazzerini is right about the second Harley lyric, it expresses blame for unworthy women rather than praise of the beloved; it criticizes women who violate the rules of religious community, but does not do so in a ritual fashion. It speaks in the present indicative with repetition for emphasis. The lyric voice has moved from ritual to private desire or public censure, and from the future tense to the present. However fragile they may seem, the two Harley songs announce the imminent development of powerful

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traditions of troubadour lyric that would eventually be formulated in the genres of the canso and the sirventes.43 Guilhem IX and his contemporaries like Eble de Ventadorn did not venture into a void; they followed experiments in Occitan written culture that had been going on for a century and a half. We know now that Guilhem had at least one anonymous predecessor, if not two, and possibly more if there were others whose works are lost or not yet recovered. But the revolutionary impact of praise and blame for fin’amor stands out as all the greater.

43 On the development of Occitan genres see Rupert T. Pickens, “The Old Occitan Arts of Poetry and the Early Troubadour Lyric,” in William D. Paden, ed., Medieval Lyric: Genres in Historical Context (Urbana: Univ. of Illinois Press, 2000), pp. 20941, and Paden, “The System of Genres in Troubadour Lyric,” in Paden, ed., Medieval Lyric, pp. 1-67.

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WENDY PFEFFER

Lifting a Glass in Medieval Occitania or reasons that have as much to do with contemporary French politics as with history, scholars have, in the past, assumed that conclusions drawn about Paris and its surrounding region could be applied without a second thought to the regions around Toulouse or Bordeaux. But lumping the cultural and literary history of Occitania together with that of northern France leads to a deep misunderstanding of what happened in the south and what life was like in the south. I have argued before that medieval Occitan culture and society have not been sufficiently studied to date, and the preliminary observations I offer here are part of my efforts and those of other scholars to make aspects of medieval Occitania and the differences between Occitania and Northern France better known to the scholarly world and to the general public. The specific element of Occitan society addressed here is wine as it was consumed in medieval Occitania, based on what we can learn from historical and literary references. Although the economic history of wine is known, wine was clearly a part of daily life and culture in medieval Occitania, and this aspect has not yet been thoroughly studied. Wine was an element of international commerce in the Middle Ages, but it was also an essential part of daily life for every individual, perceived differently in northern and southern France. First, some background. We can thank the Romans for importing wine culture into southern France, and it is documented that vineyards existed in Occitania from that period on. The Latin poet Ausonius, who had a residence near Bordeaux, is frequently quoted on the quality of the wines in his neighborhood of Gascony. While the southern wine trade was not a major economic force in the early Middle Ages, by the twelfth century, Occitan wines were becoming known outside of their immediate vicinity. Bordeaux and the Gascon wine trade really took off at the end of the twelfth century and into the thirteenth. By the fourteenth century, Gascony held a monopoly on the English wine trade, and England held, in turn, a monopoly on Gascon exports.1 This 1

“The proportion of Bordeaux exports absorbed by England at the end of the (fourteenth) century must have increased to three-quarters or even four-fifths,”

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Gascon pre-eminence held firm for as long as Bordeaux and Gascony were part of the English empire, until 1464, when, after the Hundred Years’ War, the city of Bordeaux became French. Medieval travelers to Occitania commented on the presence of vineyards–Froissart, for example, can pay no higher compliment than to say, as he does of Pamiers, “Elle sied en beaux vignobles et bons et à grant’planté.”2 He portrays the rich plains near Montpellier as “a land of wine, salted meat and ships’ biscuit.”3 In his Livre de la description des pays, written after 1440, Gilles le Bouvier (dit le Héraut Berry) described Languedoc as “ung très bon païs, et riche d’or et d’argent, de blé, de vins, d’uilles d’olives, de dates et d’amandes.”4 Contrasting medieval with modern fare, Odile Redon, Françoise Sabban and Silvano Serventi noted that at a medieval repast you could drink all the wine you wanted and that, “It is hard to imagine a banquet, or even a simple meal, without wine.”5 Numerous scholars of food and drink suggest that consumption of wine on a daily basis in the Middle Ages was significant, particularly from a twenty-first-century American perspective: “Individual consumption rarely fell below a quart a day, and often exceeded half a gallon” (Redon, Sabban and Serventi, p. 14). And wine was not limited to the nobility; it can be termed a “democratic beverage”–everyone consumed it, although the quality an individual drank was determined by that person’s ability to pay.6 Margery Kirkbride James, Studies in the Medieval Wine Trade, ed. Elspeth M. Veale (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), p. 30. 2 Quoted in Philippe Wolfe, Commerces et marchands de Toulouse (vers 1350-vers 1450) (Paris: Librairie Plon, 1954), p. 188. See Jean Froissart, Voyage en Béarn, ed. A. H. Diverres (Manchester: Manchester Univ. Press, 1953), p. 1. 3 Barbara Santich, The Original Mediterranean Cuisine: Medieval Recipes for Today (Kent Town, Australia: Wakefield Press, 1995; rpt. Chicago: Chicago Review Press, 1995), p. 19. 4 Le Livre de la description des pays de Gilles le Bouvier, dit Berry, Recueil de voyages et de documents pour servir à l’histoire de la géographie depuis le XIIIe jusqu’à la fin du XVIe siècle, vol. 22 (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1908), p. 42. 5 Odile Redon, Françoise Sabban and Silvano Serventi, The Medieval Kitchen: Recipes from France and Italy, trans. Edward Schneider (Chicago: Univ. Chicago Press, 1998), p. 14. 6 “When supplies were sufficient, ordinary townspeople could afford low-quality wines produced locally using high-yielding grape varieties. Peasants, who were in general more underprivileged, often had to make do with cheap stuff squeezed out of

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Albert Henry has spent a career tracing the oenological vocabulary of French, a career that culminated in 1996 with the publication of his two-volume Langage oenologique en langue d’oïl,7 and his work has served as a model for my study in a number of ways, notably for helping me identify useful vocabulary terms to pursue. Occitan does not have texts parallel to those in Old French used by Henry, such as the anonymous Desputoison du vin et de l’iaue or Henri d’Andeli’s Bataille des vins, so the search for Occitan vocabulary is made somewhat more difficult. But with access to new research tools for Occitan, such as the Concordance de l’Occitan Médiéval (COM),8 it should be possible to gain a sense of the place of wine in medieval literature of southern France. Curiously, while Old French sources name a number of southern crus, I have found but feeble reference to specific wines in the Occitan sources I have consulted to date. Southern wines identified in the French sources include wines from Agolesmes (Angoulême), Bediers (Béziers), Bordiaus (Bordeaux), Carcasone (Carcassonne), Gascoigne (Gascony), Monpellier (Montpellier), Mosac (Moissac), Nerbone (Narbonne), Poitiers, Provence, and Saint Melïon (Saint Emilion) (Henry, vol. 2, pp. 357-66). It is too soon for me to draw conclusions from the apparent absence of Occitan interest in named crus, which may simply mean that I have not yet consulted sufficient documents in my research. We do know, nonetheless, that English sources for the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries tend to generalize wines as being “Gascon” with no distinction as to specific cru (see James passim). Even modern scholars can be vague in their description of Occitan wines. For example, in her recent book on the troubadours, the singers and lyricists of twelfth- and thirteenth-century southern France, Linda M. Paterson talks of these authors consuming “Mediterranean wines” but without further detail.9 We know that Old French sources offer a the leftovers of the harvest, which had already been crushed once to make the firstpressing wines for the master and for the more affluent” (Redon, Sabban and Serventi, p. 14). 7 Albert Henry, Langage oenologique en langue d’oïl (XIIe-XVe s.), 2 vols., Académie royale de Belgique, (Mémoire de la Classe des lettres, 3e série, t. 14, 1996). 8 Concordance de l’occitan médiéval, ed. Peter T. Ricketts (Turnhout: Brepols, 2001). 9 Linda M. Paterson. The World of the Troubadours: Medieval Occitan Society, c. 1100-c. 1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1993), p. 124.

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number of names of reputed Occitan vintages (listed above). I would have preferred if Paterson had been more precise, since “Mediterranean wines” is a term used in the oenological literature to refer to wines from Italy more than wines from southern France, however close to the Mediterranean Occitan vineyards may have been. So, what can we discover about wine and the wine trade in medieval Occitania? It is certain that vines were planted throughout medieval Occitania and that a flourishing wine trade in southern wines existed in the later Middle Ages. Paterson suggests a date of the late thirteenth century for the start of the wine trade (p. 124) but does not develop these thoughts further. Wine historian Rod Phillips informs us that “The Bordeaux region emerged as a major player in the international wine trade only in the thirteenth century,”10 though he tells us that Bordelais wine merchants were complaining to Eleanor of Aquitaine about punitive taxes even in the twelfth century (p. 87). Nonetheless, it was King John who agreed to lower taxes on Bordeaux wines in 1204, in exchange for the city’s support of his war efforts against Philip Augustus (Phillips, p. 87), and it is this agreement that launched the Bordeaux wine market in a big way. After 1224, when the port of La Rochelle became part of the French domain, Bordeaux’s monopoly on the English wine trade was secure, and “Gascon wine was the staple of the English market” (Phillips, p. 88). Phillips tells us further that Gascon wines came not only from vineyards planted near the city of Bordeaux, but also from far upstream, “le Haut Pays,” “From Gaillac and Cahors […] barrels were shipped to Bordeaux for export as Gascon wine” (p. 88). Using data assembled by James, Yves Renouard and Charles Higonnet made visible the sources of these Haut Pays wines with a map, which points to a number of cities and towns along the Lot, Garonne and Tarn Rivers, including Villeneuve-sur-Lot, Gaillac, Rabastens, Montauban, Moissac, Port-Sainte-Marie, Le Masd’Agenais, Marmande, Condom and Bayonne. And James notes that in the first part of the fourteenth century, the port of Bordeaux was averaging wine exports of some 90,000 tons annually, of which at least half came from the Haut Pays and perhaps one-tenth came from the Upper Dordogne (p. 9), although the tonnage decreased significantly in the fifteenth century, to 12,000-14,000 tons yearly (p. 38). In the 10

Rod Phillips, A Short History of Wine (New York: Harper Collins, 2000), p. 87.

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fourteenth century, merchants from all the Agenais, as well as from Libourne, St. Emilion, Sarlat, and the Bazadais were familiar figures in the ports of England (James, p. 80). Although Bordeaux was clearly a major center for the wine trade, all Occitan communities that could, grew their own grapes and pressed their own wine; “chaque ville est entourée d’une ceinture de vignes.”11 “There was probably relatively little wine from one wine-producing region on sale in another wine-producing region” (Phillips, pp. 92-93). Bordeaux itself and its immediate surroundings were planted almost entirely in vines, so that other foodstuffs and manufactured goods needed to be imported (James, p. 165). Even though many Occitan regions capable of producing good wines grew grapes, in the later Middle Ages, the only Occitan wine region that truly prospered was Bordeaux. “The southern vineyards of the Rhône valley and Languedoc, despite their favourable growing conditions, were unable to benefit from increasing demand. They were located too far from the major centres of consumption, and those producers who tried to export their wine to the east found the passage blocked by their Burgundian competitors” (Phillips, pp. 99-100). Gascon wines were not stored for any length of time12 and this short life expectancy was a significant factor in the Gascon wine trade. In fact, all medieval wines were “new” wines, much like the Beaujolais Nouveau of our own day.13 Aside from wine drunk straight or diluted with water (see Wolff, p. 188), modern scholars Geneviève BrunelLobrichon et Claudie Duhamel-Amado add to the list of wine beverages consumed in Occitania, hypocras (a mixture of wine and spiced honey), wine infused with thyme, and malvoisie or malmsey, a

11

Louis Stouff, La Table provençale: Boire et manger en Provence à la fin du Moyen Age (Avignon: Editions A. Barthéleny, 1996), p. 47. 12 Elspeth M. Veale, “Editor’s Note,” in James, Studies in the Medieval Wine Trade, ed. Elspeth M. Veale (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), pp. xv-xvi. 13 Henri Enjalbert, p. 320 and passim in “Comment naissent les grands crus: Bordeaux, Porto, Cognac, première partie,” Annales 8 (1953), pp. 315-328.

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sweet wine from Crete or Greece.14 If we list all wine-based liquids, we should also include verjuice and perhaps also agras in the list.15 Water could also be consumed, but it held less favored status: “To the rich man wine was a necessity; to the poor man it was a semiluxury to which he clung with some tenacity even when times were hard and prices high” (James, p. 176). A thirteenth-century Occitan work, the Livre de Sydrac asks specifically, which is better to drink, wine or water, and offers this answer: Lo vins es una preciosa causa e digna, et es a salut dels cors e de l’arma, car per lo vin pot om salvar son cors de moltas malaudias e s’arma d’issament; car vins es bons per las savias gentz que lo bevon atrempadament et a razon, e non fan per lhui nulh damnatge a lor ni ad autra gent: per que atals gentz aprofiecha mais trop beure vins que aiga.16

The character in the Livre de Sydrac who gave this answer, Sydrac himself, continues that crazy people or bad people should drink only water, seawater in fact, because they cannot benefit from wine and alcoholic beverages will only make them more antisocial (ibid.).17 Looking further at vernacular texts, there are a number of useful prose sources to inform this research. One example, the Libre de Vita of Bergerac, composed between 1378 and 1382, is in itself a kind of medieval cahier des doléances. But here we can find traces of the vocabulary I am looking for. In a report on a pillage that occurred in 14 Geneviève Brunel-Lobrichon and Claudie Duhamel-Amado, Au temps des troubadours, XIIe-XIIIe siècles, La vie quotidienne (Paris: Hachette, 1997), p. 165; see also Tom Unwin, Wine and the Vine: An Historical Geography of viticulture and the Wine Trade (London and New York: Routledge, 1991), p. 185. 15 Agras, described as “le liquide extrait de raisins encore verts” in Jean Barennes, Viticulture et vinification en Bordelais au Moyen Age (Bordeaux: Marcel MounastrePicamilh, 1912), p. 85, may have been synonymous with verjuice only in the region of Bordeaux. The Modus, an Occitan-Latin recipe book, offers a recipe for agras, in this specific case a sauce using verjuice (Carole Lambert, email 25 January 2002). As of this date, Carole Lambert’s edition of the Modus, included in “Trois réceptaires culinaires médiévaux: les Enseingnemenz, les Doctrine et le Modus: Edition critique et glossaire détaillé” (Ph.D. dissertation, Université de Montréal, 1989) has not been published. 16 Anthologie de la prose occitane du Moyen Age (XIIe-XVe siècle), ed. Pierre Bec, (Valdarias: Vent terral, 1987), t. 2, p. 162. 17 Implied in this text is that bad people get drunk and that insobriety is not good for society.

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the community of Aimet (Eymet), we discover that a group of brigands was appeased: “los fèren finar una pipa de vin per çò que non los ardèssan lo plus.”18 In terms of the wine trade, merchant letters are also a useful source of information. Ettore Finazzi Agrò prints several letters composed by Ponset de Scala, a merchant based in Marseilles.19 These letters are dated and discuss business dealings conducted by Ponset and his correspondents in Genoa. For example, in a letter of December 29, 1395, Ponset writes, Vos ai hier escrig aplen per autra letra, per lo cal vos mandi […] VI botas de vin […] Aras, […] vos mandi, per la barca de Moret de Lilla, XXVI botas de vin blanc […]. Las cals causas, cant las aures receupudas a salvament, dares bon despachament de vendre al miels que si potra, car los vins son perfiechamens bons vins e de bona sabor; las cals botas mi fas reymandar per lo dig Moret e que los vulhas despachar denfra IIII o VI jors car non ha plus espasi de demorar de part de·lla. (pp. 173-174)

We learn much from this correspondence, particularly insofar as wine transport is concerned. Wine travels in botas; these botas are re-used and the wine, therefore, transferred to another container; we learn that white and red wines were shipped from Marseilles to Italy for sale20 and that the terms to describe the wine for sale are remarkably simple: good and good tasting. Lastly, these letters appear to disprove economic historian Henri Pirenne’s remark that “Le bassin méditerranéen était trop abondant en vignes pour solliciter l’exportation des vins de France,”21 although Pirenne may have meant northern France rather than the Midi in his comment. Remember that what the medieval palate thought was “good and good tasting” was quite different from today’s connoisseur’s appreciation. Veale observes that “All the wines produced in France in the Middle Ages were non-sweet wines” (p. xv), and I suspect that 18

Anthologie de la prose occitane du Moyen Age (XIIe-XVe siècle), ed. Pierre Bec, (Avignon: Aubanel, 1977), t. 1, p. 73. 19 Ettore Finazzi Agrò, ed. “Lettere di un mercante provenzale del ‘300,” Cultura neolatina, 33 (1973), 161-205. 20 In a letter dated December 28, 1395, Ponset talks of shipping vin vermelh as well (p. 171). 21 Henri Pirenne, p. 227 in “Un grand commerce d’exportation au Moyen Age: Les vins de France,” Annales d’histoire économique et sociale, 5 (1933), 225-43.

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medieval vintages were much drier than is typical of today’s production, the medieval product tending almost to vinegar. Also, different wines were popular with different audiences. BrunelLobrichon and Duhamel-Amado suggest that in Occitania white wines were most appreciated, followed by rosés and then reds which have a low alcohol content (p. 162). Looking at English evidence for wine imports, we find that the description of wines imported from English possessions in Occitania is slight at best. Analyzing the retail price of wines in fifteenth-century England, James presents a chart with price data for almost every year of the century; only seven examples of “type of wine” are given and these examples provide little information. Imported wine was described as Gascon, red Gascon, or Rochelle, meaning from La Rochelle (James, pp. 60-63). Data on wholesale prices assembled by James (pp. 64-69) also presents wine type; here the descriptors include “red,” “Gascon,” “white,” “red Gascon,” “Aquitaine,” and in the second half of the fifteenth century “claret,” “Rochelle,” “Bordeaux.” Gascon, Aquitaine, Rochelle and claret all refer to what we could call rosé. We know from Occitan literary evidence that wine was consumed at festive occasions throughout southern France. For example, the romance of Flamenca, with its description of various courtly repasts, is a rich source of information on wine in medieval Occitania. The most detailed description occurs at the beginning of the story, when Archambault throws a great festival to celebrate his marriage. Here we have the menu of the meal: Quan las donas foron acisas, venon majar e moutas guisas, mais ja non cal ques aiso digua. Nulla res no.s pot far d’espiga ni de razis ni de rasim ni de frucha ni de noirim, ni de so qu(es) aers uffris ni terra ni mars ni abis ques om manjar posca ni deja. (511-19)22

22

All quotations from Flamenca, roman occitan du XIIIe siècle, ed. et trad. JeanCharles Huchet, Bibliothèque médiévale (Paris: Union générale d’éditions, 1988).

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More importantly for my purposes, we learn that wine at this Occitan feast was served at the end: Quant an manjat, autra ves lavon, mais, tot atressi con s'estavon, remanon tut e prendon vi car vezat era en aisi. (583-86)

Slightly later, at another meal, we learn the methods used in medieval Occitania to cool wines: “e glaz e neu per refretzir / lo vi que non tolla dormir” ( 947-48). The Chroniques des comtes de Foix by Arnaud Esquierrier, official historian of Gaston IV de Foix, contain a detailed eye-witness description of a fifteenth-century repast offered by Gaston in honor of the Hungarian embassy and honored guests, 150 convives in all. We are told, “Lo primier servici foc ipocràs ab las rostidas” (Bec, vol. 1, p. 93), followed by two courses, then an entremets, another course, another entremets, another course, another entremets followed by gifts and then a sixth service, “ipocràs roge ab las oblias e rolas de tròpas faiçons” (Bec, vol. 1, p. 94). The meal continued, but not the beverage service, it would appear. But feasts with numerous courses such as this were more the exception than the day-to-day rule. Wine distribution within medieval Occitania was handled either by the vintner and his family or by taverners, who could sell wine by the gallon, quart or pint (James, p. 190). Municipal governments attempted to control the sale of wine and, at the same time, to benefit financially from it. Given that, in some parts of Occitania, every family that could had at least one grapevine whose grapes allowed the family to make wine, it was in the civic interest to exercise some legislative control. And medieval government documents provide modern scholars with additional examples of wine vocabulary in the Occitan context. We have, for example, a Gascon charter of city rights dated to 1230 whose article 20 reads: Los taverners auzatz de Sent-Gaudens deven dar al senhor sieis leuderas de vin a Nadau, e sieis a Pascas, e sieis a Pentacosta. Si vin ven om forra de las tavernas, deu om fer fin ab lo baile, e.ls taverners non deven dar los dreits de vin que aportar façan, de verenhas entro Martror. (Bec, vol. 2, p. 105)

Turning to the troubadours, if we consult the concordance to the entire corpus of lyric composed by these singer-songwriters, looking for vocabulary touching on wine and wine consumption, we find a

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mixed barrel of information. I have found examples of various drink containers, such as copas, enaps/anaps and brocs; I have found places to consume beverages, such as ostals or tavernas. The major beverage consumed is vin, rarely described in more detail.23 The troubadour Ademar Jordan speaks of “bon vin” (PC 2, 1, line 3) as does Uguet (PC 458, 58, line 4). Another singer, Bonafos mentions “vin blanc” in a context that suggests someone is switching bad wine for good (PC 98.1): “e donar per vin blanc ner / e pis d’ega per sabrer” (31-32). Of course, doctoring wines is an old practice. As James noted: Whenever wine was bought or sold, special precautions had to be observed, for slight variations in appearance denoting different types, good or bad, were often only visible to the eye of the expert and the amateur was often duped into buying a mixture of the dregs of many good wines, or bad wines mixed with white of egg, honey and other sweetening matter. (p. 161)

Or, in troubadour lyric, doctoring wine could be a reference to a wellknown literary work with this theme, the love story of Tristan and Iseut. For example, an anonymous troubadour mentions tempering wine (PC 461.58): “no fo Tristans, qe d’amor fo temptatz / e bic del vin, qe ges no fo tempraç” (3-4), although this reference is to a very specific, tampered wine. Scholars have long noted that the thirteenth-century troubadour Peire Cardenal was a careful observer of his milieu, particularly when relating “[un] détail des moeurs,”24 and so it comes as no surprise that Peire is a fruitful source of information on medieval drinking practices.25 In his sirventes critical of the Jacobins, “Ab votz d’angel, lengu’esperta, non bleza” (PC 335.1), we find scathing references to their lifestyle, specifically in terms of their eating and drinking habits: 23 Unless otherwise specified, all quotations of troubadour lyric are from the Concordance database. 24 Friedrich Diez cited by René Lavaud, ed., Poésies complètes du troubadour Peire Cardenal (1180-1278), Bibliothèque méridionale, 2e série, t. 34 (Toulouse: Edouard Privat, 1957), p. 636. All quotations of Peire Cardenal are taken from this edition. 25 For a discussion of Peire’s interest in food and drink from a different perspective, see R. Lassalle, “Le Dit et le non-dit culinaires dans la littérature narrative de langue d’oc,” in Manger et boire au Moyen Age: Actes du colloque de Nice (15-17 octobre 1982), ed. Denis Menjot, Publications de la Faculté des lettres et sciences humaines de Nice, no. 27 (Paris: Les Belles lettres, 1984), t. 1: Aliments et société, pp. 441-49.

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Si non, con il, mangem la bona freza E.l mortairol si batut c'o.l begues, E.l gras sabrier de galina pageza E, d'autra part, jove jusvert ab bles, E vin qui millior non poiria, Don Franses plus leu s’enebria.– S'ab bel vieure, vestir, manjar, jazer Conquer hom Dieu, be.l poden conquerer Aissi con cill que bevon la serveza E manjo.l pan de juel e de regres […]. (9-18)

Looking only at the vocabulary of drink, this song gives references to “serveza” (line 17)26 and to “jove jusvert” (line 12); we learn that gourmands drink wine while ascetics drink ale. Moreover, Peire provides information about a really good wine. Later in the same piece, the troubadour criticizes the Jacobins for their lack of verbal restraint; this too is an opportunity to refer to wine: “Mas jacopin apres manjar n’an queza, / ans desputan del vin, cals mieillers es, / Et an de plaitz cort establia” (27-29). I suspect that while Peire was eager to criticize the Dominican order, particularly given its role in southern France at the time of and after the Albigensian Crusade, his own interests in eating and drinking colored and informed his critique. It is, after all, this same Peire who offers the most detailed description of wine in the troubadour lyric corpus: “bons vins saboros” (PC 335.54, line 37). A critique of the French as heavy drinkers (in comparison to the more temperate Occitans) is found in another of Peire’s songs, “Falsedatz e desmezura” (PC 335.25), when the troubadour describes the French as causing no more fear to Raymon, duke of Narbonne, than partridges incite in a hawk: “Que Frances bevedor / Plus que perditz a l’austor / No vos fan temensa” (46-48). Of course, the French had already been a source of criticism in this song, for Peire does not like what he describes as the French custom of inviting only those who are rich:

26

See L. Moulin, “La Bière, une invention médiévale, in Manger et boire au Moyen Age: Actes du colloque de Nice (15-17 octobre 1982), ed. Denis Menjot, Publications de la Faculté des lettres et sciences humaines de Nice, no. 27 (Paris: Les Belles lettres, 1984), t. 1, Aliments et société, pp. 13-31.

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Aras es vengut de Fransa Que hom non somona Mas sels que an aondansa De vin et d'anona. (25-28)

Wine and grain were essentials of the medieval Occitan diet, and it is no surprise to see them linked here. Peire ties the words again in “L’arcivesques de Narbona” (PC 335.29) when he describes gifts one could give: “Dar li podon aur e argen / E draps e vin e anona,” (5-6). If not by grain, wine is frequently accompanied by a related staple, bread, in troubadour lyric. Finding wine together with bread and/or grain reinforces their importance as staples in daily life. In his description of the warm welcome he received from two ladies in Auvergne, Guilhem IX, troubadour and Duke of Aquitaine, mentions that “.l pans fo blancs e.l vins fo bos” (PC 183.12, line 47).27 A good tavern has both, according to Bertran de Born (PC 80.19): “qui agues pres bon ostau / e fos dedinz la carns e.l pans e.l vis […]” (2-3). Marcabru tells us, when the cupboard is bare, it is empty, quite specifically, of bread and meat and wine (PC 293.43): “tot atretal / vos faill la carns e.l vis e.l pans” (8-9). Or “failli li ben pans, vins, sez e maisos” to use the words of thirteenth-century troubadour Uc de Saint Circ (PC 457.5, line 12). In another song, Marcabru offers a warning reminiscent, in our day and age, of the slogans of Mothers Against Drunk Driving, “qui trop beu plus que non deu lo vins li tol la vigor” (PC 293.24, line 12), a moralistic remark in keeping with what we think we know of his character. In terms of wine critics, there is little to be found in the Occitan corpus. One anonymous troubadour sings of aged wine, “vels vin” (PC 461.146.11). While there does exist a song in which a different anonymous singer tells us of “vin cras et boutat” (PC 461.146.58), meaning, in the context of this song, a very bad wine, Robert A. Taylor argues convincingly that this song is actually an Old French work cloaked in Occitan clothing and that the wine vocabulary used in the

27 Text from Guilhem IX, The Poetry of William VII, Count of Poitiers, IX Duke of Aquitaine, ed. Gerald A. Bond, Garland Library of Medieval Literature, ser. A, vol. 4 (New York: Garland Publishing, 1982).

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song, the terms cras and boutat, is really Old French.28 Certainly cras occurs nowhere else in the troubadour corpus, whereas it is a not infrequent term in Old French (see Henry, vol. 2, pp. 220-221). Turning to other alcoholic drinks, pimen is another medieval beverage found in Occitan lyric sources, a drink made of honey and spices,29 more specifically, “une boisson faite de vin épicé et de miel.”30 Peire Cardenal, ever the thirteenth-century social critic, speaks of this drink as something one could serve to guests (PC 335.45), “Dezir que tals lo somona / Que.l do d'atretal pimen / Quant el als autres dona” (42-44). In a similar context, Ademar Jordan talks of serving a king “e bon vin e pigment”(PC 2.1, line 3). The wine drunk by Tristan is called pimen by Aimeric de Peguilhan (PC 10,2 line 30) and by their contemporary Bernart de Prades (PC 65.3) who laments, “Beure.m fai ab l’enap Tristan / amors, e eisses los pimens” (21-22). I find it intriguing that there are no uses of the term hypocras in any lyrics by the troubadours, although, as we learned from the description of the fifteenth-century banquet offered by Gaston IV de Foix, this honeyed-wine drink was certainly known in the finer circles of medieval Occitan society. What kind of conclusions can be drawn at this point? Clearly that there is a body of literature that can furnish us with information about medieval Occitan drinking habits and that these works need to be examined carefully. Furthermore, looking at troubadour lyric enriches our understanding of medieval culture and society; by understanding another society better, we are better participants in our own. Comparisons of this sort begun in this article–northern and southern France of the Middle Ages, medieval France and/or medieval Occitania and the United States today–allow us to take a different look at ourselves and our own times and to see things with new

28

Robert A. Taylor, “‘L’altrier cuidai aber druda’ (PC 461,146): Edition and Study of a Hybrid-Language Parody Lyric,” in Studia Occitania: In Memoriam Paul Rémy, ed. Hans-Erich Keller et al., 2 vols. (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1986), vol. 2, pp. 189-201. 29 See the edition of Peire Cardenal, p. 102, citing R[aynouard, Lexique, tome], V. 542. 30 Emil Levy, Petit Dictionnaire Provençal-Français (1909), 5e édition (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1973), s.v.

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perspectives, even to consider what a citizen of Toulouse in 1300 thought when ordering a glass of wine in la ville rose.

ELIZABETH W. POE

Lord Hermit and the Joglar from Velay: Peire de Maensac as the Author of Estat aurai de chantar (PC 194,7) lfred Pillet and Henry Carstens could not decide what to do with Estat aurai de chantar. Did it belong among the poems of Gui d’Uisel, or should it be placed under the entry for Peire de Maensac? As early as 1911, Pillet was pondering this question. Disturbed by the fact that the troubadour Peire de Maensac, hapless victim of competing attributions within the manuscript tradition, had ended up without a single composition to his name,1 Pillet conceded that it might not be inappropriate to grant him at least this one: “And indeed we might say only that 194,7 is perhaps correctly attributed to him in CIKd (as opposed to Gui d’Uisel in GIKQa1d).”2 Then, in 1914, curiously overinterpreting his mentor’s conjecture, Henry Carstens summarily dismissed Estat aurai de chantar from the corpus of Gui d’Uisel and proclaimed it Peire’s: “Furthermore, we can eliminate from the corpus of cansos by Gui d’Uisel Estat aurai de chantar, which is attributed to Peire de Maensac by CIKd.”3 Later, however, in completing the monumental repertory undertaken and largely executed by his master,4 a more circumspect Carstens left Estat aurai de chantar in the limbo to which Pillet had relegated it approximately twenty years earlier. Consequently, what we read under Peire de Maensac in the Bibliographie der Troubadours, published in 1933, is a reiteration 1

Karl Bartsch, Grundriß der provenzalischen Literatur (Elberfeld: Friderichs, 1872), p. 171, assigns the number 348 to Peire de Maensac but gives him no poems. 2 Alfred Pillet, “Beiträge zur Kritik der ältesten Trobadors,” Jahres-Bericht der Schlesischen Gesellschaft für vaterländische Cultur 89 (Breslau: Aderholz, 1911), p. 7. 3 Henry Carstens, Die Tenzonen aus dem Kreise der Trobadors Gui, Eble, Elias und Peire d’Uisel (Königsberg: Leupold, 1914), p. 8. The “furthermore” here refers to Ades on plus viu, mais apren, which Carstens also dismisses from the corpus of Gui d’Uisel’s cansos. See infra, n. 15. 4 Alfred Pillet and Henry Carstens, Bibliographie der Troubadours (Halle: Niemeyer, 1933). Carstens informs us in the Foreword, III, that Pillet got as far as Pistoleta (Art. 372). Thus, we can assume that Pillet wrote the entries for both Gui d’Uisel and Peire de Maensac, which is not to say that Carstens was not at liberty to introduce changes.

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of Pillet’s non-committal remark from 1911, with no hint that Carstens had ever taken a firmer stand on the matter: “In CIKd is attributed to him, and perhaps correctly so, 194,7 Estat aurai de chantar (Gui d’Uisel?).”5 With its conventional motifs and easy rhymes (-ar, -o(n), -ai, -ire), Estat aurai de chantar must have enjoyed a certain popularity in its day. It is preserved in whole or in part in seven manuscripts; it was used as a model for a contrafactum; and its fourth stanza was recorded as an anonymous cobla triada in the Old French manuscript whose Occitan section goes by the siglum W. I reproduce here Jean Audiau’s edition of the text, indicating in the notes those places where I have preferred the readings of earlier editors to his.6 I

II

Estat aurai de chantar,7 Per sofracha de razo, C’anc no.m pogui encontrar En faire bona chanso. Mas er ai cor que.m n’essai De far bons motz ab son gai, Car ben estai qui sap ab pauc de dire Gent razonar lei cui es obedire. D’aitan la pois razonar, Leis c’a lo mieu cor e.l so,8 C’om gensor no.n pot trobar

5

10

5 Under Gui d’Uisel, PC 194,7, we read, “Attribution zweifelhaft.” Under Peire de Maensac, PC 348, we read, “ In CIKd wird ihm zugeschrieben und vielleicht mit Recht: 194,7 Estat aurai de chantar (Gui d’Uisel?).” 6 MSS: C 365, I 107, K 93, d 317-161 (attributed to Peire de Maensac); G 60, I 191, K 74, Q 36, a 260 (8), d 288-73 (attributed to Gui d’Uisel); W 198 stanza IV (anonymous). Editions: Henri-Pascal Rochegude, Le Parnasse occitanien (Toulouse: Benichet Cadet, 1819), pp. 304-06; C. A. F. Mahn, Die Werke der Troubadours in provenzalischer Sprache, 4 vols. (Berlin: Dümmler, 1846-1886), vol. III, pp. 317-18; Jean Audiau, Les poésies des quatre troubadours d’Ussel (Paris: Delagrave, 1922), pp. 37-39. See also Giulio Bertoni, Il canzoniere provenzale (Complemento Càmpori) (Fribourg, Libreria dell’ Università, 1911), pp. 13-14 for a diplomatic edition of the text as it appears in MS a. 7 Frede Jensen, The Syntax of Medieval Occitan (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1986), p. 274, explains that the future anterior in Old Occitan sometimes has the force of a past indefinite. I assume that it also has a conjectural sense. 8 I have used the K1 reading a lo (rather than a.l) in order to give the verse the requisite seven syllables.

PEIRE DE MAENSAC En semblant ni en faisso; Ni neguna ab leis no.s fai, Ni non adutz tan gran jai —Ni non s’eschai—de solatz ni de rire: De totz bos aips sap los meillors eslire. III

IV

V

VI

Quant remir son gent cors car, E sai que no.s taing que.m do S’amor mi ni al mieu par, Tant es d’aut loc e de bo, —Ni mais autra tant no.m plai— Aquest volers mi dechai: Quar eu non ai tant d’ardit qu’eu l’aus dire Com de bon cor eu l’am e la desire. Pros domna, ab un dous esgar Que feron vostr’oill lairo, Mi vengues mon cor emblar, Et anc no.us fis mespreiso; Et puois mon cor tenetz lai, Non cuit l’ausiatz oimai; Pero ben sai que si.l voletz ausire, Non pot morir ab tant honrat martire. Si com cel qu’es leus al far, Quant a de mort sospeizo, O quan romeus vol anar Lai on vol far s’oraso, Lei m’autrei per totz temps mai, Et totz los amics qu’eu ai, Si ja ren ai de lei cui tant desire Sol que d’un pauc m’aleuges mon sufrire. 9

545

15

20

25

30

35

40

Seigner N’Ermita no.m plai Car s’empres a(b) Na Esmai; 10 E pesa.m mai car eu non sui jauzire De lei que.m fai soven plorar e rire.

(I. I must have stopped singing for lack of subject matter, for never was I able to meet the challenge of making a good song. But now I feel like trying to compose

9

Audiau: C’ab sol un pauc. I have preferred Rochegude’s and Mahn’s reading here, which places less of a strain on the syntax. 10 Audiau renders this verse: Car espres ab Na Esmai, but I could find no instances of esprendre used intransitively with ab. Rochegude and Mahn give enpres ab.

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good words to a cheerful melody, for whoever can in a few words nobly defend the cause of the one to whom he is obedient stands to benefit. II. I can defend the cause of her who holds my heart in hers, all the more so because one cannot compose poetry about anyone nobler in behavior or appearance. No one can equal her nor does anyone bring forth such great joy —and that is as it should be—with her conversation and her laughter. Of all good qualities she knows how to select the best. III. When I gaze at her noble and precious body, I know that it is inappropriate for her to give me her love, to me or to anyone like me, for she is in such a high and noble position, and yet no one else pleases me as much as she. This wish devastates me: that I don’t have enough boldness to tell her how sincerely I love and desire her. IV. Noble lady, with a sweet glance cast by your rapturous eyes, you stole my heart away, and I never did you any wrong. And since you hold my heart there with you, I do not think that you will ever kill it. Nevertheless, I know full well that if you do decide to kill it, it cannot die with more honorable suffering. V. Just as one who acts quickly when he thinks he is about to die or when a pilgrim wants to go there where he intends to make his prayer, I offer myself and all of my friends to her for all time to come if ever I get anything from her whom I desire so much, provided that she alleviate my suffering a little. VI. I don’t like it that Lord Hermit has become attached to Lady Dismay. And it grieves me more that I have no joy from her who often makes me cry and laugh.)

At first glance, the attributions of Estat aurai de chantar to Gui d’Uisel seem to outnumber those to Peire de Maensac six to four. But MSS IKd, which list the poem twice, once under each of the troubadours in question, cancel each other out and can be discounted,11 thereby reducing the ratio to three for Gui d’Uisel (MSS GQa) to only one for Peire de Maensac (MS C). Upon closer inspection, however, the situation of Estat aurai de chantar within the opus of Gui d’Uisel begins to look a bit tenuous. The poem tends to be tacked on at the end of the corpus of Gui d’Uisel’s cansos, as though it were an afterthought rather than an integral part of his acknowledged work.12 On fol. 91 of MS I, Estat aurai de chantar is listed as the ninth of nine texts under Gui’s name. In MSS G and Q it is the fifth of five cansos 11

Specifically, Estat aurai de chantar is listed under Gui d’Uisel on fol. 191 of MS I and on fol. 74 of MS K and under Peire de Maensac on fol. 107 of MS I and on fol. 93 of MS K. MS d, which is a copy of MS K, cannot be considered an independent attestation. It is perhaps significant that the poem as it occurs under Peire’s name in MSS IK is part of a very small corpus of two texts, which are accompanied by a vida and an illustration. 12 Cf. Elizabeth W. Poe, “La Transmission de l’alba en ancien provençal,” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, 31 (1988), 323-45.

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assigned to Gui d’Uisel.13 In a it is the fourth of five,14 but the third, Ades on mais vei mais apren is of disputed attribution,15 and the fifth, L’autre jorn cost’ una via (= PC 194,13), is a pastourelle. From a strictly codicological perspective, Estat aurai de chantar was never more than loosely attached to the core of Gui’s body of cansos. The four songs that do form the core of Gui’s canso collection are Si be.m partetz mala domna de vos, Ges de chantar no.m faill cors ni razos, Ben feira chanzos plus soven, and En tanta guisa.m men’Amors.16 By core cansos, I mean that they are preserved in fifteen or more manuscripts apiece and are of undisputed attribution. These

13 The order of Gui d’Uisel’s cansos in MSS G and Q is as follows: (1) Si be.m partetz mala domna de vos; (2) Ges de chantar no.m faill cors ni razos; (3) Ben feira chanzos plus soven; (4) En tanta guisa.m men’ Amors; (5) Estat aurai de chantar. I consulted the diplomatic edition of MS G provided by Giulio Bertoni, Il canzoniere provenzale della Biblioteca Ambrosiana R. 71 sup. (Dresden: Niemeyer, 1912) and of MS Q, also by Bertoni, Il canzoniere provenzale della Riccardiana No. 2909 (Dresden: Niemeyer, 1905). 14 The songs attributed to Gui d’Uisel in MS a are, in order: (1) Si be.m partetz mala dompna de vos; (2) En tanta guisa.m men’ Amors; (3) Ades on mais vei mais apren PC 194,1; (4) Estat aurai de chantar; (5) L’autre jorn cost’ una via. 15 Ades on mais vei mais apren, PC 194,1, is attributed to Gui d’Uisel in CHPRa, to the Monk of Montaudon in AIKd, and is recorded anonymously in MS L. Emil Philippson, Der Mönch von Montaudon (Halle: Niemeyer, 1873), p. 67, assigns the poem to the Monk on the grounds that MSS AIK are generally more reliable in their attributions than other manuscripts; that v. 19 of Ades on mais vei mais apren, “Que jois d’amor m’es guitz” is reminiscent of v. 36 of Aissi cum selh qu’es en mal senhoratge (PC 305,3), “Si aquest guit Amors far me volia;” and that nothing in the theme or the style of this text clashes with anything that we know from the poems whose authorship by the Monk is confirmed. Otto Klein, Die Dichtungen des Mönches von Montaudon (Marburg: Elwert, 1885), pp. 90-91, however, is skeptical, observing that metrically Ades on mais vei mais apren does not resemble any of the poems known to be by the Monk. René Lavaud, Les troubadours cantaliens (Aurillac: Imprimerie Moderne, 1910), p. 56, finds Klein’s metrical objections unpersuasive and agrees with Philippson that the poem belongs to the Monk. However, the Monk’s most recent editor, Michael J. Routledge, Les poésies du Moine de Montaudon (Montpellier: Centre d’Études Occitanes de l’Université Paul Valéry, 1977), pp. 178-79, rejects the poem. Audiau pp. 40-43, 129-30, includes Ades on mais vei mais apren without discussion in his edition of the poems of the troubadours of Uisel. 16 PC 194,19 = Audiau, pp. 30-33; PC 194,8 = Audiau, pp. 47-49; PC 194,3 = Audiau, pp. 27-29; PC 194,6 = Audiau, pp. 34-36.

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are precisely the four songs for which music has survived.17 They are also the four from which Ferrari de Ferrara included coblas in his florilegium (MS Dc).18 Three of these cansos are represented by coblas triadas in MS F.19 It is characteristic of all four of the core songs that they do not open with a springtime motif, beginning instead with a statement of the poet’s mood and its relation to his creativity; they end with an envoi, naming and praising a lady or patron; they are built on a rhyme scheme that starts a b b a; they are made up of an even number of syllables per verse; and they do not employ internal rhyme.20 Estat aurai de chantar differs from Gui’s core songs in several notable ways. It uses senhals rather than real names. It ends with criticism, not praise, of both patron and lady. 21 It begins with an a b a b pattern, consists of an odd number of syllables for the first six verses of each stanza, and contains an internal rhyme.22 Though anomalous, these features do not constitute sufficient grounds for taking the poem away from Gui. Nor do they provide us with adequate cause for giving it to Peire, since, having nothing to compare them against, we have no way of assessing whether they would be typical or unusual for the troubadour who has been robbed of his entire corpus by the quirks of 17 Ges de chantar no.m faill cors ni razos in MS W 196, Ben feira chanzos plus soven in MS G 59, Si be.m partetz mala domna de vos in MS G 58, and En tanta guisa.m men’Amors in MS G 59. 18 Henri Teulié and G. Rossi, “L’anthologie provençale de Maître Ferrari de Ferrare,” Annales du Midi, 13 (1901), 60-73, 199-215, 371-88; 14 (1902), 197-205, 523-38. Ges de chantar no.m faill cors ni razos (st. III), Ben feira chanzos plus soven (st. II, III, IV), Si be.m partetz mala domna de vos (st. V, VI), En tanta guisa.m men’ Amors (st. III, IV). constitute entries 128, 129, 130, and 131. 19 Ben feira chanzos plus soven (st. II, III, IV); Si be.m partetz mala domna de vos (st. V); Ges de chantar no.m faill cors ni razos (st. III) bear the numbers 23, 24, and 25 in the diplomatic edition of the chansonnier prepared by Edmund Stengel, Die provenzalische Blumenlese der Chigiana (Marburg: Elwert, 1878). 20 Ben feira chanzos plus soven (PC 194,3) = a8 b8 b8 a10 a10 c10 c10 d10 d10; Si be.m partetz, mala domna, de vos (PC 194,19) = a10 b10 b10 a10 c10 c10 d10 d10; En tanta guisa.m men’ Amors (PC 194,6) = a8 b8 b8 a8 b8 a8 c6 c6 d6 d6; Ges de chantar no.m faill cors ni razos (PC 194,8) = a10 b10 b10 a10 a10 c10 c10 d8 d8. 21 Even Gui’s mala canso concludes with praise of Margarita and the King of Aragon. 22 István Frank, Répertoire métrique de la poésie des troubadours. 2 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1953, 1957) no. 372 = a7 b7 a7 b7 c7 c7 c4 d6' d10'. Formally, Estat aurai de chantar does resemble the acknowledged cansos of Gui d’Uisel to the extent that it consists of five coblas unissonans and a tornada.

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transmission. Based on considerations of theme, style, and form, we are simply unable to say whether Gui d’Uisel or Peire de Maensac is the more probable author of Estat aurai de chantar. It is easy to imagine how Gui d’Uisel and Peire de Maensac could have been confused even by their contemporaries. The two men had, at least as they are presented to us by the biographer, a lot in common.23 Each of them belonged to a family of poets. Concerning Peire we read, “And he had a brother named Austor de Maensac, and both of them were troubadours”; about Gui it is reported, “And his two brothers were named Eble and Peire, and the cousin was named Elias. And all four were troubadours.” In both households the siblings worked out a curious division of labor and assets. The Maensac brothers “were in agreement that one of them should have the castle and the other should have the poetry business. Austor got the castle, and Peire got the poetry business.” The Uisel clan came up with an even more complicated organization, according to which “Gui composed serious cansos and Elias serious tensos, and Eble satirical tensos, and Peire did the musical arrangements for everything that the other three composed.” Moreover, Gui d’Uisel and Peire de Maensac moved, if only briefly, in the same social circles and were admirers of the same lady, Beatrice, wife of Bernart of Tiern.24 It is also easy to imagine how late thirteenth-century compilers, upon reading the incipit of Estat aurai de chantar, “I must have stopped singing,” would have thought immediately of Gui d’Uisel, who was forever flirting with the idea of quitting his job as troubadour. In every one of his core songs, Gui teasingly confronts his audience 23

Jean Boutière and Alexander Herman Schutz, Biographies des troubadours. Edition refondue par Jean Boutière avec la collaboration d’Irénée-Marcel Cluzel (Paris: Nizet, 1964), p. 301 (vida for Peire de Maensac), p. 202 (vida for Gui d’Uisel). Future references to the vidas and razos will be indicated parenthetically in the text as BS, followed by a page number. 24 Frank M. Chambers, Proper Names in the Lyrics of the Troubadours (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1971), p. 68, under Beatritz de Tiern, writes, “Wife of Bernart de Thiers. According to the vida of Peire de Maensac, she was kidnapped by Peire; but the name there is slightly different (Tierci) and the identification is not certain. Bernart de Thiers (Puy-de-Dôme) and his wife are otherwise unknown.” At the end of the tenso between Elias and Gui d’Uisel (PC 194,18, v. 77), the former enjoins the latter to turn the matter over to Lady Maria (of Ventadorn), adding that she will be well-advised to consult “Na Biatritz, la bella, de Tiern” (Audiau, p. 86).

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with the threat that he might abandon his trade: “Even if you dismiss me from your company, evil lady, that is no reason for me to give up singing”; “I do not lack the heart or the motive for singing […] but I have been so guilty with respect to love that I have been upset and ashamed, but since pardon for my fault has been granted me, it is fitting that I resume singing”; “I would make songs more often, but it bores me to keep saying that I complain and sigh on account of love”; “Love treats me so capriciously that I don’t know whether I should be singing or moaning and crying.” Indeed Gui did stop singing twice, once temporarily, after his rejection by Lady Gidas: “Thus Gui d’Uisel gave up singing and was sad and troubled for a long time” (BS 202); 25 and, definitively, when he was instructed by church officials to discontinue his activity as poet and performer of secular songs: “But the papal legate made him swear not to compose any more songs. And for him he gave up composing and singing” (BS 208).26 But understanding how the work of Peire de Maensac could have gotten mixed up with that of Gui d’Uisel does not bring us any closer to establishing which of the two poets composed this canso. Fortunately, Estat aurai de chantar leaves, in its tornada, one clue to help us out of our quandary. The fact that the poet does not send the song anywhere implies that he and Seigner N’Ermita are in the same place and that Seigner N’Ermita is his lord and protector. If we can determine which of the two poets would be more likely to call someone his lord and, better yet, figure out who this “Lord Hermit” might be, we shall have made some progress toward solving our problem. Gui d’Uisel was, in the words of the biographer, “a noble chatelain” who, along with his brothers and cousin, shared the title Lord of Uisel. Gui renounced his seignorial rights in order to become the canon of Brioude and Montferrand (BS 202). It would never have occurred to 25 It was Maria de Ventadorn who immortalized Gui’s first abandonment of singing in the tenso that she initiated with him, “Gui d’Uisel, I am really worried about you, for you have stopped singing” (BS 208). His temporary silence was clearly a matter of concern for all the ladies of the region: “And it had been a long time since he had sung or composed, which greatly saddened all the good ladies of that region and Maria in particular, because Sir Gui d’Uisel used to praise her in all his songs” (BS 212). 26 It is generally thought that the papal legate in question was Peire de Castelnau, legate of Pope Innocent III, and that the interdiction occurred before 1209 (BS 204 n. 4).

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Gui, whether before or after assuming his sacerdotal duties, to look upon anyone as his feudal lord. Peire de Maensac, by contrast, is repeatedly described by that same biographer as being in a subordinate position. He is identified as a poor knight living in Dalfi’s lands. Having turned over his portion of the family inheritance to his brother, Peire was without a castle—that is, until Dalfi gave him one. Most significantly, the biographer tells us, “E.l Dalfins lo mantenc” ‘And Dalfi supported him’ (BS 301). It is clear that Peire de Maensac would have regarded Dalfi as his lord. Though not one of the recognized designations for Dalfi d’Alvernhe, whose name is frequently invoked in troubadour songs,27 the senhal Seigner N’Ermita would certainly befit him. In his sirventes addressed to Peire de Maensac, Robert, Bishop of Clermont, criticizes his cousin Dalfi, among other things, for being a recluse, going out only seldom, and retreating to his nest if anyone tries to see him: “[…] for that kind of man would like for everyone to resemble him, and whoever resembles him would resemble a cuckoo, for he would leave his nest and go out singing only one month a year, and if anyone goes to see him, he hides in his nest.”28 Bishop Robert is not the only one to upbraid Dalfi for his anti-social behavior. Peire Pelissier, to whom Dalfi owed money, chastises his debtor for avoiding him and ironically commands him not to venture forth from his home: “To Dalfi I order that he stay inside his residence” (BS 291). This Peire realizes that he is not asking Dalfi to change his habits in the slightest, for not only has Dalfi not shown his face recently, he has been completely incommunicado: “The messengers and the couriers have ceased, for there has been neither card nor letter in a long time” (BS 291). The unflattering portrayal of Dalfi d’Alvernhe as a hermit lord would surely have been familiar to

27 Chambers, p. 118, lists Ermita, n’ as “Unidentified.” For an inventory of all the references to Dalfi in the poems of his contemporaries, see Stanley C. Aston, “The Name of the Troubadour Dalfi d’Alvernhe,” in French and Provençal Lexicography. Essays Presented to Honor Alexander Herman Schutz, ed. Urban T. Holmes and Kenneth R. Scholberg (Columbus: Ohio State Univ. Press, 1964), pp. 140-63. 28 Stanley C. Aston, “The Poems of Robert, Bishop of Clermont,” in Mélanges d’histoire littéraire, de linguistique et de philologie romanes offerts à Charles Rostaing. ed. Jacques De Caluwé, Jean-Marie D’Heur, and René Dumas. 2 vols. (Liège: Marche Romane, 1974), vol. I, pp. 25-39.

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all who were associated with him during one of the several difficult periods of his long and vicissitudinous career. The internal evidence provided by the text in favor of Peire de Maensac’s authorship of Estat aurai de chantar is corroborated by external evidence in the form of a contrafactum written by Peire Cardenal (PC 335,9).29 I

II

III

IV

Atressi com per fargar Es hom fabres per razo, Es hom laires per emblar E tracher per tracio: Que d’aquel mestier qu’om fai Li aven us noms e.l n’eschai, Que tal en sai que, s’om o auzes dire, Per so c’a fag for’ apellatz traïre. En Velai si fan joglar Del saber de Gainelo; Per que es dig qu’om si gar Si co.l proverbis despo: Ja no.t fizar en Velai Ni en clergue ni en lai, Qu’un pauc retrai al premier trabustire Que fes Cayms, don avem auzit dire. Ben es fols qui cuia far Aisso que anc fach non fo; Qu’en cug trachors chastiar E treball m’en en perdo, Que si Dieus non los deschai Mais n’er que d’anhels en mai. Que quan l’us trai ab fatz et ab aucire L’autre ab ditz e l’autre ab escrire. Quan trachor troba son par, D’aquel fai son compainho, Qu’a tracion apastar An ops trachor e gloto. E quan l’us traïs desai E l’autre traïs delai,

5

10

15

20

25

30

29 MSS: C 275, Db 235-797, I 171, J 3 (12), K 156, M 215, R 68-569, T 95, d 332209; Edition: René Lavaud, Poésies complètes du troubadour Peire Cardenal (Toulouse: Privat, 1957), pp. 54-61.

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E quan l’us vai l’autre fai lo martire, Quan l’us lassa, l’autre.s pensa l’albire. V.

Trachor soli’om cassar E penre coma lairo, E aras lo ten hom car 35 E.n fai sescalc o bailo; E si gran prelatz i chai D’un fort gran trachor verai, A hom esmai que.l puesca el luoc assire Qu’en sia donz e segner e regire. 40

VI.

Sirventes, ades t’en vai On que.t vols e digas lai Qu’a mi non plai tracïos ni traïre, Qui.s vol m’en am e qui.s vol m’en aïre.

( I. Just as by forging one is rightly a smith and by stealing one is a thief, by committing treason one is a traitor, for from one’s occupation, one gets a name and that is the way it should be. And I know someone who, if anyone dared to talk about it, for what he has done, would be called a traitor.30 II. In Velay they become joglars31 with the savvy of a Ganelon. That is why it is said that one should beware, as the proverb declares: “You should never in Velay trust either cleric or lay.” For it is somewhat comparable to the first wicked blow struck by Cain that we have heard about. III. He is indeed a fool who believes that he can do what has never been done before, for I believe that I am instructing the traitors; yet I trouble myself about them in a wasted effort, for if God does not bring them down, there will be more of them than lambs in May. For while one betrays with actions and with killing, another betrays with songs, still another in writing. IV. When a traitor finds his equal, he makes him his companion, for, in order to bait treason, both traitors and gluttons are needed. And while one committed treachery here, the other committed treachery there, and when one moves forward, the other massacres, when one gets tired, the other sets himself to thinking. V. The traitor used to be chased down and hanged like a thief, and now he is held in esteem and is made seneschal or bailiff. And if an important prelate descends from a well-established traitor, one is dismayed that he could be set in a place where he would be master, lord and ruler.

30 Lavaud, Poésies, p. 58, is convinced that the cases of treachery enumerated in this poem refer to real people and real events. 31 I disagree with Lavaud, Poésies, p. 59 n. 9, who does not take joglar literally here: “Joglar est pris ici au sens figuré: ‘homme habile, virtuose en telle ou telle matière’.”

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VI. Sirventes, go swiftly wherever you want and say there that I am displeased with both treachery and traitor—whoever wants to can love me for it and whoever wants to can hate me for it.)

Given that Atressi com per fargar and Estat aurai de chantar are the only two songs in the whole troubadour repertory to be built on the metrical scheme assigned the number 372 by István Frank, we can be sure that when Peire Cardenal chose this pattern for his sirventes, he did so with Estat aurai de chantar in mind.32 With the per razo in the second verse of his own song, which echoes in compressed fashion the per sofracha de razo from the corresponding verse in Estat aurai de chantar, Peire Cardenal lets us know early-on that he will not be satisfied merely to borrow the meter and melody of his model; he will also make a mockery of its themes. He sets his sights specifically on the benign image of Estat aurai’s fourth stanza. While the love-struck poet of the original accuses his lady’s thieving eyes (oill lairo, 26) of having stolen away his heart (vengues mon cor emblar, 27), which is at risk of being killed by her (si.l voletz ausire, 31) but which could endure no more honorable martyrdom (non pot morir ab tant honrat martire, 32) than to die for such a noble cause, the vitriolic Peire Cardenal, stripping these terms of their metaphorical trappings, rails against real thieves (lairo, 34), real thefts, (emblar, 3) real killings (aucire, 23) and real martyrdoms (martire, 31). In his tornada, Cardenal takes a parting shot at the author of Estat aurai de chantar. Disdainful of the pouting poet, who grumbles that his Lord Hermit has been ignoring him (“I don’t like it that Lord Hermit has become involved with Lady Dismay”), Peire Cardenal states emphatically, in a spirit of one-upmanship, that he is concerned with much graver matters: “Qu’a mi non plai / Tracïos ni traïre” (“What I don’t like is treason and traitor”). As a native of Velay, Peire Cardenal kept up with local political developments, even though he was living in Toulouse. He had initially been a partisan of Gui II, Count of Auvernhe, brother of Bishop Robert of Clermont, and cousin of Dalfi, but, after hearing about Gui’s sack of 32

Peire Cardenal was in the habit of borrowing melodies but—significantly—not from Gui d’Uisel, whose songs served as models for a variety of troubadours. See John H. Marshall, “Imitation of Metrical Form in Peire Cardenal, Romance Philology, 32 (1978), 18-48.

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the royal abbey of Mozac in 1211, he lost all sympathy with him.33 From Atressi com per fargar, we learn that Peire Cardenal is irate over somebody in Velay who ought to be recognized for the traitor that he is. Velay, he laments, is teeming with deceitful joglars. Nobody there is to be trusted. Both laymen and clerics are perpetrators of evil plots that pit family member against family member. May God smite them all, for they are incapable of reform. Their iniquity manifests itself variously in deeds and deaths, songs and writings. These traitors collude, feeding on one another’s greed and persistence. Values in Velay are so skewed that traitors, instead of being executed, are exalted and granted positions of power, whether in the secular or in the ecclesiastical realm. So, who besides Peire Cardenal is from Velay? Peire de Maensac for one.34 It is entirely possible that the joglar whom Peire Cardenal blames for treachery is the same person who is criticized by the Bishop of Clermont for conducting himself more like a joglar than a knight: “The knight who is drawn more toward the joglar’s life than to valor possesses neither good sense nor chivalry.”35 And while Peire Cardenal does not name names, the Bishop makes no secret of the fact that the man whose actions he is censuring is none other than Peire de Maensac. Serving during this critical period as Dalfi’s joglar, Peire de Maensac was very much in the thick of the disputes that were wreaking havoc on the region that Peire Cardenal considered home. We may never know exactly why Peire Cardenal felt such personal antagonism toward Peire de Maensac. Was he angry at him for abducting Beatrice of Tiern, for fueling the feud between Dalfi and Bishop Robert, for being peevishly ungrateful toward the patron who protected him in defiance of the Church, or for showing selfish indifference to the political turmoil around him, of which he was a prime fomenter? For our purposes, all that matters is that Peire Cardenal, in appropriating Estat aurai de chantar and transforming it 33 According to Lavaud, Poésies, p. 500, Peire Cardenal was clearly an admirer of Gui at the time that he wrote Tostemps azir falsetat et enjan (PC 335, 57), which L. takes to be a little after 1204. Lavaud, Poésies, p. 92, 34 Although there is some disagreement about whether Maensac is to be understood as Manzat, Mainsat, or Monzat, all of these places are within a few kilometers of one another, and all are in Velay. 35 Aston, “The Poems of Robert,” p. 35.

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into a weapon to be launched against his corrupt compatriots in Velay, knew the song to belong to someone directly involved in the upheaval. Taking into account that Gui d’Uisel had never been politically engaged and, in any case, had composed no poems since 1209, several years before the events to which Atressi com per fargar alludes, we can be reasonably confident that Peire Cardenal assumed Peire de Meansac to be the author of Estat aurai de chantar. If I am right that Lord Hermit is a senhal for Dalfi d’Alvernhe and that the joglar from Velay is Peire de Maensac, then Estat aurai de chantar should be awarded a new PC number of 348,1 and be removed forthwith from the corpus of Gui d’Uisel, where its position has been, from the start, precarious.

DUNCAN ROBERTSON

Seasons of Solitude: The Anglo-Norman Verse Life of St. Giles tudents of hagiography customarily divide the literature into two categories: passions of martyrs and lives of confessors. The passion is defined by the trial and execution of the saint, rendered in preferably horrendous detail. During the Middle Ages the Passion genre will be represented by Sts. George, Catherine, Margaret, Agnes, Lawrence, and many other familiar figures, in Latin tradition and in all the vernacular languages of Europe. The second category, that of saints’ lives, the vitae, consists of narratives of the lives and deeds of saints who died, usually not as martyrs, but of natural causes: confessors, as the Church terms them. All sorts of people can get into this group: hermits, abbots, bishops, kings, military, housewives, reformed sinners, prostitutes; and the hagiographical writings devoted to them show a similarly wide diversity. Some subdivision is needed here: we need at least to separate the properly historical lives—those which Thomas Heffernan calls “sacred biographies,” which offer documentation making a plausible claim to truth1—from the clearly fictional or artificial legends which should more properly be labeled “hagiographical romances.” This familiar distinction has been consistently maintained by hagiographers down through the centuries. Even though they do not usually distinguish between fiction and non—it’s all good, it’s all true—they instinctively discriminate, making use of the narrative structures and rhetorical traditions which are appropriate to each genre. Of course, at all times, hagiographical categories and genres have freely mingled, producing many interesting hybrids; these are variances that illustrate the rule. Normally however we will need to draw lines of generic separation, in order to place a given legend in literary history, follow the trajectory of its evolution, and construe the given version of the story correctly. Modern French critics do not always do so. I have in mind a recent, very interesting survey of twelfth- and thirteenth-century Anglo1

Thomas Heffernan, Sacred Biography: Saints and their Biographers in the Middle Ages (New York and Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1988).

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Norman verse saints’ lives by Françoise Laurent entitled, Plaire et édifier : Les récits hagiographiques composés en Angleterre aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles (Paris: Champion, 1998). Françoise Laurent is mainly concerned with narratology, with narrative forms and functions. Accordingly she falls back on late-structuralist methodology, as deployed for example by André Jolles in Formes simples,2 and by Alain Boureau in his studies of the Golden Legend.3 I find, however, that she and they do not always recognize the markings of genre which define a given saint’s life, and which normally orient us to the nature of a given writer’s literary project. I will try to correct a little this lack, in the case of the life of St. Giles, the subject of a long, final chapter in Françoise Laurent’s book. Let me attempt first to contrast, in very general, formal terms, “sacred biography” and “hagiographical romance.” The prototypes of “sacred biography” are the late fourth-century life of St. Anthony by Athanasius,4 and that of St. Martin by Sulpicius Severus.5 The structural model they follow is that of the classical biography of the great man, as developed by Plutarch and Suetonius. The salient characteristic of this form is its infinite flexibility. Once the youth of the saint, and the decisive moves of his maturity have been recounted, the writer may freely introduce informal anecdotes to illustrate his general character and mode of life—the conversatio. The anecdotes are only vaguely situated in time (by phrases like “one time” or “another time”) and each one contains, as Alain Boureau has pointed out, the totality of the story; they are not linked together as episodes occurring in a sequence. Miracle-stories are anecdotes of this type, added in any order following the account of the saint’s death. So constructed, the narrative remains open-ended: Athanasius’ first paragraph summons all witnesses who have not yet come forward to add their testimony to his; Sulpicius Severus likewise welcomes such additional material as may come his way. The story is understood to be true, the fame of the saint has spread far and wide, and corroboration is 2

André Jolles, Formes simples, trans. Antoine Marie Buguet (Paris: Seuil, 1972). Alain Boureau, La légende dorée: Le système narratif de Jacques de Voragine (1298) (Paris: Cerf, 1984). 4 Athanasius, Vita beati Antonii abattis, trans. Evagrius, PL 73: 125-70. 5 Sulpice Sévère, La vie de saint Martin, ed. and trans. Jacques Fontaine, Sources Chrétiennes 133-135 (Paris: Cerf, 1967). 3

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an essential part of the biographer’s plan. This genre continues to flourish through the Middle Ages and beyond, as exemplified by lives of saintly kings and prelates: Edward the Confessor, Saint Louis, Bernard of Clairvaux, Thomas Becket, and many more. Hagiographical romance is another matter. Jerome’s life of Paul of Thebes is the prototype.6 The story is most likely pure fiction. There is no external corroborating evidence; all attempts at verification, including that of Hippolyte Delehaye, have failed, as far as I know. Unlike other biographers Jerome does not welcome collaborators. What is transparent is his competition with Athanasius. Since, as he says, so much had been written about Anthony, he decided to tell a little about the beginning and ending of Paul’s life; but “how he lived in middle age, and what snares of Satan he endured, no one has discovered.” Jerome retains, in other words, full authorial control. His narrative is a tight structure of episodes which follow each other sequentially; there are no loose anecdotes, and no room to interpolate them. The tale recounts how Anthony, aged 90, inspired by a voice, journeys across the desert to find the hermit, Paul, aged 113, dwelling in a mountain cave. The two saints recognize each other; they are fed by a raven who brings them a whole loaf of bread instead of the half it normally has brought to Paul alone; Anthony then returns to his own monastery to fetch a certain cloak which Athanasius the bishop, no less, had given him, then he re-crosses the desert, and arrives in time to wrap Paul in the cloak and bury him, with the help of two lions. It has been pointed out that in this life and again in his life of Malchus, Jerome draws not only on Egyptian desert lore, but also on the Aeneid, on Greek romances such as the Ephesian Tale by Xenophon, and the Ethiopian Tale by Heliodorus; and on Christian novelizations such as the Clementine Recognitions. These tales are all about separation and reunion: a couple, say, separated by a kidnapping or a ship wreck, wanders through respective adventures, until at length they are brought back together; the story focuses on the moment of rediscovery and recognition: anagnorisis. Ulysses and Penelope were perhaps the original couple, and the tradition continues to flourish on daytime TV, especially in the Spanish-language telenovela. 6

Jerome, Vita s. Pauli primi eremitae, PL 22: 17-28.

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Jerome successfully adapted this and other romance technologies to serve the hagiographical purposes of entertainment and edification: plaire et édifier indeed. He was perhaps not the first nor the only one to so, but it is his influence which shapes the foundational collection called the Vitae patrum, the lives of the fathers, which was thought at one time to have been written by him alone. The Hieronymian tradition continues to reverberate through medieval Latin hagiography, into the vernacular and beyond: in medieval French and English, let me cite the lives of Alexis, Mary of Egypt, Eustace, Julian the Hospitaller, Gregory—and in particular the Anglo-Norman St. Giles, which will be the main focus of this essay. This poem is a translation, highly amplified, of a tenth-century Latin prose life, rendered into octosyllabic couplets by Guillaume de Berneville, toward the end of the twelfth century.7 Structurally it is a hagiographical romance, but one that freely incorporates material from the biographies, notably those St. Anthony and St. Martin. The poem adapts legendary eremitic lore to the literary culture of the twelfth century, drawing as we shall see on the pioneering adventures of Tristan and Iseut, and on those of Bernard of Clairvaux as well. Françoise Laurent makes a good choice of this poem as the subject of an extended discussion; it has been little studied up till now, and stands in immediate need of a new critical edition. There is perhaps a core of truth in the legend: a certain Aegidius, in the seventh century, founded a monastery in the Flavian valley, near Nîmes in southern France, for which he had received a concession from the Visigothic King Wamba. Aegidius later placed his foundation under the direct control of the pope, Benedict II. On this basis the hagiographers proceeded to construct a saintly Odyssey, a veritable compendium of hagiographical themes and plot devices, as one will readily recognize. Aegidius, that is Gilles in French, Giles in English, is the son of a noble family in Greece. He comes under pressure to marry and assume an inheritance—like St. Alexis and many others; and even more threatening to him is the growing fame he is acquiring as a healer. He flees by night and in secret, makes his way to the coast, and boards a 7

Guillaume de Berneville, La vie de saint Gilles, ed. Gaston Paris and Alphonse Bos (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1881).

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ship in hopes of going to Rome. En route, they land on a deserted island, inhabited by a single, solitary hermit. The setting evokes the Vitae patrum or perhaps the Voyage of St. Brendan: there is a fountain and some watercress, but nothing else grows there; the hermit lives on the fish he catches. The two saints embrace, and acknowledge each other, like the anchorites of Egypt, and Giles then continues his voyage. Next stop is not Rome, but Marseille, and here Giles becomes a disciple of the well known sixth-century bishop and monastic innovator, Caesarius of Arles. But once again, Giles’s miracle performance generates fame, threatening his vocation, and he must continue his flight. He crosses the Rhone and goes into the wilderness of Septimania, where he discovers another hermit, who lives on top of a rock. This hermit, named Veredemius, even more strikingly resembles Jerome’s Paul of Thebes than the last one did. Veredemius recognizes Giles, as a servant of God, whose arrival has been foretold to him. The two live together for a time, both of them performing works of healing, until once again, following a particularly successful intervention, Giles feels obliged to flee, rather than suffer himself to be honored. Deeper into the forest he goes, and finds a cave, surrounded by protective underbrush; here he can live, finally, in complete solitude. There are roots and watercress to eat. He makes friends moreover with a doe, bele e grasse e grosse, who joins him in his cave each night to feed him her milk. The idyll lasts three years. It is brought to an end when a hunting party led by a King “Flovent,” (presumably the Visigoth, Wamba) catches sight of the doe, and chases her to Giles’s cave. A stray arrow fired by a huntsman wounds Giles himself. He gives thanks to God, and prays that the wound may never heal; it remains unhealed in fact through the rest of his life. In the final phase of the story, Giles returns as it were to society and assures his legacy. The king builds him a monastery and he becomes its abbot. Soon, the saint’s fame reaches the ears of the king’s suzerain, who is none other than Charlemagne (our hagiographer has no problem in fitting the Frankish emperor into the same time frame with Caesarius of Arles and Wamba). Charlemagne, then, has a sin which he refuses to confess, but for which he seeks counsel. Giles journeys to meet the emperor in Orleans. There, in the course of a mass, an angel descends over the altar and reveals to Giles—but not, I am afraid, to

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the reader—the secret sin, which is thereby absolved; this is the scene portrayed at the apex of the Charlemagne window in Chartres cathedral. At the end of his life Giles makes a journey to Rome (his original objective), in order to place his monastery under the direct control of the pope. One will have recognized themes and structures from the Vitae patrum. The hermit on the island, and even more so the hermit Veredemius on his rock in the forest, could have been drawn by Jerome or any of his imitators. Likewise, the recognition scenes (anagnorismos), in which the hermit acknowledges the seeker, belong to the same Hieronymian line. It is Anthony, however, who sets the pattern of Giles’s initiatory journey into ever deepening solitude. Anthony retires first into a tomb outside his village; then moves further away, to an abandoned fort; then finally still further away to a rock located “deep” in the desert. The traditional phrases in Latin hagiography which describe this movement: ad interius desertum, or in interiora solitudinis8 convey perhaps an allegory of exegesis, the search for the “inner meaning” of the Scriptures. In the case of Giles, Françoise Laurent interprets the journey as a psychological progress: “La sainteté n’est pas acquise dès l’origine,” she writes. “Gilles est seul, Dieu ne le guide pas, ne le rassure pas de Sa présence réconfortante et tout au long du récit, le saint est un être inquiet, toujours doutant et questionnant (562) […]. Le qualificatif ‘saint’ n’est attribué à Gilles qu’à la fin du récit” (565). If she is right, and I think she is, the traditional desert journey has been translated, in this twelfthcentury vernacular version, into a novelistic character development, aided by a series of mentor-figures, leading toward sainthood as its final term. Along the way Giles replicates St. Martin’s miracles of healing. Before even his departure from Greece, he gives a sick man a part of his clothing and that cures him. Repeatedly thereafter, the healing is associated with the divination of a secret sin, as in the case of Charlemagne. These acts are not recounted for their own sake, as are the miracle stories which are often attached to a vita of the Martinian 8

Vita Antonii, (PL 73: 148C). The lions of Jerome’s Paul come from ex interoris eremi parte (PL 23: 27C); in the Latin prose life of Mary the Egyptian she returns in interiorem solitudinem (PL 73: 686A); at the end of the story, the lion in interiora solitudinis quasi ovis mansueta abscessit (PL 73: 690A).

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biographical type. Giles’s miracles generate the worldly notoriety, the threat to his vocation, from which he must repeatedly take flight. The miracles serve a plot-function: they move the whole story forward. They are not anecdotes, in Alain Boureau’s terminology, but episodes, following each other in sequence and subordinated always to the romance design. Thematic links to medieval romance will be easily spotted. Doubtless the St. Giles poet was aware of Perceval, Yvain, and other questing heroes. The motif of the doe evokes Guigemar and the world of the Breton lais. And ever close to hand is Tristan. It appears that the Tristan romance by Thomas was read by just about everyone in England at this time: the St. Catherine by Clemence of Barking and the anonymous St. Mary the Egyptian both betray a kind of obsession with Thomas, with the thematics and rhetoric of passionate love (translated, of course, into spirituality), and the hagiographers unhesitatingly adopt the characteristic verbal mannerisms of the romancer, who was among other things a great teacher of Anglo-Norman poetics. Thomas’s imprint, the rhythm of his phraseology, remains perceptible likewise, throughout the St. Giles poem. That poet may also have turned, as Françoise Laurent suggests, to the Tristan by Béroul: the most notable instance would be the description of the saint’s forest dwelling, a locus amoenus if you will, which does indeed resemble the loge au feuillage inhabited by Tristan and Iseut in the forest of Morois. The lovers are eventually discovered by a huntsman in the service of King Mark, just as Giles is found by the hunting party of King Flovent. And what of the stray arrow, fired by a hidden archer, and the unhealed wound? Rightly I think, Françoise Laurent reads here a wound of love, a symbol taken from courtly lyricism, and translated into a stigma revealing the saint’s love of God. This is the kind of association that a Clemence of Barking might well have made, and which characterizes Anglo-Norman saintly literature at its best. These thematic links and crossovers are characteristic of the hagiographical romance genre. Just as Jerome turned to the Aeneid and to Greek romances, adapting their themes and structures for his own hagiographical purposes, so our twelfth-century Anglo-Norman versifier turns to the courtly literature of his day, reproducing— downstream, as it were, in literary history—an inter-relationship between “secular” and “sacred” which has underpinned this branch of saint’s-life writing since the beginning.

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The St. Giles romance also reflects and incorporates contemporary medieval monastic experience. Modern medievalist historians have traced the development of the neo-eremitic movement which started in the late tenth century in Italy, and spread through the Northern European forest—the geography of the désert-forêt, as Jacques Le Goff calls it.9 The movement begun by Romuald inspired such figures as Peter Damian, Bernard of Tiron, Robert Arbrissel, Peter the Hermit, and ultimately the twelfth-century Carthusians and Cistercians. Giles is a fictional character who belongs in their company. His forest dwelling translates the ancient, traditional eremus, with its vastae solitudines, into a recognizable local gastine, a country of deserz e boscages. In front of his cave, screened by bushes and brambles, buissun […] e eglenter e arbreissal (1466-67), we do not find the palm tree, but there is a spring, as in the Vitae patrum. The day after his arrival there Giles begins to clear the underbrush, following the contemporary, pioneering example of St. Bernard and his companions: Si començad a essarter (1480). The verb essarter evokes the paradoxical destiny of Cistercianism: the adventure begins as a flight into the forest, and continues with the creation of the clearing in that forest, the essart (literal and allegorical); on that site a permanent, productive and prosperous institution will be built, which will gradually cease to resemble itself, and finally fall victim to its own success. The désertforêt becomes desertum civitas. St. Giles cannot resist that dynamic: the hermit will be found, as in all the romances; he will build a monastery, as in the biographies, and it will be richly endowed by kings who will demand, in return, his legitimating contribution to their own, worldly affairs. Our Life of St. Giles, in the last analysis, seems to realize a convergence of the two genres that I have been trying to separate: sacred biography and hagiographical romance. Structurally, formally, this is doubtless a romance, but one which absorbs much recognizable material from contemporary, “real-life” experience. The poem takes us through a number of distinct seasons of solitude, phases in monastic history: the island hermitage, the rock, the forest; and finally the coenobium, modeled perhaps on the Cistercian plan. Along the way, 9

Jacques Le Goff, “Le désert-forêt dans l’occident médiéval,” in L’imaginaire médiéval: Essais (Paris: Gallimard, 1985), pp. 59-83.

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various familiar oppositions are confronted: the desert and the city, solitude and society, contemplation and action, sacred and secular— and I will add to these the two hagiographical genres, which the poet brings into a characteristically Anglo-Norman poetic resolution.

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French Songs in Occitan Chansonniers: Mahieu le Juif in ms. O (Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, vaticani latini 3208)1 f the more than two dozen French lyric compositions found in one or more troubadour songbooks, three occur in some form in ms. O (Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, vaticani latini 3208).2 They were initially accorded some brief discussion in 1888 by Paul Meyer in his review of a diplomatic edition of the songbook.3 Two of the poems are presented as a single, ten-stanza text, a composite version of the two widely disseminated chansons de croisade, “S’onkes nus hom pour dure departie” (RS1126, L117-7), probably due to Hugues de Berzé (Bregi)—but possibly to the Châtelain de Couci—and Conon de Béthune’s “Ahi! amours, con dure departie” (RS1125, L50-1).4 The poets were aristocratic figures well known to their contemporaries, and Hugues in particular is well represented in troubadour chansonniers, in terms both of number of songs and number of redactions. As for Conon, ms. O provides his sole appearance in an Occitan context, where, if a portion of his work is confusedly braided into Hugues’s poem, it is no doubt because of their shared features: the dual theme of love and crusade, meter, stanza length, a rhyme in -ie, and even the initial rhyme-word, departie.5 1

I wish to thank Wendy Pfeffer for her helpful comments on style. See the inventory in Samuel N. Rosenberg, “French Songs in Occitan Chansonniers: An Introductory Report,” Tenso, 13:2 (1998), 18-32. 3 Cesare De Lollis, Il canzoniere provenzale O (Codice Vaticano 3208), in Atti della Reale Accademia dei Lincei, ser. IV, 2 (1886), pp. 4-111, reviewed by Paul Meyer in Romania, 17 (1888), 302-05. 4 Trouvère compositions are here identified occasionally by their number (RS) in Hans G. Spanke, G. Raynauds Bibliographie des altfranzösischen Liedes (Leiden: Brill, 1955) and always by their number (L) in Robert W. Linker, A Bibliography of Old French Lyrics (University, MS: Romance Monographs, 1979). Troubadour compositions are identified by their number (PC) in Alfred Pillet and Henry Carstens, Bibliographie der Troubadours (Halle: Niemeyer, 1933). 5 The text of the composite work, beginning “Fonca nuls hom por dura departea,” occurs, without attribution, on p. 54 of the manuscript. For a simple transcription of the text, see Grützmacher, “Fünfter Bericht an die Gesellschaft für das Studium der 2

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The third piece is a more arresting migrant from the lyric repertory of langue d’oïl and the only one with which the rest of this brief study will be concerned. It is “Per gran franchisa me conven chantar” (PC461,190), presented anonymously but ascribable with certainty to the thirteenth-century trouvère known as Mahieu le Juif. It is a Provençalized redaction of the composition “Par grant franchise me covient chanter” (RS782, L175-1), which occurs in no fewer than eleven French chansonniers, three with attribution to Mahieu and six transmitted with music.6 The song was clearly very successful—strikingly so for a composition attributed to a trouvère who, as far as we can tell, was neither well known nor prolific; indeed, Mahieu is credited with only one other song, much less widely disseminated, and nothing is known of his life.7 The broad circulation of “Par grant franchise” is indicated not only by the number of existing copies, but also by the fact that the witnesses display considerable mouvance, for they vary in overall length, in the ordering of stanzas, and in the wording of individual stanzas. The texts fall into at least four rather distinct groups, with enough differentiation for Jeanroy and Långfors to have deemed it appropriate to print three separate versions of the song in their Chansons satiriques et bachiques du XIIIe siècle.8 Their volume omits neueren Sprachen in Berlin über die in Italien befindlichen provençalischen Liederhandschriften,” Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen, 34 (1863), 368-438 (pp. 376-77); for a diplomatic edition, see De Lollis, pp. 62-63. See also J.M. d’Heur, “Traces d’une version occitanisée d’une chanson de croisade du trouvère Conon de Béthune (R. 1125),” Cultura Neolatina, 23 (1963), 73-89. 6 Mahieu’s text occurs on p. 42 of ms. Vat. lat. 3208. For a simple transcription, see Grützmacher, pp. 375-76; for a diplomatic edition, see De Lollis, p.50. The French sources of Mahieu’s song are mss C 185 (Maiheus li Jeus); H 227; I, i, 18; K 393 (melody); M 174 (Mahius li Juis; melody); N 180 (melody); O 99 (melody); T 93 (Mahius li Juis; melody); U 109; X 252 (melody); za 143. 7 “Pour autrui movrai mon chant” (RS313, L175-2) survives, with music, in only two manuscripts, M and T. See edition in Samuel N. Rosenberg and Hans Tischler, Chansons des trouvères. Chanter m’estuet (Paris: Librairie Générale Française, 1995), no. 160, pp. 668-71 and 1042-43. 8 Alfred Jeanroy and Arthur Långfors, Chansons satiriques et bachiques du XIIIe siècle (Paris: Champion, 1921). The four groups identified (pp. 110-16) are mss OKNX, mss MT, mss CIU, and mss H and Vat. lat. 3208. Each of the first three groups is represented in the volume by a redaction of Mahieu’s song. The fourth group is simply described. The editors were unaware of ms. za, which may represent yet a fifth group. According to Mario Roques, “Le Chansonnier français de Zagreb,” in

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the redaction of Provençal ms. O, along with that of trouvère ms. H, which is similar. It is pertinent—again, from the point of view of breadth of circulation—that ms. H is, like lat. 3208, of Italian origin; that it contains not only trouvère songs but, in a separate section, troubadour compositions as well (and for the latter collection is commonly designated as ms. D); that Mahieu’s text is presented among the trouvère pieces, though in a partly Provençalized form.9 But the most remarkable gauge of the song’s popularity is no doubt found in its standing with respect to other trouvère lyrics of similarly modest origin. Let us consider compositions listed in the Linker bibliography that share the following characteristics: 1) they are neither jeux-partis nor motets; 2) they survive in as many as eight or more redactions; 3) they are attributed to an unknown or barely known named person with no more than four songs to his credit. No anonymous compositions fit this profile. In the entire corpus of ascribed pieces, there are only twelve that match it—Mahieu’s “Par grant franchise” and the following: L8-1 (nine redactions), L34-2 (eight), L104-1 (eight), L135-1 (nine), L147-1 (eight), L179-3 (eight), L181-1 (ten), L205-1 (ten), L208-1 (eight), L219-1 (ten), and L249-1 (ten). Mahieu’s song, transmitted in no fewer than eleven trouvère codices (falling into four different sets), thus emerges as the most widely circulated French song not attributed to a well-known poet. In fact, the Mélanges de linguistique et de littérature offerts à M. Alfred Jeanroy par ses élèves et ses amis (Paris: 1938), pp. 509-20, ms. za, relative to French ms. O, transmits a “copie complète moins le c[ouplet] VI, dans l’ordre I, V, VII, IV, VIII, II-III, IX; leçon très différente de celle de H” (p. 517). The presence of Mahieu’s song in ms. za, along with its placement, offers further confirmation of its popularity, and well beyond the land of the trouvères. Speaking of this early-to-mid-thirteenth-century French songbook of Venetian origin, Lucilla Spetia, “Intavulare” Tables de Chansonniers romans, II: Chansonniers français, 2, in Bibliothèque de la Faculté de Philosophie et Lettres: Documenta et Instrumenta, 2 (Liège: Université de Liège, 1997), states: “on ne peut tenir pour fortuite la position clé des chansons du Roi Richard et de Maihieu le Juif : le copiste aura voulu placer en ouverture et en clôture du petit recueil français des pièces célèbres soit par leur auteur [...], soit par leur contenu” (p. 111). 9 For a diplomatic edition of the text in ms. H (=Provençal ms. D), accompanied by a facsimile, see Giulio Bertoni, “La sezione francese del ms. provenzale estense (con 28 facsimili),” Archivum Romanicum, 1 (1917), 307-493. There is an earlier, errorriddled transcription in Alfred Jeanroy, “Une imitation d’Albert de Sisteron par Mahieu le Juif,” Romania, 27 (1898), 148-50.

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select group to which it belongs is in an important sense even smaller than has seemed to be the case, for it is likely that several of the constituents of the group owe the multiplicity of their redactions to the fact that they were (mis-)identified as coming from an illustrious source. The rubrics of several manuscripts claim that L8-1, L181-1, and L249-1 were the work of Gace Brulé; several attribute L104-1 to Blondel de Nesle; and the redactions of L219-1 include one ascription to Gace and one to Blondel. No such authorial alternatives are named in the chansonniers transmitting Mahieu’s composition. In other words, the popularity of “Par grant franchise” appears to have been achieved not through the renown of its composer, whether putative or real, but through its intrinsic appeal. The form of the poem, is strictly speaking, unique, as the Répertoire métrique reveals.10 It is nevertheless well within the bounds of metrical conventionality; nor does any particular homophonic device lend the piece unusual salience. Its appeal surely lies in its substance, and it was an appeal loud enough to be heard across the boundary between langue d’oïl and langue d’oc, poignant enough for a compiler of troubadour songs—in Italy, moreover—to make a version of it part of his codex. The text appears within a long series of cansos presented as anonymous (but very widely copied and of recognized authorship).11 It is immediately preceded by Peire Raimon de Tolosa’s love song, “Aissi con la chandeilla” (PC355,5), which opens with a notable image of altruistic self-destruction but, aside from a finely crafted rhyme structure, is otherwise unexceptional. The sequence continues with Peire Vidal’s “Baron, Jesus q’en crux fo mes” (PC364,8), a crusade song that unexpectedly veers off into an attack on old ladies, followed by a somewhat audacious proposition to a young one. Finally, closest to Mahieu’s piece is Arnaut de Maroill’s “Aissi con cel c’ama e non es amatz” (PC30,3), which expresses the rather ordinary plea of an unloved lover.

10 See entry no. 838,1 in Ulrich Mölk and Friedrich Wolfzettel, Répertoire métrique de la poésie lyrique française des origines à 1350 (Munich: Fink, 1972). 11 Antonella Lonbardi and Maria Careri, “Intavulare” Tavole di Canzonieri romanzi, I: Canzonieri provenzali, 1, in Studi e Testi, 387 (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1998), pp. 250-51.

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There is nothing ordinary about the text that follows, which picks up the theme of unrequited love and turns it into a tirade of startling intensity. Its five stanzas constitute a truncated work, lacking the extensive material that prolongs and concludes the poem in its fullest, nine-stanza version (French ms. O) and is in part transmitted in other redactions as well. Though the text is thus stripped of Mahieu’s fierce, repeated accusation of betrayal (stanza 8)—made all the more bitter by the fact that, for love of his “douce dame,” he has even abandoned the faith of his people to embrace Christianity—it yet conveys a remarkable ongoing conflict. The speaker is torn, in stanza after stanza, between a love no less persistent for being rejected and a hatred hardly less real and expressed with great vehemence. The tone is at some remove from the tightly controlled affectivity typical of the canso. Not that Mahieu’s mélange of adoration and imprecation, unique in the trouvère repertory, is wholly without compare among the troubadours. Indeed, as early as 1898, Jeanroy noted a resemblance between the French poem and a Provençal piece by Albertet de Sestaro, “Donna pros e richa” (PC16,11).12 The prosodic forms are quite different, Albertet’s lengthy and complex heterometric coblas singulars being visibly distinct from the relatively simple isometric eight-line coblas doblas of Mahieu’s work. However, both initial stanzas show the same c-rhyme (-ainha, -aigne); the two poems express the speakers’ emotional turmoil through a shift from praise to invective within each stanza; and they include similar curses targeting the eyes: “qar vostr’ ueilh m’an al cor nafrat ses plaia: / Mala gotta ambedos los vos traia” (Albertet, st. 4)13 and “Et voz beaulx eulz, qui m’ont navré sanz lance: / Males broches les vos puissent saichier!” (Mahieu, st. 6)14 This piece by Albertet is not among the various works of his— cansos and tensos—that are contained in Vat. lat. 3208, but its familiarity may have been sufficiently great to facilitate the entry of Mahieu’s unusually popular, somewhat similar, French composition into a troubadour songbook. Though “Donna pros e richa” occurs in 12

Jeanroy, “Une imitation.” Jean Boutière, “Les poésies du troubadour Albertet,” Studi Medievali, 10 (1937), 1-129 ( no. 5, pp. 47-50). 14 Chansons satiriques, no. 26, pp. 46-48. 13

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only three sources (mss CMN), Albertet’s œuvre in general seems to have had considerable success (Boutière, p. 19). This general level of success—if not some quite different, nonphilological consideration—seems to have been the point of departure for Jeanroy’s belief that the resemblances between the two poems could only mean that Mahieu had used Albertet’s work as his model: “une composition aussi originale n’était pas de l’invention de ce très médiocre rimeur” (p. 148). The likeness of the lines concerning the eyes could only mean that the verses had originated with Albertet, and, if the two songs are totally distinct in their rhythmic structure, “c’est sans doute que celle de la pièce provençale, par sa difficulté, aura découragé l’imitateur” (p. 149). All supercilious assertion and no attempt at justification: Jeanroy’s claim, with its gratuitous disparagement of Mahieu, may well be dismissed as baseless. The only meaningful point of contact between the two texts is the statement about the lady’s eyes, and that observation-cum-curse could as well have passed from Mahieu to Albertet as from Albertet to Mahieu—or could just as well have been adopted by either of them from some other source. It is fairly certain that Albertet’s poetic activity was concentrated in the period 1210-21 (Boutière, p. 12). Of Mahieu’s career, the most that can be said is that it no doubt unfolded in the first half of the thirteenth century. There is thus no way to establish seniority. As for the curse itself, one version of a song by the illustrious early trouvère Gace Brulé expresses the wish that the médisants “eüsent les eulz creveiz,” and the same sentiment is voiced in an anonymous woman’s song.15 More to the point are two thirteenth-century citations (from fabliaux) in Tobler-Lommatzsch: “De male broiche / Ait chascuns d’els creveiz les iex” and “de males broches / Ait crevez les iex de la teste.”16 Clearly, neither Albertet nor Mahieu was the first to formulate such a grisly optative.17 15

Samuel N. Rosenberg, Samuel Danon, and Hendrik van der Werf, The Lyrics and Melodies and Gace Brulé (New York: Garland, 1985), no. 21 (RS1939, L65-19), p. 74; and Rosenberg and Tischler, Chansons des trouvères, no. 50 (RS100, L265-990), pp. 244-49. 16 Adolf Tobler and Erhard Lommatzsch, Altfranzösisches Wörterbuch, 11 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann; Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1925-2002), vol. 1, col. 1155, s.v. broche. 17 The love-song repertory includes other maleficent wishes as well, e.g., “Melz eüst or le col bruisié / Cele qui j’ai servie, / Qu’ele jamés m’ocie” (RS2033, L265-

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As stated earlier, the three versions of Mahieu’s song presented as critical texts in Chansons satiriques do not take into account the redactions in French ms. H and Occitan ms. O, which are similar to each other. Printed below is the first edition of this fourth, somewhat Provençalized, version. Vatican lat. 3208 serves as the base manuscript because, beyond being the center of interest of the present essay, it offers the superior text, with fewer problematic readings, fewer calls for editorial intervention, several of the latter prompted simply by the need to clarify the value of a disconcertingly foreignized form.

182), as edited in Hans Spanke, Eine altfranzösische Liedersammlung (Halle [Saale]: Niemeyer, 1925), p. 92.

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SAMUEL N. ROSENBERG

Per gran franchisa me conven chantar Se vuel aver la ren q’eu plus desir, Mas je ne sai on je puissa trobar Bons moz ni son, car cil qi creit morir Non puet son cor a gran joi atornar; Mas niporqant fin amors moi ensegna D’amer celi qi paisions esteigna E car ne vuelt mon mal guieredoner. Li tricheor qi s’en fegnent d’amar Font les leials a gran dolor languir, E les dames en font mult a blasmar, Car ament cels q.es gabent al partir; Donc sui je fols, qan je ne sai fausar; Ne pois müer mon dannaje ni plaigna. Douza dame, freit glaive vos estaigna, Si me faites de parfont sospirer! Ar ai parlé come fols estreloi: Ja li pechez ne m’en ert perdonat, Car maudit ai la ren cui plus doi foi. Servirai la tot a sa voluntat E, se li plaist qe me reteigna o soi, Amerai la come ma dama cheira, O, si tant non, la mala mort la fera S’en poi d’ora non volt pensar de moi! Dousa dame, cui je sers e soploi, Vostre serai trestote mon etat Com hom lijes, a vos qi tes m’otroi De ben servir de bona lïautat; [E avez tort quant vos si laidez moi;] Con plus [vos] voi, e je plus vos tein fere. Anz fuissiez vos levee en froide bere Qe ja mais jorn vos gabissiez de moi.

1.4

1.8

2.4

2.8

3.4

3.8

4.4

4.8

Douce dame, ben me devez aider, Sol por itant qe losengier felon Se sont vantei qe por lor loseingier Feront partir dos amanz en pardon. 5.4 Onc n’oi de vos mais ire e destorbier: Atant mar vi vostre belle semblance E voz beaus euz, qi m’ont nafré sens lance! Males broites les vos puissent sachier! 5.8

FRENCH SONGS IN OCCITAN CHANSONNIERS

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Rejected Readings 1.4 Bos mot —1.6 moi] mo —1.8 guierdoner (-1) —2.4 amet —2.6 müer] uiuer —2.7 glaiues —3.7 non] no —3.8 S’en] Se —4.2 trestotes —4.3 lies —4.5 missing, reading from H —4.6 (-1); fere] cheire, reading from H et al. —4.8 v. de gabiez de m. —5.4 parti — 5.7 sens] ses Variants in ms. H18 1.1 Por —1.3 on] cum —1.4 Bon mot; car] cum —1.5 N. puis mon c.; goie torner —1.6 fins —1.7 c. cui passion destraigne —1.8 Che no me v. —2.1 Sil trizaors q. se f. —2.3 en] se —2.4 cill que g. — 2.5 Mais je suis mort car anc no sap tricer —2.6 ni] non —2.7 g. nos ataingne —2.8 Si de parfon me faites s. —3.1 Or ai eu dit c. f. estresloi —3.2 ne moi seit pardonez —3.3 Cant ai maldit la r. c’am p. de f. —3.4 Amerai la; voluntez —3.5 E s’a; o] a —3.6 come] cum (1) —3.7 Ensi se n. —3.8 S’en breo d’o. n. pren conscel de m. —4.1 D. d. da que s. ue s. —4.2 V. me sui en trestut m. aiez —4.3 C. home liz cui am e teing autroi —4.4 Servirai vos de b. voluntez —4.6 Quant vos plus sers e je vos trof plus f. —4.7 N’anz; l. freida en b. — 4.8 Q. sol un j. plus gabesez de m. —5.2 por] par —5.3 Son si v. q. par l. engombrer —5.4 amant —5.5 destorbier] engombrier —5.6 Atant] Dame —5.7 que me nafront s. l. —5.8 Male broche vos li p. s. Notes 1.7 paisions ‘suffering, sickness’ —4.3 tes ‘such’ —5.8 broites ‘spits, pointed objects’

18

The Variants recorded here show semantic or morphological interest; purely orthographic variants, which are numerous in this somewhat Provençalizing text, are not included. Unlike the Rejected Readings, the Variants include the use of j for i and v for u when appropriate and the use of apostrophes.

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Rewriting Cligés ny artifact can be reworked, to suit the tastes or agenda of the reworkers and/or their patrons or hoped-for public. At a time when originality per se was not highly prized but technical mastery was, when audiences never tired of references to, for example, national heroes, Biblical passages, or the exemplary figures and tales of classical antiquity, no shame was attached to giving new shapes to old works of art or literature. In the Middle Ages a story written or recited anywhere, by anyone, was most likely to be at least a twicetold tale and to be retold in its turn. As a recent formulation succinctly puts it: L’oeuvre narrative médiévale en langue vulgaire n’est pas construite sur le principe du neuf mais sur celui du connu; on ne pousse pas le public à connaître ce qu’il ignore, mais à re-connaître ce dont il sait déjà quelque chose. Le narrateur, théoriquement, connaît et raconte mieux, plus fidèlement, l’histoire que tous connaissent, même estropiée par un mauvais conteur. 1

The tellers’ purpose, and their point of pride, was to improve on the performance of others, their professional rivals, witness Chrétien de Troyes and his dismissive reference in the prologue to Erec et Enide to those who live by storytelling, while in the process mangling and corrupting their (pre-existing) material. He, by contrast, can and will make of a conte d’aventure a mout bele conjointure, destined to immortality. In the case of this, his first preserved romance, we do not possess the alleged prototype or prototypes of his improved version; and this holds true for his other works as well (with the exception of Yvain which claims none). Chrétien credits his patroness for supplying both matiere and san of the Charrete, and cites a conte much appreciated in cort roial, put into rhyme by him, as the source of the Conte du Graal. Preluding to Cligés he claims a bookish source, and even better a very old book, and better still one with impeccable credentials: “we” find it

1

Alberto Varvaro, “Elaboration des textes et modalités du récit dans la littérature française médiévale,” Romania, 119 (2001), 1-75, p. 62.

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(“ceste estoire trovons escrite”)2 among the holdings of the Beauvais cathedral library. From the book, which attests to the truth of the matter, came the conte, and from that Chrétien made his romance. Since neither book nor conte has been found, and both are probably not to be found and presumably never were, his debt to the livres […] molt ancïens cannot be verified; and we need not be so seduced by the following non sequitur on the good to be derived from the study of old books that treat, inter alia, of the transfer of clergie and chevalerie from Greece to Rome to France, as to assume that this will furnish the stuff of the ensuing romance. Indeed, the promised tale of a Greek vaslet with connections to King Arthur, and of the young man’s father, does occupy the ensuing bi-generational narrative; but although it indeed features chivalry and displays the author’s clergie, it has nothing to do with ancient Greece and Rome and (colors of rhetoric aside) shows no debts to classical literature. Insofar as there is a detectable source of character and episode in Chrétien’s second romance, it is the medieval legend of the lovers of Cornwall, by then widely known in oral transmission and beginning to take written form. Thomas d’Angleterre’s Tristran may have been accessible to the Champenois poet.3 He himself had already treated in his own lost narrative “del roi Marc et d’Ysalt la blonde,” as he proudly states in his Prologue. Whether his Cligés is an anti-Tristran, a

2

Citations are to Chrétien de Troyes, Cligés, ed. Claude Luttrell and Stewart Gregory (Cambridge: Brewer, 1993). 3 In all probability, Cligés postdated the Tristran of Thomas and drew on it, although not exclusively. This chronology and borrowing was recently affirmed by Stewart Gregory in his edition and translation of Thomas of Britain, Tristran (New York: Garland, 1991), p. xii; rprt. in Early French Tristan Poems II (Cambridge: Brewer, 1998), p. 5; see also Emmanuèle Baumgartner, Tristan et Yseut (Paris: PUF, 1987), pp. 20-22, and Philippe Walter, ed. and trans., Cligés, Notice, pp. 1124-25, in Chrétien de Troyes, Œuvres complètes, ed. D. Poirion et al. (Paris: Gallimard, 1994). For an examination of analogies between the two romances see Lucie Polak, Chrétien de Troyes, Cligés (London: Grant and Cutler, 1982), pp. 50-69. Anthime Fourrier provides a catalogue of details occurring in Cligés and the corpus of Tristran materials; for details recalling the version commune, those found both in the version commune and the version courtoise, and those particularly close to Thomas’s narration, see his Le courant réaliste dans le roman courtois en France au Moyen Âge (Paris: Nizet, 1960); pp. 124-54 and especially pp. 147-50.

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hyper-Tristran, or a neo-Tristran,4 the framework of the second and longer part of the romance derives–without, by the way, any explicit acknowledgment but with plentiful textual references, mostly placed in the mouth of the heroine Fénice–from the by-then well-known tale of forbidden love shaped into a triangular relationship of uncle-wifenephew. Fénice, who is apparently well up on contemporary literature, swiftly makes the connection as soon as her sudden and mysterious complaint is diagnosed by her governess Thessala as the pangs of love. Fenice then admits to loving Cligés while being on the brink of marriage to his uncle; she is resolved to avoid the public scandal and shame of divided loyalties to her husband and to his nephew, and also the personal degradation of having two men share her body. The tale of the lovers of Cornwall is familiar not only to her; others talk of it, and would lose no time in associating her and Cligés with Yseut and Tristan, as she tells Thessala (3125-36). In a much later scene in which she and Cligés at last confess their love she promptly informs him of her husband’s deception and her own virginity, the preservation of which has kept for her lover both her heart and her body. If they love each other Cligés will never be called Tristan nor she Yseut, provided that he can somehow take her away from her so-called husband (521351). She flatly rejects her lover’s proposition to carry her off to his great-uncle Arthur in Bretaigne, although Cligés assures her of a more joyous welcome there than was accorded Helen when Paris brought her to Troy (5274-84); to elope would be positively to invite the dreaded literary analogy. Everyone, “par tot le monde” (5291), would talk of them as of the famous lovers; “et ci et la” (both in Greece and in Britain), “totes et tuit / blasmeroient nostre deduit” (5295-96). (We recall that when Cligés and Fénice are at last surprised in their secret garden they do after all flee to King Arthur, caring no more for public opinion, in a move that is inconsistent but recalls the recourse to Arthur’s judgement at the escondit and Arthur’s unwitting ratification of the asserted innocence of Tristran and Yseut.)5 Fénice is haunted by 4

The terms are Jean Frappier’s; see Chrétien de Troyes (Paris: Hatier, 1968), p. 106. Walter proposes that “Cligés serait plutôt un anti-Yseut sur fond de néo-Tristan,” art. cit., p. 1126. 5 Here, Arthur promptly rises to take up the cause of the dispossessed Cligés against Alis, although the latter is (as far as Arthur knows) Fénice’s husband in every sense of the word. The colossal military expedition to conquer Greece for Cligés is checked

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the figure of Yseut, the bad example, the “other” whose situation is all too akin to her own and whom she does not want to resemble.6 She succeeds in avoiding sexual relations with her husband through a dream-inducing potion of indefinite duration brewed by her nurse/governess (standing in for Iseut’s mother) and conveyed not by a careless confidante to the lovers but by the unknowing Cligés to his uncle at the wedding feast–a particularly fine touch. Later she manages to escape her husband altogether by the expedient of a feigned death brought about through another potion, this one concocted to pass off within a short time (6208-09). (That her secret, fifteen-month erotic idyll with Cligés involves not only fornication but (arguably) adultery7 troubles the two of them no more than does their own relationship disturb the lovers of Cornwall; and like Iseut Fénice not only manages by unspecified means not to become pregnant but gives no thought even to the possibility.) All this is to us familiar ground; but I propose that this twice-told tale had an afterlife that merits attention. There are abundant reasons for conjecturing that just as Chrétien to a large degree rewrote elements of the Tristran story in his second romance, so did Philippe de Remi in his own second venture in the genre pay tribute in his turn by rewriting parts of Cligés. That he knew and appreciated the fictions of his illustrious predecessor, and helped himself to large servings of rhymes, lines, and passages therefrom, is by now well known.8 Even only by news of Alis’s convenient death. Here, like God in the Tristran stories, Arthur is on the side of the lovers. 6 See my “L’Autre chez Chrétien de Troyes,” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale, 10 (1967), 201-202. That Fenice’s scruples are sentimental and social, not moral, has recently been underscored by Joan Tasker Grimbert, “On Fénice’s Vain Attempts to Revise a Romantic Archetype and Chrétien’s Fabled Hostility to the Tristan Legend,” in Reassessing the Heroine in Medieval French Literature, ed. K.M. Krause (Gainesville, FL: Univ. Press of Florida, 2001), pp. 87-106. 7 On the validity of Fénice’s marriage to Alis see David Shirt, “Cligés: A TwelfthCentury Matrimonial Casebook?”, Forum for Modern Language Studies, 18 (1982), 75-89; the chief point of reference is Gratian. 8 See Mary B. Speer, “Jehan et Blonde: Challenges of a One-Manuscript Text,” Romance Philology, 45 (1991-92), 161-73; Michel Rousse, “De Chrétien de Troyes à Philippe de Rémy: la joie d’amour,” in L’Œuvre de Chrétien de Troyes dans la littérature française, ed. C. Lachet (Lyon: Univ. Jean Moulin, 1997), pp. 45-57; and Barbara N. Sargent-Baur, “Echos de Chrétien de Troyes dans les romans de Philippe de Remi,” in Miscellanea medievalia: mélanges offerts à Philippe Ménard, ed J.-C.

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certain proper names recall Cligés: the scene of about half the action in Philippe’s tale is Oxford, a locus featured also in Chrétien’s fiction as being near the site of the great tournament (4564-960). Here the newly-arrived and incognito Cligés on four successive days defeats Sagremor, Lancelot, and Perceval, and at last fights his uncle Gauvain to a draw; and among the four war-horses mounted by Cligés the only one identified by name is the black Morel (4643, 4647). This name is appropriated by Philippe for the Earl of Gloucester’s steed (4131), captured by Jehan and ridden to good effect during the battle of Dover Beach (4182, 4281, 4429, 4581). (The Morel of Cligés is none the worse for the exercise, unlike Jehan’s mount, whose hide is pierced in thirty places.) The heroine’s name Blonde recalls the golden-haired and name-conscious Soredamors (“sororee d’Amors,” “gilded with Love,” 980; see the etymological exploration of her own name by Joïe, heroine of Philippe’s first romance);9 the name quite possibly also looks back beyond Soredamors to Yseut la Blonde. Once alerted to verbal echoes and hence to debts of one writer to the other, the reader is reminded of affiliation on the level of episode and overall plot while observing in many particulars what looks like evocation by Philippe as prelude to difference in register and sometimes deliberate refutation of Chrétien’s procedures. Let us begin with the prologue. Far from seizing the opportunity for advertising his previous works, displaying his erudition, and proclaiming his dependence on a (hypothetical) written source as did his predecessor, Philippe immediately strikes a moralistic note. He quotes a proverb (“Qui honeur cace honeur ataint / et ki a peu bee a

Fauchet, A. Labbé, et al., 2 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1998), vol. 2, pp. 1193-1201. Numerous other sources of Philippe’s second romance have been proposed: see my “The Literary Context of Jehan et Blonde” in Philippe de Remi, Jehan et Blonde, Poems, and Songs, ed. B. N. Sargent-Baur (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), pp. 22-31. See also two recently translated (and slightly revised) articles by Jean Dufournet: “Philippe de Remy and Rewriting I: Jehan et Blonde and Joufroi de Poitiers: From One English Romance to Another,” in Essays on the Poetic and Legal Writings of Philippe de Remy and His Son Philippe de Beaumanoir of Thirteenth-Century France, ed. S.-G. Heller and M. Reichert (Lewiston, Queenston, and Lampeter: Mellen, 2001), pp. 131-55, and “Philippe de Remy and the Art of Rewriting II: Jehan et Blonde and the Roman de la Rose,” in Essays, pp. 157-72. 9 Philippe de Remi, Le Roman de la Manekine, ed. and trans. B. N. Sargent-Baur (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1999), ll. 1776-86.

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peu vient”),10 he repeatedly expresses scorn of lazy people (preceuse, precheus, preceus, 5, 33, 44), he warns against laziness (perece, 14), and he exhorts to effort, to self-betterment, and to foreign travel. In offering an appetizing peep at the story to come, Philippe refers to an unnamed masculine someone who will exemplify the truth of the initial proverb. Yet it is unmistakable that Philippe had in mind not a couple of lines in Chrétien’s prologue (14-17, on Cliges’s gloryseeking father but the beginning of his narrative proper: the introduction of the ambitious Alixandre. This Greek prince wishes to be knighted not routinely at home but “an autre païs” (139), “an la terre estrange” (150), specifically in Bretaigne and at the hands of King Arthur; laziness (peresce, 154), declares Alixandre, keeps many a high-born man from the fame (los, 155, 158, 167) he might win if he traveled about in the world.11 This is precisely the lesson taught by Philippe de Remi through the narratorial voice in his prologue, with its vigorous condemnation of lazy stay-at-homes who, if they took the trouble to go “en autre tere” (11), “en autre païs” (23), “en mainte estrange contree” (41), “en estrange terre” (45), could acquire friends, honor, and respectability, witness the hero of the ensuing narrative. And here we indeed find the tale of a restless, active young man who goes abroad to take his chances in Engletere, seeking and ultimately finding honor. Having composed a prologue that would inevitably recall Cligés to the mind of anyone familiar with it, Philippe proceeds to tell his story in a manner that smacks of deliberate re-working. Chrétien’s prince, Alixandre, sets off from Constantinople in splendid style, with twelve noble companions, numerous sailors and servants implied but unspecified, two ships laden with horses and treasure, and a parental exhortation to largesse. (Alixandre’s arrival in Bretaigne is subsequently echoed by that of his son, Cligés, who comes with warhorses, squires, servants, provisions, and plenty of money, all supplied by his uncle Alis, 4254-62, 4561-62). Both princes know precisely where they are bound: to the royal court, where they have every expectation of being welcomed and fêted. By contrast Jehan, not even a nobleman but the eldest son of a heavily indebted knight, leaves the 10 11

Quotations come from my edition; see n. 8 above. Pace Rousse, p. 48, who attributes these sentiments to Cligés.

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parental manor with one horse, one varlet, and twenty livres. (He might have had more; his refusal to take it further underscores the contrast between him and the two Greek princes.) From Dammartin Jehan rides to Boulogne, seeks out a merchant ship, buys his passage, and is soon in Dover across what is oddly termed the ruissel (110), perhaps to emphasize the shortness of the trip and differentiate it from the prolonged one of Alexandre and his companions, whose journey from Constantinople to Southampton takes all of April and part of May. Without the means to put on an impressive show, lacking anything by way of introduction, and unable to indulge in namedropping (we recall that Alixandre quickly identifies himself to King Arthur as the son of the Greek emperor), Jehan must make his own way starting from his own unremarkable level and seeking a master. His very name, as French and common as can be, underscores his ordinariness, especially when one remembers the Greek and Celtic ones that Chrétien de Troyes lavishes on his characters. Once across the Channel Jehan heads for unspecified reasons towards London. Luck promptly brings him into the company of the traveling Earl of Oxford; from then on it is not chance but personal qualities of a nonspectacular sort that aid him: his French speech, his affability, his good manners, and a frank desire to serve cause him to be retained by the Earl in his household. In Oxford Jehan is welcomed by the Countess, who proposes to her husband that the lad be appointed to serve their daughter and only child as squire carver.12 Jehan readily accepts this 12

Unpersuasive is a recent interpretation of the Countess’s first speech about Jehan: “[…] Sire, se il est tex Que vous dites, si m’aït Dex, Requerre et priier vous vaurroie Que a vostre fille, et la moie, Le meïssiés pour li servir Se il li venoit a plaisir, Car nous dui n’avons plus d’enfans, Et s’est des ore mais bien tans Qu’ele ait o li un escuier Qui sage devant li trenchier.” (187-96, author’s emphasis) This is taken as suggesting that the mother thinks her daughter needs a young man to “serve” her in bed (o li), one who “knows how to carve her meat for her;” but cf. the invariable spelling lit both in the line and at the rhyme whenever furniture is clearly in question (e.g.,496, 503, 627, 691, 1176, 1401, 1441, 4785, 4795, 4801). This obtains whether a vowel in hiatus follows, as here (and it does not do to claim that a postulated

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role, making himself useful in it and in general table-service; and he becomes teacher of society games to Blonde and French tutor to her and her ladies. As modest and amiable as he is adaptable, he manages to rise in the favor of his employers without thereby causing any offense or envy among his fellow-servants. As for the love-element, it is marked by notable differences between the two romances. Whereas Alixandre and Soredamors (like Tristran and Yseut) both fall promptly in love in the course of a sea-crossing, suffering lengthily and simultaneously the pangs of unconfessed passion, and while Cligés as well as Fénice fall in love at first sight but delay their avowals much longer, the attachment in Jehan et Blonde is slow in dawning and at first, and for a considerable time (over eighteen weeks, 431), one-sided. These youngsters are nowhere near being social equals, a circumstance underlined by Jehan’s first shedding blood for the object of his affection not in battle or tournament but by cutting his fingers in the process of distractedly carving her meat. This, combined with his mortification and his hopeless passion, keeps him on the sick-list for some weeks.13 A most pressing interrogation from Blonde produces a reluctant but trusting confession of love on his part and on hers a false though kindly promise to be his amie if only he will eat and get better. Nourished, restored to health, but then devastated by Blonde’s acknowledgment of indifference, he falls ill again and is at the point of death when she relents, repents, at last realizes his sterling qualities, and is mastered by Love. Her own avowal of affection, along with cold chicken and many kisses and nocturnal visits, effects a ambiguity would depend on the pronunciation), or a consonant; furthermore o (sometimes written od) does not in this text represent a + le but is used interchangeably with avoec / avoeques. The oblique li can be either m. or f.; e.g., “Li quens et o li la contesse / oïrent […]” (667-68), “Chevaliers manda […] / qui od lui iront […]” (5424), and “la roïne […] / qui o li ot mainte pucele” (5704-8). It would also be unusual to find trenchier used as a synonym for the general servir, mentioned by the countess (who nowhere else in the romance is inclined to prurient innuendo). For the proposed erotic reading (detected as a subtext, and contradicted two pages later) see F.R.P. Akehurst, “Courtly Text and Erotic Subtext in Jehan et Blonde,” in Essays (n. 8, above), p. 123 and n. 11; no edition is identified. 13 Five weeks (693); Philippe tends towards specificity in the passage of time. It is noteworthy that whereas Fénice, helped by Thessala’s second potion, feigns illness and then death, Jehan’s illness is psychosomatic but nonetheless real; it brings him first to a slow decline, through inanition; then after his healing he relapses to a much more rapid decline and death-like state due to natural causes.

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lasting cure. From then on and for two years their mutual devotion is checked only by the necessity of discretion; this dictates self-control, since she well knows and impresses on Jehan that pregnancy would put paid to their idyll and to the hope of eventual marriage. Jehan’s departure for precisely one year, a term set by his amie, of course echoes Yvain’s leave-taking from Laudine for the same lapse of time;14 but the motive of pressing family business and personal responsibility keeps us in Philippe’s register of verisimilitude. Jehan’s punctiliousness in returning to his beloved exactly when and as promised rebukes Yvain’s negligence; but the lovers’ subsequent elopement brings us back to Cligés and its remaniement. Whereas Fénice, the German emperor’s daughter, feigning death, escapes her imperial husband in favor of that personage’s exalted nephew, Blonde abandons her place as earl’s daughter and earl’s fiancée to run away with a mere squire, a gentix hom (1116, 2296) and a foreigner at that. For him she resolves to renounce everything: rank, parents, country, wealth. Her intended has few prospects, aside from the fief for which as eldest son he will do homage to the King of France; but they will have enough to live on (“‘assés avrons pour nostre vivre,’” 2307). Philippe’s absconding lovers, still resolutely chaste, do not sequester themselves in a magical tower and its garden for over a year (much less do they take to a more protracted stay in the forest); they head as rapidly as may be for the familiar sea-port of Dover, prudently traveling by night and sleeping in the woods by day. (Robin plays the role of look-out and provisioner taken by Thessala in the escape of Cligés and Fenice from Constantinople to Britain, 6646-48, and also of Governal, guardian and cook for the fugitive lovers of Cornwall.) The bower built by Jehan and Blonde on the last day of their flight (354853), although only a temporary shelter, may stir memories of Tristran and Yseut and their series of loges in the Morois forest: it is made of green branches and strewn with flowers, both lovers work at its

14

One might disagree with Claude Lachet when he asserts Philippe’s dependence not on Cligés but on Yvain: “Sans conteste le Chevalier au lion est l’hypotexte de Jehan et Blonde,” especially given that he immediately goes beyond some indisputable verbal echoes to underline many thematic differences; see “A la griffe on reconnaît le lion: quelques échos du Chevalier au lion dans les romans en vers des XIIIe et XIVe siècles,” art. cit. (in n. 8, above), p. 76.

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construction and decoration, and they resort to it because of the heat.15 Another possible echo of Tristran is the charade played not by the hero but by his faithful servant and double, Robin, in his reconnoitering visit to Dover: leaning on a staff, limping heavily, his face whitened with a herb prepared by Jehan, his voice altered, he brilliantly acts the part of a terminally sick man seeking only to return to his French home to die; like Tristran at the Mal Pas16 he not only deceives his enemies but manages to extract money from them. Jehan himself, like Tristran, assumes an alias and befuddles his amatory rival with riddling speech. Yet Jehan differs from both Tristran and Cligés in that he participates in no tourneys or other ornamental displays of prowess; he fights but once, against great odds and with the indispensable aid of commoners, to save his beloved Blonde from her fiancé-elect so that the two of them can cross the sea together and at last marry. Even the highly public nature of their wedding feast, with the support of the French King and of Jehan’s family and the entire county, and his festive knighting attended by the bride’s reconciled father and by the whole royal court, offer a sharp contrast with the ambivalence and secretiveness of Cligés and Fénice (and a fortiori with the slippery, mendacious, and anti-social relations of Tristran and Iseut). Which version(s) of the Tristan story was (were) available to Philippe de Remi is not susceptible of proof. That Philippe knew something of it is clear from two occurrences of the name Tristan in Jehan et Blonde (it is absent from his first romance): it comes up once as a term of comparison (Tristan never suffered for love as much as did Jehan, 423)17 and once as the name of the hero’s middle brother (5974). Philippe may well by, say, the 1240s, have had access to some 15

The corresponding passages in Béroul are Tristran 1290-92, 1729-30, 1794-1803 (citations are to the ed. of Stewart Gregory, The Romance of Tristran by Béroul [Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1992], and Jehan et Blonde, 3548-612). Jean Dufournet, while pointing to several real resemblances between the two romances, mistakenly asserts that “the two pairs of lovers live in the forest,” in Essays, p. 123. 16 Tristran is also heavily disguised in Béroul and the Bern and Oxford Folies. 17 Jacques Ribard makes much and perhaps too much of this in “Jehan et Blonde: mythe ou réalité” in Conjunctures: Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), pp. 481-86: “Cette référence, placée comme en exergue, ‘oriente,’ d’une certaine manière, toute la lecture du parcours romanesque de notre héros” (p. 483). Allusions to Tristran are in fact among the commonest of commonplaces in medieval fiction.

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written recension of the legend, as well as to the remaniement preserved in Cligés; the mention of the tale of Marc and Ysalt in the Cligés prologue, intended as a bit of self-publicity on Chrétien’s part, also alerts the reader to connections between the stories which will be worked out in the ensuing romance. What is clear is that Philippe knew the Tristran/Yseut story, probably directly in some oral or written shaping of it and certainly through its rewriting by Chrétien de Troyes, and he undertook to refute both these famous and potent narratives by combining elements of them in a new key. He made of them a tale of forbidden love but one that has as the lovers’ agreed-upon goal not only shared happiness but eventual marriage and only then sexual fulfillment. The goal is ultimately attained not through the appliances of magic nor by outright lying, but through wit, resolution, and a network of relationships from top to bottom of the social scale. These are secured by trust and cemented by promise-keeping, appropriate rewards, and Jehan’s dutiful behavior towards his parents, siblings, and suzerain. It greatly helps that the protagonists are abetted by powerful figures, particularly the King and Queen of France and the Earl of Oxford, by whom the inner qualities of Jehan and Blonde, and their faithful love, are appreciated and allowed to stand as their excuse. The disruption caused by their elopement is forgiven. The apotheosis of the young couple, first at their wedding feast and then on Jehan’s elevation to the rank of comte de Dammartin (thereby restoring his bride to the rank she left behind in England), and the splendid ceremony of his knighting and that of his three brothers, underlines the lovers’ reintegration into another but similar framework. Their subsequent reconciliation with the bride’s father, crowned by his designation of Jehan as his heir in Oxford, confirms the reestablishment of the social order. Love, allied to responsibility, conquers all; and it continues to grow throughout the lifetime of the lovers.18 Their marriage is universally acceptable; it is soon blessed with children; and by multiplied good works it confers for over thirty years a blessing upon two counties and countries. Philippe de Remi, keenly interested in the craft of his literary precursors and of Chrétien especially, yet independent of literary 18

This may be one last reminiscence of Cligés, in which the lovers, settled at last in the hero’s heritage, are wed and crowned, and live in every-growing love.

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fashion when and as it suited him to be so, availed himself of what came his way not to imitate but consciously to rewrite it according to his own aesthetic and moral vision.

MARY JANE SCHENCK

Spectacles of Violence: The Trials of Ganelon ever have the meaning and interpretation of issues central to La Chanson de Roland been more agonizingly à propos than in the present.1 Ironically, medieval scholarship has never been more preoccupied with scrutinizing the nineteenth century—its editions, editors, and their legacies. In a strange reversal of Rabelais’ metaphor of standing on the shoulders of giants, we seem to be hacking, like Jack in the Beanstalk, at our giants’ legs, faulting Gaston Paris and Joseph Bédier, among others, for doing what they thought was the best scholarly practice of their time.2 Of course their work is not the objective scholarship they imagined it to be since it reflects the bias of French political and intellectual history that did as much to create medieval texts and definitions of genres as it did to “describe” or merely “publish” them. The new philologists’ critique from the left of early medievalists is answered in one instance by a critique from the right in a new formalism expressed by Andrew Taylor when he challenges the song in La Chanson de Roland.3 He takes on Francisque Michel and those involved in first publishing the poem for falling under the sway of Gautier’s romantic notion of the séance épique. To support his view of the written origins of the poem, Taylor looks at the codicological setting of the Oxford Roland, calling attention to the fact that its co-text in Digby 23 is Chalcidius’ translation of Plato’s Timeaus. He suggests that the two parts of the manuscript which have consistently been disassociated, should be reconsidered as connected 1 An early draft of the first section of this paper was being written at the time of the events of September 11, 2001. The final paper was submitted as the year anniversary approached and the American administration was discussing initiating a “pre-emptive” war against Iraq. 2 Beginning with Bernard Cerquiglini’s Eloge de la variante: Histoire critique de la philologie (1989), the January 1990 issue of Speculum on the New Philology, and a conference sponsored by Northwestern University and the Newberry Library in the spring of that year, the issue of the legacy of nineteenth-century scholarship was joined. See two pertinent volumes of essays: William D. Paden, ed., The Future of the Middle Ages (Gainesville: Univ. Press of Florida, 1994) and R. Howard Bloch and Stephen G. Nichols, eds., Medievalism and the Modernist Temper (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1996). 3 “Was There A Song of Roland” Speculum, 76.1 (2001), 28-65.

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materially and culturally: “Both are scholars’ books, plain, cheap, unadorned texts written in a single column, and they belong to the same cultural milieu” (p. 49). Although he does not draw out the implications of medievals studying or having at hand these two texts, as Havelock does with Homer and Plato,4 Taylor marshals some interesting historical and textual evidence in order to challenge speculations about the performance history of the Roland. Building the case that the Roland comes from and was at home in a clerical environment, he cites the thirteenth-century inscription on the manuscript indicating that it was a gift from its first identified owner, Henry Langly, to the Augustinian canons near Oxford. Henry, if Taylor has identified him correctly, was himself a canon and prebendary of the king’s free chapel in Shropshire. While he cites much current research on medieval readers and clearly understands that both clerical and lay audiences enjoyed a variety of texts, the focus of his argument is that Digby 23 is not a jongleur’s text nor is the Roland merely the product of a jongleur’s art. He asserts, for instance, that “the Oxford Roland was never far from clerical hands, and that it may have had something of the status of a saint’s life, serving as an inspirational moral poem to be read aloud, or possibly even to chant, to the canons and their guests at the refectory” (pp. 51-52). He may be justified in making the case for a clerical milieu for the appreciation of the poem, but he slips into some romanticism of his own about the audience. “Anglo-Norman clerics who copied, read, and heard the Digby Roland may have found in both its themes and its style an image of a simpler, nobler time, when they might have been closer to the knightly audience the text evokes” (p. 64). In order to emphasize the provenance of the text in the monastic, written tradition, he slights the possibility that these two texts, Chalcidius’ and Turoldus’, most likely of completely different origins, might have been bound together for a university or lay aristocratic audience since, in the sophisticated Anglo-Norman world, the wealthy had modest libraries and knights were not only consumers of oral epics, but a variety of texts including

4

Eric Havelock, Preface to Plato (Cambridge, Mass: Belnap Press of Harvard Univ., 1963) and The Greek Concept of Justice: From Its Shadow in Homer to Its Substance in Plato (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1978). I am currently working on the implications of reading Chalcidius’ text along with the Roland.

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romances.5 Collections of inspirational, moral, military, and literary texts would be selectively read as instruction or for an evening’s entertainment of a more sophisticated nature than the séance épique that Gautier imagined and Taylor justifiably rejects. While it is certainly clear that both French political history and romantic evocations of oral performances for groups of knights gathered round the fire contributed to calling the text found in Digby 23, a chanson, Taylor’s slightly dismissive treatment of the text as a palimpsest of oral and written elements and of mouvance is more questionable. He does say there were no doubt songs about Roland as well as early stories, but the poem in the Oxford manuscript would more accurately be called the Legend of Roland, than the Song of Roland (p. 65). While Taylor may be correct to offer a counter-balance to oral composition theory by looking at the poem’s written features, there is a problem in equating milieu with provenance and an even greater danger if we then return to a formalist notion of an original, best text, especially in the case of epic, a genre whose early exemplars are least likely to be single-authored texts. Other manuscript traditions of the Roland are not necessarily degraded versions of a hypothesized original, and they offer equally important opportunities for interpretation of issues central to the poem and medieval culture. One such issue is the concept of justice and vengeance, as will be shown in the following discussion of the two versions of Ganelon’s fate depicted in the Oxford text and then in the Châteauroux manuscript. Despite my reservations about his major point, I was inspired by Taylor’s challenging the “song” in the Song of Roland and have written elsewhere that labeling the final sad segment of the poem “the trial” may be misleading.6 It would be more accurate to call it “the punishment of Ganelon” because the question of judging him pales in comparison to the apparent need to see the traitor harshly punished. The law is still important, of course, and details in the Digby 23 ms. reflect the more advanced Anglo-Norman legal world of customary, soon-to-be common, law whose voice of restraint is muffled but not 5 William Calin, The French Tradition and the Literature of Medieval England (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1994), pp. 17-120 and Richard W. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1999), p. 32. 6 “If There Wasn’t ‘a’ Song of Roland, Was There a ‘Trial’ of Ganelon?”, Olifant, 22 (Spring 1998-Fall 2003), 143-57.

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lost in the strident call for a public spectacle of revenge.7 The idea of Anglo-Norman influence is supported by several passages that allude to the pleadings, references to writing, the absence of an oath, Pinabel’s origin and skills in rhetoric, the interruptions in the judicial battle where Pinabel begs, not for himself, but for the opportunity to reconcile Ganelon and Charlemagne, and finally the triumph of Charlemagne’s revenge. This is not the old Germanic sense of private feud so much discussed in reference to Ganelon’s defense, but vengeance in a sanctified-by-God vision of holy war. What is achieved is a public ceremony of revenge and punishment of Charlemagne’s and God’s enemies, a great moral spectacle that overrides a mutual balancing of rights and the resolution of tension which would be more characteristic of a trial based on customary law. In the Châteauroux version, even though it is later than the Oxford one, the remarkable conciliatory concerns of Pinabel are completely altered, and the quest for revenge against Ganelon much more pronounced. Discussions of the legal issues surrounding Ganelon are usually based on the Oxford Roland, and its status as a model of an early feudal trial is due, in part, to the lasting influence of R. Howard Bloch’s Law and Literature in the Middle Ages.8 Brian Stock makes a passing reference to the Roland, juxtaposing it to Chrétien’s romances where the characters reflect the individualism and autonomy achieved as a direct result of the spread of literacy. By implication, Ganelon’s trial would be an exemplar of those judicial practices Stock describes as dependent on objects, ritual, sworn oaths and the judicium dei, remnants of oral culture that persist as various written traditions

7 The research is vast on the development of common law in the twelfth century, the influence of the Anglo-Norman judicial administration, Henry II’s use of the new writs to curb preemptory seizures of property and guarantee access to the king’s justice and similar reforms in administration of customary law later initiated by Philippe Augustus. See especially John Baldwin, The Government of Philippe Augustus. (Berkeley, Univ. of California Press, 1986); Paul Brand, The Making of Common Law (London: The Hambledon Press, 1992); Theodore F. T. Plucknett, A Concise History of the Common Law, 5th ed. (London: Butterworth & Co., Ltd. 1956); R. C. Van Caenegem, The Birth of the English Common Law (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1973). 8 (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1979).

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increase their influence.9 Other critics, especially Emanuel Mickel, in his thorough analysis of elements of the trial, have used the mixture of old Germanic feud and Capetian views of kingship and treason to justify a late date for the poem.10 Interpretations of the legal issues have typically focused on whether Ganelon was justified in seeking vengeance on Roland (Jenkins thought he had been deprived of war spoils; Ruggeri thought Ganelon had a right to personal vengeance under primitive Germanic law because he openly defied Roland)11 or whether he is just a liar in his defense as elsewhere (Brault, Mickel).12 No one accepts his defense as adequate. At the very limit are those who would see him as tragic, consumed by his hatred for Roland or caught in a changing legal world (Jenkins and Haidu).13 Everyone accepts his punishment as “justice,” and many take it as another indication of the need for, or growing presence of, a strong centralized “state” that must guard against treason. If, however, we read the final portion, not as a trial that demonstrates a king’s power to establish law and order, but as a public gathering where Charlemagne and his family/allies can get sanctioned revenge, then the ending is a fitting conclusion to a violent poem. Its fierce aggressiveness is generally rationalized as part of the Crusading spirit, the pursuit of a higher good. But blood-thirsty vengeance is actually what the poem celebrates. This begins with Roland’s desire to keep fighting Marsile because he had previously killed the Franks’ ambassadors, Basile and Basan, through Ganelon’s escalation of a personal vendetta into a monumental catastrophe for Charlemagne’s army, to Charlemagne’s avenging Roland’s death by slaughtering the Saracens, and finally to the bloody dismembering of Ganelon. The spilling of blood is called for and glorified. 9 The Implications of Literacy (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1983), pp. 50ff and 85. 10 Ganelon, Treason, and the “Chanson de Roland” (University Park: The Pennsylvania State Univ. Press, 1989). 11 T.A. Jenkins, “Why Did Ganelon Hate Roland?”, PMLA, 36 (1921), 119-33; Ruggero Ruggieri, Il processo di Gano nella Chanson de Roland (Florence: Sansoni, 1936). 12 Gerard J. Brault, The Song of Roland: An Analytical Edition, 2 vols. (University Park: The Pennsylvania State Univ. Press, 1978); and Mickel, see note 14. 13 Jenkins, see note 15; Peter Haidu The Subject of Violence: The Song of Roland and the Birth of the State (Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press, 1993).

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The possibility of stopping the bloodshed by releasing Ganelon as the barons suggest (laisse 275) is closed off by Thierry’s offer to fight and by his rejection of Pinabel’s request that he negotiate a peaceful settlement between Charlemagne and Ganelon (laisses 283-4). These tentative movements toward balancing the power are overshadowed by the spectacle of a judicial battle where God intervenes to provide victory and closure to the third major segment of the poem. The first of his two miracles protects Roland by taking his soul directly to paradise; in the second, he supports Charlemagne through dreams, delaying the sun, and giving him victory over Marsile. In this poem God is the victor and righteous war the vehicle for that victory. Christian triumph through martyrdom is a glorious cloak over a disastrous failure, a self-justifying call to righteous war. Preserved, nonetheless, in the Oxford version of the trial of Ganelon is the counter-memory, as Foucault would call it, of men who live by negotiation, as much as by the sword.14 Another part of the memory preserved in the poem is that of the Franks and the historical Charlemagne, and not just with reference to the campaign of 778 in Spain. Although the Charlemagne of the poem is surely one reinvented for the Crusades and recast as a model for emerging Capetian leadership in the twelfth century, as Hans Erich Keller and Gabriel Spiegel have suggested,15 the poem also captures the spirit of the historical Franks who were a fearsome group “famed as the most warlike of all, possessing, according to Isidore of Seville’s Etymologies (ix, 2), a ‘natural ferocity of spirit.’”16 Charlemagne conquered alternately by sword and by negotiation, and the historical events of 778 in Spain were so great a humiliation for Charlemagne that the chroniclers pass over them quickly.17 But during the years 14 Michel Foucault, Language, Counter-Memory, Practice, ed. Donald F. Bouchard, trans. Donald F. Bouchard and Sherry Simon (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1977). 15 Keller, “The Song of Roland: A Mid-Twelfth Century Song of Propaganda for the Capetian Kingdom,” Olifant 3.4, (1976), 242-58; Spiegel, The Past As Text: The Theory and Practice of Medieval Historiography. (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1997), pp. 111-37. 16 Janet Nelson. The Frankish World 750-900 (London: The Hambledon Press, 1996), p. xviii. 17 Louis Halphen, Charlemagne and the Carolingean Empire, trans. Giselle de Nie. Europe in the Middle Ages Selected Studies, vol. 3. (Amsterdam: North Holland Publishing Co., 1977), p. 63.

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surrounding the disaster on the Spanish march, Charlemagne was even more heavily engaged in pacifying the Saxons and the Lombards, using heavy-handed tactics, murdering captives, taking numerous hostages, and converting by the sword. In 774 two hundred Lombardian noblemen were taken off to France (Nelson, p. xxiii). In 778, the Saxons were on the offensive in territory Charlemagne thought he had pacified. In an incident that sounds remarkably like the story of Roland’s defeat, Charlemagne’s armies were attacked from the rear. Then he launched reprisals in 779-80 and suffered a disaster where commanders, counts, and up to twenty of the nobility were left dead in the field (Halphen, p. 48). In return, Charlemagne came to the scene himself and led an attack that resulted in the well-known events of 782 when he had 4,500 Saxons beheaded at Verden, but even this did not end the Saxon wars. Halphen refers to Charlemagne’s rule over the Saxons as a reign of terror (p. 49). But it is interesting to note, not only that Alcuin complained to Charlemagne about his tactics (Nelson, p. xxii). but that Charlemagne apparently decided that he had, in fact, been too brutal: At this time, realizing the mistake he had made in 785, when he had thought he could subdue the Saxons by using brutal constraint, Charlemagne negotiated an agreement with the Westphalian, Angrarian, and Eastphalian leaders which revoked the measure previously enacted. For the punitive regime set up in 785, one based on co-operation was substituted. . . for the constant threat of the death penalty was substituted the common scale of penalties and fines which in the common law of the Franks sufficed to maintain the public peace. (Halphen, p. 50)

Charlemagne’s alternation between bloody reprisals and negotiated agreements was inspired, no doubt, by a combination of customary practice, political expediency, and religious ideology. Thus the image of Charlemagne provided a marvelous political memory for the eleventh-century French as they responded to new crusades in Spain and the Holy Land. They found expression for nascent French nationalism in a poem that continued to retell the events in Spain and also, perhaps, the memories of the Saxon campaigns. The history itself, like events contemporary to the writing of the poem, is characterized by tension between revenge and attempts at peaceful dispute resolution, made more complicated by a religious ideology that could embrace punitive slaughters and the practice of just war to convert the infidels. Versions of the Roland story reflect at varying

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times and in different regions adaptations on these themes, but the warfare is always justified by the Franks’ sense of themselves as specially anointed people: In the 750s, some papal letters were addressed to the Frankish aristocracy as well as to Pippin and his family: the popes presupposed, and encouraged, solidarity between the Franks and their kings. The Franks were assured that they were St. Peter’s special people, ‘a chosen people.’ Charlemagne grew up in the ambience of this new Israel. (Nelson, p. xxi)

Charlemagne was the defender of “God’s chosen people,” and chose to be addressed as David, according to Suger’s account.18 The Roland poem, as has been amply noted, is imbued with both Old and New Testament values; Charlemagne acts out his chosen role, and we see many Biblical archetypes especially with regard to justice. Pinabel and Thierry re-enact the battle between Ganelon and Roland but also the archetypal David and Goliath myth.19 The roles Charlemagne played and his pleasure in role-playing were continued in the French imagination and reinforced in the late eleventh century when the Papacy, appreciative of their support during the Investiture Controversy, attributed to the French a special status. They counted on the French for leadership in uniting all Christians to go on Crusade. This same Gallic pride has clearly been evident throughout the reception of the poem, and conservative readings have found it a source of both great national pride and Christian values. Today, however, we are witnessing enough violent spectacles of religious and political fervor to make us more likely to read it, not as a celebration or a tragedy, but as a cautionary tale about the cost of vengeance. In fact, one of the most valuable aspects, it seems to me, of reassessing the critical history of the Roland is to suggest that we today will inevitably interpret the poem for our own needs. The most important lesson for our times may well be to take a closer look at revenge sponsored in the name of religion, and therefore the Châteauroux version of the poem, preoccupied as it is with vengeance, should not be discounted as “mere romance,” especially with respect to legal issues and the fate of Ganelon. 18 19

Nelson, p. xxi and Halphen, p. 89. Brault, vol. 1, p. 330.

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Considered by its editor, Mortier, following Foerster, to be late thirteenth century,20 it presents more alleged romance elements, and also more violence than the Oxford version. The editor has suggested this reflects the influence of the Crusade against the Albigensians, so we might say Holy War has come home and calls for the righteous to triumph have escalated. A brief comparison of some passages makes the difference clear. Laisse 267 of the Oxford Roland raises the issue of a trial for Ganelon and covers much territory—literally. Charlemagne leaves Saragossa with Bramimonde, captures Narbonne, passes by Bordeaux to leave the olifant, takes Oliver’s and Roland’s bodies to Blaye, returns to Aix, and summons his judges. The next two laisses recount the death and burial of Aude. Immediately thereafter the judicial proceedings start (laisse 271). The Châteauroux manuscript has a truncated version of laisse 267, mentioning only Charlemagne’s departure with Bramimonde, but no travel beyond Rencesvals where they spend the night in great lamentation. Indeed, from this point forward (v. 5887),21 and for the more than 2,000 lines that complete it, the Châteauroux ms. has no identical laisses in common with the Oxford text, although some features of the narrative overlap. Two new story lines are developed involving Charlemagne sending messengers to reach both his sister Berthe at Mâcon and Gérart at Viene in order to have Gérart’s niece, Aude, brought immediately to Charlemagne before she finds out about Roland’s death. In both cases, Charlemagne seems very eager to cover up the disaster of Rencesvals and guarantee that his power to make marriages for these important women is preserved. He tries to preempt their ability to react to the unpleasant news independently of his control. These stories are not discussed here, but do provide an counterpart to Charlemagne’s control over Ganelon’s punishment. 20 Raoul Mortier, Le Manuscrit de Châteauroux, Les Textes de la Chanson de Roland, Tome IV (Paris: Editions de la Geste Francor, 1943. All citations of the Châteauroux ms. are from this edition. I am also indebted to Madame Dominique Potard, Librarian of the Médiathèque de Châteauroux, for having facilitated my access to the Châteauroux manuscript of the Roland which I consulted to verify that Pinabel is indeed identified as being from Florence, not Sorence as in the Oxford manuscript. This geographical reference is possibly related to his rhetorical skills; see article referenced in note 6. 21 Verse numbers and citations from the Oxford Roland are from the Brault edition.

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Even before this ending separates off from the Oxford version, the Châteauroux text connects Ganelon’s action with dishonor and refers to seeking revenge against him. During the horn scene in the Oxford version, Roland simply tells Oliver that he doesn’t want to hear another word from him when Oliver accuses Ganelon of betraying them, (“‘Tais, Oliver,’ li quens Rollant respunt, / ‘Mis parrastre est, ne voeill que mot en suns.’” 1026-27). According to the Châteauroux version, Roland is already concerned about the issue of dishonor: “‘Tais, Olivers,” respont .R. le jor, / ‘Mes prestastre est, ne vel cain desenor’” (1400-01). As this version continues, after the horn scene when the French see the massing of Sarasen troops (laisse 102), Roland is even thinking of a specific punishment for Ganelon: “[…] Nel qier a refuser Guenes li cons nos a fait mout pener Mais por Celui qi tot a a juger, Mout durement li qier guesredoner; A trois roncins je lo frai trainier.” (1552-56)

Just one example among many of the constant accusations against Ganelon occurs in two laisses, unique to the Châteauroux ms, where Charlemagne’s lament over the body of Roland is described. The narrator reiterates what the audience knows: Mort sunt li duc, li prince et li contor, Por Gainellon et le cuvert traitor Cui Deus otroit et onte et desenor, Qi les vendi a la gent paienor. (4204-07)

And Charlemagne himself says, “Mes certes Guenes mar vit iceste ovregne!” (4238). The words vengeance, dishonor, and the treachery of Ganelon are a constant refrain throughout the Châteauroux version, and the desire to punish Ganelon, beginning with Roland’s comment mentioned above, is seconded by the barons. Whereas in the Oxford version Charlemagne is the only one eager to summon the barons to judge Ganelon, here the barons, before they leave Spain, come to Charlemagne asking for Ganelon so that they can carry out a justise so great that everyone from squire to sergeant will be talking about it.

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“Sire,” font il, “que vos demetez tant? Perdu avez le prou conte .R., Et Oliver le hardi conbatant, Les .XII. pers qe vos amez itant, Par Guenellon, le qivert sosduisant, Qis a venduz a la gent mescreant. Livrez nos, sire, le gloton mal faisant: Nus en ferons la justise si grant, Ja mais n’ert jorz a tot vostre vivant Qe n’en parolent escuer et serjant.” (5941-50)

What the barons propose is a more realistic version of what might have happened in battle conditions if a traitor were discovered, and it answers a reasonable question posed about the Oxford Roland. Why, if treason was so obvious and so heinous a crime, was not Ganelon put to death immediately while Charlemagne was still in Spain? The Châteauroux version depicts the barons’ behavior realistically in this sense, but the narrative veers off when Charlemagne refuses their proposal. We can see that historic/legal realism is not the concern of the storyteller. What counts is the control Charlemagne asserts over the revenge and attendant value, didactic and aesthetic, of the spectacle of punishment. Charlemagne does not seek quick justice, but, before he occupies himself with Berthe and Aude, Charlemagne asks Richard of Normandy and Naimon of Pavia to take Ganelon and not let him escape. Charlemagne has his own ideas about the appropriate punishment. “Il sera ars et la pouldre guergie” (6025). Unfortunately, Ganelon does escape twice and the narrative of his escapes, the actions of the heroes who pursue him, Aude’s story, and finally the speculation about what sort of punishment to give Ganelon take up much of the final 2,000 lines of the poem. Long before he is brought to trial, Charlemagne repeatedly describes him as a traitor and reiterates his desire for revenge. After Aude’s death, for instance, he reflects on returning to France and assembling the barons, “Por la vengance de Guenellon parler” (7319). When Ganelon is recaptured and brought before Charlemagne, the king also makes clear his intent: “Baron,” dist .K., “mi duc et mi contor. / Jugiez moi tost icel felon traitor, / Car ma venjanche viel prendre hui cest jor’” (7598-600). He calls for vengeance, whereas the Charlemagne of the Oxford Roland has only called for the barons to tell him the law (“me jugez le dreit” 3751). What truly distinguishes the Châteauroux version to my mind is the bloodthirsty theatrical ending. First there is the judicial

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battle between Pinabel and Thierry, with no parallel to the conciliatory statements by Pinabel as was mentioned above in reference to the Oxford text. Here there are boasts, taunts, and an offer to buy off Thierry. Once Pinabel has been killed, Charlemagne immediately has Ganelon brought forward, and it is at this point, after the battle has presumably proven him guilty beyond doubt, that Ganelon tries to defend himself by saying that Roland must have wished for his death in sending him as the emissary to Marsile. Charlemagne responds, essentially, “I can’t believe what I am hearing” (“Je ne puis escouter la merveille qe j’oi” 8055). Ganelon’s preposterous defense (or craven whining) allows Charlemagne an opening for his own view of Ganelon’s motivation. He boldly asserts that Ganelon sold Roland out for money and explicitly makes him a Judas figure: Il traï mes barons, onqes ne sot por coi. Or et argent en prist, si fist mot grant besloi ; Altresi fist Judas, ce sa ge bien et croi, Son copeignon vendi as Judeus da la loi : Il reconut son tort, si se pendi par soi. (8058-62)

Charlemagne demands the worst death for Ganelon (“De la plus aspreme mort que vos sarez juger/ Le me faites morir, ge ne vel plus targer” 8069-70), and the barons step forward making suggestions that are elaborated with great detail throughout five laisses (444-48). These punishments clearly constitute an important narrative sequence, coming as they do just four laisses before the end of the poem and taking up more narrative space than Ganelon’s death itself. As for the details, Gérart, Oliver’s uncle, suggests that Ganelon be dragged around Charlemagne’s territories like a chained bear and have a limb hacked off each night. Charlemagne rejects this because it would take too long. Next, various suggestions are made, such as that he be burned alive; that he be thrown to three bears and two lions who haven’t eaten for three days; and that he be starved for days then brought out, dressed with salt and pepper, presumably so that he will lick himself then die of thirst because they won’t give him any wine or water. Another person suggests that he be skinned alive then covered with honey and given to seven goats, and finally that he be ripped apart by four horses—the drawing and quartering which is, in fact, how he dies. The final scene is practically a festival, with Charlemagne

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riding out to the field on a donkey and the burgers of the town joining in joyfully to see the venjance of their lord. Li baron montent, si ont le cri levé .K. Meisme sor un mulet monté, Et le borzois qi mot l’ont desiré Chascuns fait joie les dames a lor tré De la venjance lor seignor naturé. (8157-61)

The Oxford Roland ends with a tired, sad Charlemagne being called to further battles by the angel Gabriel; and, although no one thinks of this as a happy ending, at least there is the suggestion that he will carry on. The Châteauroux version is bleaker. After the festive scene of Ganelon’s dismemberment, Charlemagne returns to his palace and bids farewell to his men. They all depart, leaving him alone to grieve for Roland. The long, elaborated vengeance of Charlemagne has left him exhausted, seemingly bereft of a future calling. While the Oxford Roland reflects the soft voices of early twelfthcentury Anglo-Norman legal practice—writs, narratores who recorded cases, oral defenses, and negotiations to balance claims of co-equal parties, as custom would have it,22 they are outshouted by a militant Christianity that brooks no opposition. These hints of peaceful settlement are absent from the Châteauroux version. The text emphasizes the difficulty in bringing Ganelon to justice and indulges in the desire for vengeance. While it too includes a judicial duel, it does not seem to be used as a proof for a difficult case, as it is in the Oxford Roland. Here Ganelon has not presented a defense that might complicate the issue prior to the battle, nor do the barons go into counsel and suggest releasing him. The judicial duel is fought because the accusation has been made and a powerful family has come, as Charlemagne feared they would, some 4,000 strong to defend their own. While Charlemagne was riding toward France, he is downcast, not only with grief for Roland, the peers, and Aude, but also because he anticipates trouble with Ganelon’s family. Ainz en ert .K. corozos et dolent, Car li traitres a meint riche parent

22

See note 6.

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Qi, par esforz, venent a jugiment: De lui defender en metront en present. (7420-23)

Also, as Pinabel says, he has come to defend Ganelon, identified as his uncle here, so that no Frank will judge him. This suggests, as do other passages, that part of the tension in this text is not just stepfather, step-son but ethnic rivalries. In any event, the families and divisions within the community are massed on opposite, more or less equally balanced sides and there is no way to resolve the conflict other than bloodshed. As many who write on legal history note, 23 legal fights rarely got to the point of carrying out an ordeal or fighting the judicial battle despite the vision we get of these ceremonies from epics and romances. But where it is used or depicted, as Peter Brown comments, the judicium dei cuts the Gordian knot by changing the terms: The ordeal is entered into under conditions where the human group has usually reached deadlock. An ordeal is a tacit ‘de-fusing’ of the issue. It is not a judgment by God; it is a remitting of a case ad judicium Dei “to the judgment of God.” This is an action tantamount to removing the keystone of the arch on which hitherto, all pressures had converged. Once removed, a decision can be reached quickly and without loss of face by either side. For by being brought to the judgment of God, the case already stepped outside the pressures of human interest, and so its resolution can be devoid of much of the odium of human responsibility. 24

The decision that is reached quickly in this case is that Charlemagne can dispose of Ganelon, and his family is no longer an obstacle. They leave hastily and are not killed, as they might have been had the scene depicted realistically an early form of proof where co-jurors would suffer the same fate as the loser of the judicial battle. The only delay is the elaborate description of alternative methods of death proposed for Ganelon. Are the French at this point indulging in the pleasure of 23

Janet Nelson, “Dispute Settlement in Carolingian West Francia,” in The Settlement of Disputes in Early Medieval Europe, ed. Wendy Davies and Paul Fouracre (New York and London: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1986), pp. 66-70; Richard Firth Green, A Crisis of Truth: Literature and Law in Ricardian England (Philadelphia: Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), p. 81ff; Stephen White, “Pactum […] Legem Vincit et Amor Judicium’: The Settlement of Disputes by Compromise in Eleventh-Century Western France.” American Journal of Legal History, 22 (1978), 281-308. 24 “Society and the Supernatural: A Medieval Change,” Daedalus, 104 (1975), pp. 133-51, at p. 138.

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contemplating revenge “devoid of the odium of human responsibility” for human suffering because God has presumably decided the issue? The answer seems to be yes. Not only is the brutality more elaborate, but also Charlemagne’s accusations are more explicit in this version, when he links Ganelon with Judas. The religious justification for this violence is also made clear and the nature of the judicial battle as public spectacle made obvious because the women and townsmen have come out to root for Thierry, and they celebrate, as noted above, their lord’s vengeance. The judicial duel here, in this version of the Roland, seems to have been used as Brown says it was in the early Middle Ages “as an instrument of consensus and as a theatrical device by which to contain disruptive conflict” (p. 137). The trial by battle has limited value in terms of trying to date the poem because the later Châteauroux ms. may contain an older version of the story, or it could be a later version of the story that uses this sort of trial as a deliberate “antiquing” effect. In either case, its significance is its relationship to the motif of revenge. The community does not just get rid of the traitor; it can now purge itself of him through vivid, imagined tortures before the actual one. Nevertheless, the final scene captures the sadness and isolation of the great leader after this catharsis. Perhaps, then, although there is a triumph over the villain and disruptive conflict has been contained, the poem shows the cost of polarizing, as it so often says, “paens unt tort et chrestiens unt droit.” This version of the Roland gives us an especially grim vision of the fruits of vengeance and those who sanctify their vision of the right by enforcing it with the sword.

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“Signeur, vous qui l’oevre savés”: Amadas, Ydoine, and the Wiles of Women hat is one to say about the value and merits of this romance?” mused a severe Mary Dominica Legge. “It is plain that it enjoyed a popularity which appears beyond its deserts. The public, however, does not necessarily demand the best in any age.”1 And from the summary of Amadas et Ydoine that precedes it in the single manuscript containing the work in its entirety, 2 we might well wonder about that popularity. We learn that while Amadas was away seeking adventure, Ydoine was given in marriage to another; that Amadas, when he heard of it, went mad; that Ydoine obtained leave from her husband to go on pilgrimage, hoping to find Amadas. She succeeded, and after the couple proved their loyalty to each other through many adventures, her husband died, and she married Amadas. Not very exciting stuff, really, and reading only this summary we might agree that this little-studied thirteenth-century romance belongs among the ranks of the “justly neglected.” But Perot de Neele, who wrote the brief résumés of the romances in the manuscript, was the scribe of some of them but not of Amadas et Ydoine,3 and we may suspect that he himself gave it only a quick read. For he neglects to mention one quite significant detail, and misstates another: Ydoine’s husband is such in name only; and in fact he does not die. These are not minor matters, and they are the key to the widely divergent readings of the text, from the benign assurance of its editor that “the feature which interested the poet most was the subject of pure and loyal love”4 to a recent reading that deems it a roman clerical that

1 Mary Dominica Legge, Anglo-Norman Literature and Its Background (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963), p. 115. 2 MS BnF, fr. 375 (ancien 6987), dated Arras 1288. See Amadas et Ydoine, roman du XIIIe siècle, ed. John R. Reinhard (Paris: Champion, 1974); citations are from this edition. 3 Perot de Neele’s summary is included as an Appendix in the Reinhard edition. The scribe of Amadas et Ydoine is unknown. 4 John Revell Reinhard, The Old French Romance of Amadas et Ydoine: An Historical Study (Durham, NC: Duke Univ. Press, 1927), p. 167.

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reveals “la part de diablerie que recouvre la convention courtoise.”5 The implications and consequences of what Perot overlooks–much of what constitutes the interest of this romance–are encoded in its title in the names of its two protagonists, Amadas and Ydoine. Douglas Kelly has discussed the naming of personae as a “circumstantial topos.” “Studying topical inventions like names,” he observes, “can assist in interpreting specific medieval works, since the topoi an author chooses to single out and the way in which they are characterized identify the type of human being and, often, the context of a given romance’s narrative.” Kelly cites Matthew of Vendôme’s Ars versificatoria to remind us that “a person’s character is not determined by his or her proper name, but, rather, […] the character reveals the significance of the proper name.”6 The potential interest of the names of Amadas and Ydoine has not gone entirely unnoted: the romance’s editor remarked in a note that “It is sufficient comment on their meaning to recall the Latin verb amare and the Latin adjective idoneus, -a, -um” (Reinhard, Historical Study, p. 3). Dominica Legge too noted what she termed their “allegorical names”: Amadas the lover and the lady Ydoine, “an ‘idonea persona’ in the context” (p. 109). The case to be made is quite straightforward with regard to Amadas, as William Calin has emphasized.7 Its significance is underlined initially by the fact that it seems inappropriate for this youth who is at first adverse to love; when his early comrades tease him as “Amadas, le fin amoureus,” the narrator comments that “L’apeloient, mais ne savoient / Com il verai prophete estoient” (98, 101-02). This observation does not of course bear the weight of Dante’s prospective comment, in the opening of the Vita Nuova, that his lady was called Beatrice by those “che non sapeano che si chiamare,” but it serves to focus our attention on the relation of name and temperament, perhaps even of personal destiny. 5 “Il assombrit d’emblée la figure de l’aimée en suscitant le mythe de la Parque noire, pour démontrer la lourde hérédité de la fille d’Eve.” See Romaine Wolf-Bonvin, Textus. De la tradition latine à l’esthétique du roman médiéval: Le Bel Inconnu, Amadas et Ydoine (Paris: Champion, 1998), p. 261. 6 Douglas Kelly, “The Name Topos in the Chevalier aux deux épées,” in Por le soie amisté: Essays in Honor of Norris J. Lacy, ed. Keith Busby and Catherine M. Jones (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000), pp. 257-68; here pp. 259, 263 n.14. 7 The French Tradition and the Literature of Medieval England (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1994), p. 72.

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What then of Ydoine? In the central passage in which she cures Amadas of madness, it is her reiteration of her own name that is credited with transforming a “fol” into an “home sage,” concluding with a touch of idolatry–Amadas would henceforth consider her name as a “sainte chose” (3409-14). It is not the name itself, however, but the trait it suggests that translates into the substance of the text. The Old French adjectival “idoine” retains the meanings of the Latin idoneus–skillful, able, intelligent–and as Reinhard remarks, our heroine carries our her schemes “with the capableness which her very name indicates” (Historical Study, p. 173). This is not to suggest, of course, that the romance is not “about” Amour, as suggested by the name of Amadas. There is an apparent attempt to alternate and balance the vicissitudes of the two lovers,8 and some readers have proposed that the romance traces a paradigm of initiation for the couple together, or the demythification of such a paradigm.9 But without question, the real “mover” of the story is Ydoine. The contrast between hero and heroine is inescapable. When first smitten with love, the adolescent Amadas can do little but faint and languish and plead; twice he takes to his bed for periods of a year. Ydoine, finally enamored in turn, at once sets the terms for their relationship: she will love him “Par tel convent com vous dirai,” she announces (1225), setting out a detailed program in which he is to acquire arms, then wander from land to land to prove his merit. Inspired by her letters and tokens, he is almost embarrassingly valiant, on one occasion felling a hundred opponents and winning five hundred horses. Confronted with an obstacle to his love, however–he learns that Ydoine is to be married to another–he goes quite mad, and has to be forcibly restrained in his parents’ castle. Yet it is Amour, the narrator insists repeatedly, that renders one “soutil et sage.” This is a happy consequence for lovers whose union is 8 Alison Adams suggests that this attempt, characteristic of “idyllic” romance, “is particularly apparent in Amadas et Ydoine, where there is a parallel between the types of suffering endured […] Ydoine’s ‘death’ corresponding to Amadas’ insanity which is a complete loss of consciousness.” See “The Shape of Arthurian Verse Romance (to 1300),” in The Legacy of Chrétien de Troyes, ed. Norris J. Lacy, Douglas Kelly and Keith Busby, 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1987), vol. I, p. 163. 9 See Jean-Claude Aubailly, trans., Amadas et Ydoine, roman du XIIIe siècle (Paris: Champion, 1986), p. 9; Francis Dubost, “D’Amadas et Ydoine à Jehan et Blonde: La Démythification du récit initiatique,” Romania, 112 (1991), 361-405.

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threatened by hostile circumstances, and other romances, notably Thomas’s Tristan and Chrétien’s Cligés–to both of which Amadas et Ydoine has often been compared and contrasted–prominently feature ruse and subterfuge. In Amadas et Ydoine the element is considerably magnified, and the particular manner in which Ydoine exercises the qualities suggested by her name–“skillful, intelligent, capable”– inflects this suggestiveness in the direction of a quality with another name: that of engin.10 That quality is of course not unfamiliar in early romance. In Chrétien de Troyes among others, Robert Hanning points out, “engin is most often employed by supporting characters, frequently women;” he proposes that in the late-twelfth-century Ipomedon, the “special feature […] is that the hero is the prime exemplum ingenii.”11 In Amadas et Ydoine it is indeed a female, but not a supporting character, who is the exemplum, and large portions of the text set her engin in exemplary relief. For example, when she learns of Amadas’s madness and his disappearance, she weeps and languishes in conventional fashion but at the same time, “en son pourpens,” concocts a scheme: she obtains her husband’s consent for a pilgrimage and sets out to find Amadas, impatient to put her plan into action.12 She not only finds him in Italy but restores his sanity. And now she tells him with obvious pride of her conjugal ruse, one of the “details” omitted in the summary in the manuscript: “[…] si bien gardee m’en sui, / Comme loiaus compaigne fine, / Que pucele sui et mescine” (3510-12). Later, when both participate in schemes of dissimulation, it is Ydoine who typically devises the schemes and coaches Amadas in his role, then takes delight as he plays it. And while they determine together the scheme that will free her from her marriage, Ydoine alone carries it out. Even in the final ploy, when her barons have recommended that she marry Amadas if he will consent, she writes to him secretly to tell him how he is to come to court, with what companions, and how he is to behave. 10

See 5884, 6970, 7086, 7095, 7127, 7348-52. Cf. also Ydoine’s grant voisdie, when she persuades the Count not to sleep with her (2423). 11 Robert W. Hanning, “Engin in Twelfth-Century Romance: An Examination of the Roman d’Enéas and Hue de Rotelande’s Ipomedon,” YFS, 51 (1974), 82-101, here p. 92; emphasis mine. 12 “Idoine mult forment se haite / De s’oevre que sot a cief traite” (2995-96).

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There are three major schemes (along with many minor ones) contrived by Ydoine. In the first, attempting to forestall her marriage to the Count of Nevers, she calls upon three witches, who use their magic to pay a nocturnal visit to the husband-to-be. Here the narrator initiates his generalizations about feminine wiles, praising Ydoine’s “mult bele voisdie / Que feme n’ert ja desgarnie” (2005-06). The tribute is not anodyne, of course, in that the scheme involves witches, who here embody the extreme form–magic, “ingremance”–of what “women” are all capable of, and Ydoine it is who determines what the witches are to do: they will “faire son commandement / Com el meïsme leur aprent” (2051-52). The witches are able to “encanter encontre Nature” (2065), just as it is “de feme droite nature / D’ouvrer tos jors contre raison,” a nature inherited from Eve: Plusors sevent bien l’ocoison: d’Evain leur vient que Dix forma, Ceste nature leur douna; Contre raison primes forfist De ce que Dix li contredist. (3632-36)

Indeed, as Calin remarks, “Ydoine, in a series of invented Christian visions and in her dramatized recounting of them to the court, resembles the three sorceresses who also invent a story and put on a play” (p. 78). The witches appear to the count as Destinees who have cast the fates of both the prospective marriage partners from their birth: one, says she, has decreed that Ydoine will never know the joys of love, another that she has predetermined that the Count will die within the year of taking a wife and consummating his marriage. And the third agrees to alert the unfortunate bridegroom so that he may avoid the impending marriage. The scene is convincingly staged, and the Count is completely taken in by it.13 Unfortunately, however, he is a determined type and, although fearful, is not deterred from the marriage. Thus Ydoine resorts to a less magical stratagem to forestall its consummation: she feigns illness, convincingly, for a year. When she learns that Amadas, now a madman, is in Italy, however, her 13

This astonishing scene, as Laurence Harf-Lancner points out, combines the theme of the witches’ meal frequent in folklore and that of the fée marraine who presides over the destiny of the newborn. See Les Fées au Moyen Age: Morgane et Mélusine, La naissance des fées (Paris: Champion, 1984), pp. 27-29.

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resourceful inventiveness produces a new ruse. She tells her husband that she has had three visions of St. Peter, in which the saint told her she will soon either die or be made well. Thus she obtains the Count’s consent to go to pray in Rome. Finally, Ydoine contrives the scheme that will result in the dissolution of the marriage. Returning from Italy, she tells her husband that when she fell asleep before the high altar of St. Peter’s (from having wept and prayed so much), the saint had again appeared to her, accompanied now by three women who turned out to be Destinees, who told Ydoine the sad story of the fates they had cast upon her and her husband. This final tale of supernatural revelation, in which St. Peter himself enjoins the Destinees to reveal the “truth” to Ydoine, masterfully ties together the two earlier stories. As Harf-Lancner notes, it presupposes as validation the peaceful coexistence of two quite different supernatural powers,14 one of the most remarkable inventions in a romance full of inventions. It is certainly too much for the Count: hearing from Ydoine through alleged saintly intercession the same story he had heard from the witches, he concurs that the ill-fated marriage should be ended, and sets in motion the process that effectively ends it.15 Thus Amadas and Ydoine will be united, and the tale of two lovers comes to its happy end. But how are we to evaluate the heroine’s means to that end? The narratorial stance offers no initial clue. The brief prologue is addressed explicitly and inclusively to all lovers, past, present, and aspiring. Narratorial direct address emerges again some thousand verses later when Ydoine, first recalcitrant but now suddenly smitten thinking Amadas has died for lack of her love, throws open her cloak and lies down upon his body, covering him with kisses: “Vous savés bien,” the narrator tells his audience, how effective antidote kisses are in such severe cases of fainting (1155-61). Thereafter, 14 “Les fées ne sont ici nullement christianisées mais un rapprochement est établi: l’opposition n’est pas tranchée entre merveilleux chrétien et merveilleux païen” (Les fées, p. 382). 15 For the complex questions of marriage, separation, and remarriage in this text see Sally L. Burch, “The Lady, the Lords, and the Priests: the Making and Unmaking of Marriage in Amadas et Ydoine,” Reading Medieval Studies, 25 (1999), 17-31. Of this passage she points out the “accumulation of layers of the controeve,” which “enables Ydoine to manipulate the succeeding strata of her fiction to create the appearance of truth” (p. 25).

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however, his address is narrowed to an audience of “Seignor.” As generic usage this is not uncommon, found for example in Béroul’s Tristan where it led Dominica Legge to take this author too to task: “The style is not unattractive, but there are too many appeals to the ‘signeur’ to whom it is addressed” (p. 114). In Amadas et Ydoine, however, most often it introduces, not the narration of events–“Lords, hear what happened next”–but observations about female nature. Some are expressed in occasional commentary, but the misogynist invective is dramatically virulent in three passages focusing on feminine wiles, on the cleverness and trickery of women. The first (3568-3656) occurs quite unexpectedly. Ydoine has cured Amadas of his madness and assured him of her virginity preserved despite her marriage. The couple are reunited and lie in each others’ arms, their trials and sorrow ended. The narrator chooses this unlikely moment to address to the audience of “Signor” a diatribe about female nature always prone to “tricier,” and the terms accumulate rapidly: “engingnier,” “traïson,” “faintise,” “decevance.” The second narratorial intervention occurs as Ydoine is about to enact her third major scheme, to convince her husband finally to end their marriage: Ha! feme, com es enginneuse Et decevans et artilleuse, D’engin trouver puissans et sage, De bastir mal a grant damage! (7037-40)

Here, as in similar discourse in Ipomedon and other romances,16 the narrator’s complicity with a male audience is explicitly engaged, cast now pervasively into the mode of “us” and “them”: Que plus tost un de nous deçoit, Qui savons toute leur boidie, Leur fauseté, leur tricerie […] Nous qui savons de leur usage […]. (7052-54, 7057)

The key, however, is surely the third diatribe, located between these two, and uttered by Amadas himself. Ydoine, on what both she and Amadas believe to be her deathbed, has contrived a ruse to save him 16

“Femme set ben fere sun bon, / E dunc ne sunt femmes mut pruz, / Ke si engignent nus trestuz?” (Ipomedon, 2574-76).

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from desperation and suicide after her death. Now it is to him that she lies, and about herself: a tale of shocking, unconfessed misdeeds– incest, infanticide–invented to persuade him that he must live in order to pray for her soul. But it is not this dreadful “confession” that provokes his misogynistic outburst. Shortly after her presumed death, he is informed by a mysterious knight who finds him mourning at her tomb that she had betrayed and deceived him–that the knight himself had been her lover, for which he presents the tangible evidence of the ring given her long ago by Amadas. Now Amadas launches into a general condemnation of female nature and cleverness very similar to those pronounced by the narrator: “Trestoutes sont fortraïtresses / Et decevans et felenesses. / L’engin de feme tant connois” (5883-85). Amadas generalizes here from the case of Ydoine–“qui m’a trichié”–to the nature of all women, and Amadas, as the reader already knows well, is wrong about Ydoine. In fact her contrived “confession” has just been applauded by the narrator as proof of love and loyalty unequalled in any story since the beginning of time.17 At this point we may recall that the narrator had justified his own first diatribe against women in general with the (rather feeble) excuse that it was intended to highlight the positive qualities of the rare exception: “Pour ce si est de feme fine, / Boine, loial et enterine, / Une des mervelles du mont” (3643-45). Ydoine’s “verité” and “estabilité” make of her such a marvel, “hors […] de la fausse commune” (3652). Now the narrator explicitly attributes Amadas’s “penser de fole error” to his anguish and his anger. And even before he learns the truth from the mystery knight after defeating him, Amadas realizes his fault in blaming a lady who cannot answer his accusations, adding that experience teaches us that “on ne doit / Mescroire issi, n’a tort n’a droit, / S’amie por le dit d’un home” (5953-55).18

17

“Lors pense com loiaus amie […]. Par grant amor fait et controeve / Estrange mençoigne de soi, / Par loiauté et par grant foi” (4828, 4966-68). 18 This is not an unfamiliar principle. For example, Keith Busby notes in the Roman des Eles by Raoul de Houdenc the observation that “a courteous knight should not listen to any slander of women, rather that he should defend them all”; see “Le Roman des Eles as Guide to the sens of Meraugis de Portlesguez,” in The Spirit of the Court, ed. Glyn S. Burgess and Robert A. Taylor (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1985), pp. 7989, here p. 84.

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If Amadas could be wrong, what then of the narrator and his audience who “know” about the tricks of women? In medieval romance, Hanning notes, “the meaning of engin, and our reaction to its portrayal, often partake of a profound ambivalence” (p. 82). The particular interest of the ambivalence in Amadas et Ydoine is that the narrator, while condemning female ruse in the diatribes, condemns neither the extravagant ruses of Ydoine, nor Amadas who stalwartly goes along with them (when she chooses to share them with him). Men are suspicious of female engin, but Ydoine is praised for practicing it supremely well. Something other than the moralizing often attributed to this text seems to be at work here. The narrator repeatedly calls attention to the ingenuity of Ydoine’s ruses: of the first, he promises such a marvelous adventure “Que ja mais jor c’aiés a vivre, / En fable n’en cançon n’en livre, / N’orés ausi fiere controeve” (1997-99). When she begins her story to her husband about St. Peter and the three Destinees, the narrator is no less admiring: “Son sens et son engin esproeve, / Estrangement fait et controeve / Une mervilleuse matire” (7127-29). Her deathbed story is “une telle mervelle / C’ainc mais n’oï nus sa parelle” (4829-30). Near the end of the romance, as all the threads are being untied and retied according to Ydoine’s master plan, he turns again to his male audience: Signeur, en feme a un sens tel Que un tel fais trait tost a cief Qui a aciever seroit grief As set sages qu’a Rome estoient, Quant il onques plus sens avoient. (7348-52)

Later still, she persuades her father that following the dissolution of the marriage to which he had obliged her she should have the husband of her choice, then proposes to do so by consulting his barons, knowing that they will choose Amadas. The narrator’s admiration is enthusiastic: “Hé! Dix, tant par est decevans, / Quant par si bel engin se coevre” (7516-17). And again: “Dius! Com est soutille et sage! / Par grant raison et par savoir / Veut aciever tout son voloir” (7584-86). In this well-written scene much reminiscent of that staged by Laudine in Chrétien’s Yvain, there is nothing but appreciation of the feminine charm that is part of Ydoine’s ability to manipulate men: having put

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the question to the barons, she turns to them and “Mult simplement a un douç ris / Leur dist: ‘Signeur, or est en vous’” (7592-93). Again a comparison with Ipomedon is suggestive. In this romance where the exemplar of engin is masculine, Calin suggests that “it is surely no coincidence that the Narrator indulges in a series of antifeminist asides concerning women’s fickleness and the sex’s inherent, essential proclivity to deceit […]; his protagonist in large measure corrects women, deceiving the deceivers” (pp. 75, 67). And here, Roberta Krueger points out, women are said to manage to trick “all of us,” but the misogynist interventions serve to “undercut female power by trivializing it as feminine wile” in the first part of the romance, then “displace her power to the masculine sphere as the narrator allies himself with his ingenious hero.”19 This “camaraderie of male bonds […] forged in laughter” (p. 405) is similarly established by the repeated addresses to the Seigneurs in Amadas et Ydoine. Here, however, we must surely suspect some complicity with women too. As Calin observes of this narrator, “whatever he says, he admires their ruses and their wisdom. After all, he has created them” (p. 79). And in fact, of course, Ydoine’s inventiveness is that of the poet. The doubling of the implied author in the personage of Ydoine makes of the narrator in Amadas et Ydoine a particularly interesting example of what Krueger characterizes as the type of the “Ingenious Narrator,” who emphasizes the ingenuity with which situations are created and resolved or left unresolved, his own sens and his engins as storyteller.20 In the last of his misogynistic outbursts, our narrator interrupts his imprecations with a caveat based on his personal experience: Certainly, he says, all women 19 Roberta Krueger, “Misogyny, Manipulation, and the Female Reader in Hue de Rotelande’s Ipomedon,” in Courtly Literature, Culture and Context, ed. Keith Busby and Erik Kooper (Amsterdam: Benjamins, 1990), pp. 395-409, here pp. 399-400. 20 For example, in Raoul de Houdenc in Meraugis de Portlesguez, ed. M. Friedwagner (Halle, 1897; reprt. Geneva: Slatkine, 1975): “Ensi com j’en sai la matire / Et mes engins et mes sens tire / A conter en la verité” (311-13). See Roberta Krueger, “The Author’s Voice: Narrators, Audiences, and the Problem of Interpretation,” in The Legacy of Chrétien de Troyes, vol. I, pp. 115-40; citation p. 134. Raoul de Houdenc’s interventions, she notes, “reveal an appreciation of Chrétien’s ambiguity and rhetorical play. He intrudes not to underline a moral sens but to display his literary sen, his verbal talent” (p. 137).

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Sans faille triceresses sont, Mais je n’i ai droit ne raison Qu’en doie dire se bien non: Ains ont bien deservi vers moi, Que trestoutes amer les doi. (7066-70)

Why then? First of all, of course, because they have power over all the world, making an attack on them foolhardy. But there is also the fact that they can be charming if they choose to, and “En cest mont n’a si grant doçor / Com en feme quant veut le bien” (7090-91). We are reminded of the narrator of Le Bel Inconnu, who comments that Molt doit on cele rien amer Qui si tost puet joie donner […] Que dames ont tel signorie Que, quant veulent gerredonner, Si font le travail oublïer […].21

The final perspective on women, here, seems to be that which concludes this second narratorial diatribe: S’as uns est fiere et orgilleuse, As autres est douce et piteuse; Se mult set mal engin et art, Dou bien ira de l’autre part: Mais li malvais nel dïent pas. (7093-97)

In his praise of Ydoine, this narrator clearly distinguishes himself from “li malvais.” Is the narrator’s complicity with the implied male audience then in service to its edification? The translator of Amadas et Ydoine into English suggests that he “creates a wish-fulfillment fantasy for the young men in his audience, showing them how a hero not unlike themselves, in service to a powerful lord, is transformed into a powerful lord himself through love and chivalry […]. A would-be Amadas in the audience would be a very well-behaved squire or knight

21

40.

Le Bel Inconnu, ed. G. Perrie Williams (Paris: Champion, 1967), 4833-34, 4838-

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indeed.”22 That may well be, but I am doubtful of the conclusion drawn: that the inculcation of such a model “is in large measure the purpose of the poem.” I am inclined to read here instead a playful romance that takes the potential for feminine deception and feminine wiles in texts such as the Tristan and Cligés to extremes, not for the edification of its audience–not to write an anti-Tristan or an antiCligés–but for their delight. Even the clerical strategy of assimilating women to witches–“Toutes sevent de l’ingremance” (3586), “Tous jors se paine d’encanter / Et de la gent enfantosmer” (7043-44)–appears in this context in a different light. Which leads us to suspect that the narratorial “Signeur, vous qui l’oevre savés” that opens the conclusion is a double wink at the audience. In its immediate context, “l’oevre” refers to the particular scheme that has just been brought to a successful conclusion by Ydoine, and beyond it to the larger scenario in which “la femme” will get her way. But at the same time, the cleverness with which Ydoine manipulates her intratextual audience is also that of the poet who manipulates the tale in which it occurs, who confirms now that “toute l’oevre oiee avés / Dou premier chief dusk’a la fin” (7792-93).

22

Ross G. Arthur, trans., Amadas et Ydoine (New York: Garland, 1993), pp. 12-13.

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Alexandre le Grand et Malraux1 ndré Malraux, pèlerin visionnaire et mégalomane des civilisations, ne pouvait manquer, cher Rupert, de s’intéresser au grand Alexandre. Parti de la petite Macédoine–ce territoire reste en effet exigu, même s’il a, grâce à Philippe II, étendu son pouvoir à la Grèce entière–ce personnage étonnant conquiert, dans un irrésistible élan, l’immense étendue de l’empire perse de Cyrus, ouvrant des routes commerciales, accumulant sur son chemin constructions (Alexandrie) ou destructions (Persépolis). Etant donné ce qu’était Malraux, un déchiffreur aussi bien qu’un créateur de mythes à la hauteur desquels son action personnelle l’a souvent haussé– souvenons-nous de l’aviateur de la guerre d’Espagne, du colonel Berger de la résistance au nazisme–, l’auteur de l’Espoir ne pouvait voir en Alexandre qu’une figure mythique. Puisque tu t’es toi-même intéressé à Alexandre, et ce, tout récemment encore,2 je te dédie cette analyse d’un texte d’André Malraux consacré au Macédonien, méditation moderne, mais qui doit beaucoup aux œuvres anciennes. On trouve ce récit, dans sa dernière version publiée, dans le Miroir des Limbes, aux pages 516-45 de l’édition de la Pléiade.3 Notre auteur, mort en 1976, s’insère tout naturellement dans un processus continu de mythification du conquérant macédonien, processus qui trouve ses sources, on le sait, dans la tradition historiographique la plus ancienne, où Alexandre est pour le moins dépeint comme le successeur des héros d’Homère, lorsqu’il n’est pas présenté comme le fils de Zeus-Amon (Callisthène) ou l’heureux bénéficiaire des faveurs de Thalestris, la galante et fabuleuse Amazone (Onésicrite, Diodore de Sicile). Il reviendra à l’Histoire ou Roman d’Alexandre le Grand du Pseudo-Callisthène de regrouper dans une 1

Le présent article est une version revue d’un passage de notre livre, Alexandre le Grand. La vie, la légende (Paris: Larousse, 2001), intitulé “Malraux et la voyante,” pp. 256-60. 2 Voir “Mout est proz et vassaus / Mout es corteis”: Vasselage and Courtesy in the Roman d’Alexandre,” dans The Medieval French Alexander, éd. Donald Maddox and Sara Sturm-Maddox (New York: State Univ. of New York Press, 2002), pp. 89-109. 3 Il s’agit du tome III d’André Malraux, Œuvres complètes, éds. M.-F. Guyard, J.-C Larrat et F. Trécourt (Paris, Gallimard, 1996).

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sorte d’encyclopédie romanesque les titres exemplaires d’Alexandre à la gloire universelle: origine mystérieuse, prodiges annonciateurs de gloire, conquêtes forçant l’admiration, voir la reconnaissance des vaincus–Darius mourant fait d’Alexandre son héritier–, voyages fantastiques, connaissance par avance du lieu et de la date d’une mort qui, pour reprendre Malraux, “transforme la vie en destin.” La fortune de ces œuvres, tu la connais, mon cher Rupert. Pour le Moyen-Âge occidental aussi bien qu’oriental, c’est l’étrange patchwork rédigé en grec, à Alexandrie, au IIe ou IIIe siècle de notre ère, qui impose, jusqu’au XVe siècle pour la tradition littéraire, mais bien plus tard pour les arts, sa mise en scène grandiose. C’est de lui qu’est issu, à travers les péripéties des traductions du grec en latin, puis des résumés et des additions multiples, notre Roman d’Alexandre français médiéval aux étranges privilèges: première œuvre qualifiée de romanesque–n’est-ce pas d’abord parce qu’elle se présente comme une biographie exemplaire?–, mais aussi texte rédigé sur le mode épique (une succession de laisses), aux réécritures nombreuses au cours du XIIe siècle, aux suites pléthoriques aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles. Puis viennent, lors de la redécouverte des textes antiques, des œuvres moins fabuleuses, mais non moins mythifiantes, au premier rang desquelles il faut citer la Vie d’Alexandre par Plutarque, si prisée de Montaigne et devenue le livre de chevet, tout comme les autres Vies Parallèles, de l’élite culturelle européenne jusqu’à la fin du XVIIIe siècle Il faut voir Rousseau, qui n’est pourtant pas alexandrinophile, s’enthousiasmer pour l’épisode du médecin Philippe d’Acarnanie! Chateaubriand lui-même, dans ses Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe, ne parle d’Alexandre qu’à partir de Plutarque, même si sa lecture personnelle est des plus critiques: l’on entre ici profondément dans le XIXe siècle. Le développement de l’histoire, avec Rollin au XVIIIe siècle,4 et surtout avec l’œuvre de Gustave Droysen en 1833,5 aurait dû marquer solennellement l’entrée de la réflexion critique dans les études alexandrines; or, si le Roman d’Alexandre grec ou français est désormais quasi oublié, les perspectives d’écriture restent étroitement 4 Charles Rollin, Histoire ancienne des Egyptiens, des Carthaginois, des Assyriens, des Babyloniens, des Mèdes et des Perses, 13 tomes (Paris: chez la veuve Estienne […], 1731-1738). 5 Alexandre le Grand, tr. Jacques Benoist-Méchin (Paris, 1935; 2e éd. Bruxelles, 1981).

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soumises, soit au jugement moral (Rollin), soit à une formulation mythique de la réflexion politique (Droysen). L’idée de l’historien allemand, familier de Herder et de Hegel, est qu’Alexandre est un héros voué à une mission exceptionnelle: la création de l’hellénisme par la réconciliation de l’occident (la tradition grecque) et de l’orient (l’empire perse dans toute son extension). L’hypothèse, qui fera de nombreux émules, peut être valablement défendue, même si elle a trouvé aujourd’hui de nombreux adversaires. Mais elle transforme profondément l’image du conquérant: isolé du monde par sa mission, Alexandre est devenu héros romantique, incapable à jamais de connaître le repos et la joie: “Celui dont le destin s’élève au-dessus de la pénombre désolée des siècles doit renoncer à jouir d’une existence paisible et des délices du présent. Il porte sur ses épaules tout le poids de l’avenir.” Même, les grandes images de la tradition historiographico-mythique se trouvent à nouveau convoquées, comme lorsque Droysen évoque le résultat du voyage en Inde: “Le rêve d’Olympias s’était réalisé: la colonne de feu qu’elle avait vu jaillir de son sein, la veille de ses noces, avait embrasé l’univers, consumant toutes les frontières.” Cent années plus tard environ, un historien français, Georges Radet, se rapprochera plutôt des traditions épiques, mais aussi de la généalogie mythique d’Alexandre. Dans son Alexandre le Grand (1931), il montre dans le Macédonien un “homéride, qui vivait de plain-pied avec les dieux de l’Olympe.” La victoire et la charge du Granique sont “de l’Iliade en action,” tout comme l’ensemble de l’expédition vers le Grand Est. Mais l’ombre de Dionysos doit aussi être repérée: c’est elle qui décide du sac de Persépolis, et qui intervient dans le meurtre de Clitus. Il faudra attendre des travaux nettement postérieurs, ceux de Maurice Sartre6 et surtout ceux de Pierre Briant,7 pour que l’histoire alexandrine se démythologise, et qu’Alexandre devienne ce qu’il fut en partie au moins, “un conquérant, c’est-à-dire un prédateur,” même s’il était aussi un génie politique. Si les historiens, ces garants du sérieux scientifique, ont si longtemps côtoyé le mythe, comment s’étonner qu’un grand écrivain 6

D’Alexandre à Zénobie: histoire du Levant antique, IVe siècle avant J.-C.–IIIe siècle après J.-C. (Paris: Fayard, 2001). 7 Alexandre le Grand (Paris: PUF, 1974); Histoire de l’empire perse: de Cyrus à Alexandre (Paris: Fayard, 1996).

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comme Malraux, qui aurait tendance à demander des comptes à l’Histoire plutôt qu’à lui en rendre, ne recule pas devant les prestiges de la fable? Il avait eu du reste, quelques années avant d’écrire son texte, un prédécesseur particulièrement sérieux–un académicien–, Maurice Druon, auteur d’un livre dont le titre–Alexandre le Grand ou le Roman d’un dieu (1958)–indique clairement les perspectives: montrer, grâce à la prise en charge du récit par un narrateur qui a luimême affaire avec le surnaturel–le devin Aristandre de Telmessos– comment, Alexandre, fils de Zeus-Amon, doit en restaurer le culte ainsi que la puissance de l’Egypte, puis étendre son pouvoir à toute l’Asie. Druon n’oublie pas non plus la tradition mythique de la connaissance de la mort inévitable du héros, mais, rompant avec le Roman grec et ses admirables arbres du soleil et de la lune, repris par le Roman français, il détourne d’Alexandre ce savoir tragique pour l’attribuer à Aristandre, véritable artisan du destin du Macédonien. Malraux aura du reste quelques dettes de détail vis-à-vis de M. Druon.8 L’histoire du texte que l’auteur du Musée imaginaire consacre à Alexandre est relativement longue. Ecrite pour l’essentiel dans les dernières années où Malraux était ministre de la culture (entre 1962 et 1968), l’œuvre a fait l’objet de trois publications successives: à Genève, chez Skira, en 1973, dans un ouvrage de luxe illustré de quatorze pointes sèches de Dali, sous le titre Roi, je t’attends à Babylone, chez Gallimard, en 1975, dans Hôtes de passage II (sans titre), puis dans le Miroir des Limbes, toujours chez Gallimard, en 1976 (sans titre). L’intérêt que le romancier porte au conquérant macédonien est ancien. Dans le cours de l’entretien qu’il a avec le protagoniste essentiel de son récit, Georges Salles, il déclare à celui-ci qu’au moment où Thierry Maulnier a adapté pour le théâtre la Condition Humaine, en 1954, il a voulu écrire “après je ne sais qui, un Alexandre aux Indes” (p. 526). Il est peu probable que Malraux, dont la culture boulimique est bien connue, ait ignoré Métastase,9 mais le “je ne sais qui” montre bien le peu d’estime qu’il porte à un style qui allie la révérence portée à la grandeur et la recherche de la galanterie. D’où, 8

Voir les notes de l’édition de la Pléiade, pp. 1230-35, notamment celle relative à la page 522. 9 Auteur, en 1729, d’un Alessandro nell’Indie, souvent traduit, notamment en français, et qui a donné lieu a de nombreux opéras.

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un peu plus loin, d’autres formules définitives: “Nul ne peut écrire sur Alexandre. Racine? …pour quoi dire?”10 Voici Racine expédié avec la même rapidité que Métastase. Qui pourrait écrire, selon Malraux? Victor Hugo sans doute, qui “en eût fait un héros de La Légende des siècles” (p. 529): mais Hugo est resté muet, du moins en apparence, puisque Malraux n’a pas vu que l’histoire de Nemrod, dans la Fin de Satan,11 est inspirée, sans que le poète en soit nécessairement conscient, par l’ascension d’Alexandre dans les airs: son texte trouve en effet sa source dans le Livre des Rois de Firdousi, inspiré lui-même par le Roman d’Alexandre, mais qui attribue l’ascension mémorable à un prédécesseur du Macédonien, Kei Kaous.12 Qui pourrait donc écrire? Malraux lui-même, bien sûr, mais d’une manière distanciée, à travers le filtre du rêve: l’auteur, en dépit de son audace, ne met en scène Alexandre qu’à partir du discours visionnaire prêté à une pythonisse: preuve d’humilité, ou de prudence–comment se mesurer directement à Alexandre? –mais surtout stratagème littéraire qui se révélera magnifiquement efficace pour magnifier la part inoubliable de l’histoire du conquérant. Qu’est-ce qui intéresse en effet Malraux dans le Macédonien? D’abord un destin tragique: partir à la conquête du monde perse, et réussir dans cette entreprise, pour trouver une mort banale (malaria? excès de boisson?)13 au faîte de la puissance, dans la merveilleuse capitale perse. C’est ce caractère qu’atteste le titre donné à la première version du récit, Roi, je t’attends à Babylone, inspiré par l’anecdote que conte Plutarque à propos de Calanos. Ce sage indien avait suivi Alexandre lors de son retour vers la Perse; accablé en chemin par la 10

P. 529. Pour quoi dire? Mais […] l’amour, bien sûr, qu’Alexandre, dans la pièce de 1665 déclare avec bonheur à Cléofile, princesse des Indes, “Mais, hélas! que vos yeux, ces aimables tyrans, / Ont produit sur mon cœur des effets différents! / Ce grand nom de vainqueur n’est plus ce qu’il souhaite; / Il vient avec plaisir avouer sa défaite.” Il est vrai qu’Alexandre, pour Malraux comme pour la tradition médiévale, est “un homme sans femmes.” 11 Livre I, Le glaive. 12 Voir Abou’lkasim Firousi, Le Livre des rois, tr. J. Mohl, 7 tomes (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1838-78), t. II, 1842, pp. 43-49. 13 L’hypothèse de l’empoisonnement par Antipater, soutenue par Olympias et reprise dans le Pseudo-Callisthène comme dans le Roman médiéval, est réfutée par les historiens modernes.

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maladie, le brahmane se fait brûler sur un bûcher à Pasagardes, après avoir prié les Macédoniens “de faire ce jour-là bonne chère et de banqueter avec le roi, lequel il reverrait bientôt après dans la ville de Babylone.”14 Ces propos sont interprétés par certains, notamment les adversaires d’Alexandre, comme une prophétie de la mort du conquérant: Cicéron, par exemple, dans le De Divinatione (I, 47), fait dire à Calanos: “ Je te verrai bientôt,” et il ajoute: “C’est ce qui arriva, car il mourut à Babylone peu de jours après.” On voit comment Malraux dramatise le propos de Calanos, en le formulant comme une menace: Alexandre a rendez-vous avec la mort, et c’est cette marche volontaire vers un sort inéluctable qui fascine dans un premier temps l’écrivain. Mais le titre disparaît dans les deux versions suivantes du récit15–ou plutôt dans la seconde version, car Hôtes de passage et Antimémoires présentent en fait le même texte: c’est dire que le destin, dans son acception ordinaire, n’explique pas tout dans la passion que Malraux éprouve pour Alexandre. L’autre pôle de fascination est sans doute la part du rêve, qui traverse les siècles et explique le rayonnement du héros, puisque aussi bien “Les hommes sont hantés par les songes, et les actions qui ont la couleur des songes sont aussi fortes que les dieux” (p. 536). Comment l’auteur met-il en scène ce thème? On va voir qu’il en fait l’architecture même de son récit. Rien de plus décousu pourtant en apparence que cette œuvre brève (trente pages dans l’édition de la Pléiade).Tout commence par une note succincte: “Mort de Georges Salles, directeur des Musées de France.” Ainsi, c’est déjà un autre temps que celui de la connivence immédiate entre narrateur et lecteur, le temps du souvenir, libéré par la mort d’un ami, qui met en branle le récit: souvenir de la photographie d’une figure étrange, en forme de papillon, envoyée pour identification au directeur des Musées de France avec quelques lambeaux d’étoffe, et des recherches qui s’en sont suivies. Georges Salles propose de recourir à la voyance, et emmène Malraux chez Madame KhodariPacha qui, en touchant la photographie et les lanières d’étoffe, déroule, au milieu des lueurs et des craquements que dispense le feu d’une 14

Nous suivons la traduction de Jacques Amyot, La Vie des hommes illustres, éd, W. Gérard, 2 tomes (Paris: Gallimard, 1951), t. II, CXIII, p. 405; nous soulignons. 15 La formule est toutefois reprise par deux fois à l’intérieur du texte même, pp. 527-28 et 536.

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cheminée, les fragments d’une énigme qui n’en est pas une pour les bons connaisseurs du héros alexandrin: “Il y a l’obsession d’un dieu. Et tout est décidé chez les chameaux.” Le spécialiste que tu es, Rupert, a déjà compris que cette obsession divine ne peut renvoyer qu’à Alexandre, qui s’en va chercher à l’oasis de Siwa sa consécration comme fils de Zeus par l’oracle de Zeus Amon; et, bien sûr, que les chameaux renvoient à Gaugamèles–qui signifie halte des chameaux (voir p. 526). Mais les visiteurs de la pythonisse feignent l’ignorance: Madame Khodari-Pacha parle-t-elle de Scipion, d’Hannibal? Et les images, comme les interrogations, défilent sur plusieurs pages, jusqu’au moment où Georges Salles demande, à propos de l’être qui est l’objet de la vision: “Distinguez-vous le visage de l’homme? –Maintenant, oui. –Comment sont ses yeux? –Tiens, tiens! un bleu, un noir” Et le narrateur de conclure: “Les yeux d’Alexandre de Macédoine. Georges Salles me regarde en silence.”16

Quelques images encore, celle des banquets lors du retour en Perse, puis du défilé des officiers macédoniens au moment de la mort du souverain. Mais l’entrevue avec la voyante prend fin sur une note burlesque, comme si Malraux voulait laisser la vision dans l’indécidable, ou au contraire la rendre plus vraisemblable: on sonne, et apparaît “dans l’encadrement de la porte, un moustachu coiffé d’un képi”: ce n’est que l’employé du gaz. Revenons à cette première partie. Les éléments “alexandrins” qu’on y trouve s’apparentent à la vulgate, d’abord plutarquienne sans doute. Mais le Roman d’Alexandre grec y a aussi sa part, avec les yeux vairons d’Alexandre. Quelle que soit la source, toutefois, elle est travaillée, transfigurée par l’imaginaire de Malraux: ainsi pour le

16 P. 524. Voir Le Roman d’Alexandre: la vie et les hauts faits d’Alexandre de Macédoine, trs. Gilles Bounoure et Blandine Serret (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1992), le Pseudo-Callisthène, I, 13: “il avait […] les yeux vairons–le droit noir et le gauche bleu vert” ( p. 12). Mais Malraux a pu lire ce trait dans une version tardive et partielle du Roman français (voir p. 543: “Un de ses yeux était noir comme un œil de dragon.”)

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bûcher dressé pour une monture fantastique, qui n’est autre que Bucéphale:17 Des braises sur le sable. Très au-dessus, suspendues à quoi? un croisement de tiges de fer, de lances? il y a des os qui viennent de s’écrouler. L’armée pousse des cris petits. Sur ce qu’on voit du désert, le squelette noir d’un grand cheval s’allonge parce que le soleil se couche. La tête du cheval est soutenue par le fer d’une lance. La voilà là-bas! l’ombre va jusqu’à la montagne […]. (p. 523)

Le procédé de la divination à deux niveaux–celle de la pythonisse, qui propose des images sans liens apparents, et celle à laquelle se livre le lecteur, de type purement intellectuel–est des plus féconds. Il ne s’agit pas d’une charade, mais d’objets offerts à un regard distancié, qui peine à traverser l’abîme des siècles mais en triomphe pourtant, faisant surgir comme en une fresque lumineuse–écho du feu qui brûle dans la cheminée de la voyante–les épisodes majeurs de la vie d’Alexandre. La suite du texte est le réexamen par les deux amis puis par Malraux seul des révélations faites par Madame Khodari-Pacha et du personnage d’Alexandre, ainsi qu’une réflexion insistante sur la valeur du “supranormal,” avec plusieurs exemples troublants, dont certains touchent l’auteur de près. De cet ensemble touffu, où s’affirme le goût de Malraux pour ce que nous appellerions aujourd’hui le parapsychologique, on retiendra deux traits. D’une part, comme un contrepoint aux images déroulées par la voyante, le film imaginaire que l’auteur, relisant les notes prises au cours de la séance, voit se construire petit à petit devant ses yeux. Se retrouvent alors exprimées en un long paragraphe les images flamboyantes dans lesquelles s’inscrivent les grands épisodes de l’histoire du héros: la destruction de Thèbes (“Bucéphale, après la bataille contre Thèbes, gravissant les amoncellements de cadavres du bataillon sacré”), Alexandrie (“Le manteau jeté sur le sable pour y dessiner le plan d’Alexandrie, et les prêtres qui tracent les rues principales avec de la farine, guidés, selon la coutume, par des aveugles”), la mort d’Alexandre (“Enfin, le cillement funèbre18 qui 17

Mort en Inde en 326, soit à la suite du combat contre Porus, soit de vieillesse. Il est attesté par exemple dans Arrien: ne pouvant parler, Alexandre saluait ses officiers venus le visiter “en soulevant la tête au prix d’un grand effort, et en faisant un signe des yeux” (VII, 26, 1). 18

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répond à la file atterrée des dignitaires macédoniens. Dernière image du film: le cillement cesse, la file s’immobilise, la paupière ne se relève pas,” p. 532). Pour ne relever que cette clôture, on la voit plus forte et plus émouvante que les propos exemplaires prêtés par les historiens à un mourant sans doute condamné au mutisme.19 Dans le film imaginaire de Malraux, Alexandre est réduit à un regard intermittent (le cillement), qui scande le défilé des dignitaires macédoniens, et ce regard, peut-être déjà aveugle et promis en tout cas à l’immobilité, répond à celui du lecteur qui traque, sans les atteindre totalement, les derniers moments et la vérité du héros. C’est dans ce type d’images, il faut le reconnaître, que le génie de Malraux se manifeste, et l’on peut regretter, cher Rupert, que l’auteur de la Sierra de Teruel, devenue l’Espoir–c’est le film que Malraux a tiré de son roman sur la guerre d’Espagne–,20 n’ait pas réalisé un Alexandre à partir du script qu’il nous propose et dont j’ai donné quelques extraits: gageons que la valeur, sinon le succès, aurait dépassé ceux des films de Rossen21 ou de Théopoulos,22 ailleurs mieux inspiré. Voici du reste un autre exemple du génie icônique de Malraux, toujours à propos d’Alexandre: elle figure dans une autre partie des Antimémoires (I, III, 3), consacrée à un entretien avec Nehru. La conversation vient de porter sur les singes du Temple de Bénarès, et Malraux raconte à son interlocuteur une histoire attribuée aux historiens d’Alexandre, qui concerne le franchissement de la passe de Kyber, au Pakistan, lors de la conquête des satrapies orientales: “Voici les quatre chefs en manteau blanc, et Alexandre en manteau rouge. Ni les enseignes de Rome dressées contre les dieux, ni les sangliers de bronze des

19

On aurait demandé au mourant à qui devait revenir l’empire d’Alexandre; celuici aurait répondu “Au meilleur,” selon Arrien, “Au plus puissant,” selon Diodore de Sicile. 20 Le film, dont le tournage débute en Espagne en 1938, est achevé en France en 1939 où il donne lieu à des projections privées; sa diffusion publique commence après la guerre, en 1945. 21 Alexander the Great, 1956, un “peplum” tourné avec Richard Burton dans le rôle titre. 22 O Megalexandros, 1980, une parabole politique un peu laborieuse, où le Conquérant n’apparaît que comme référence (critiquée) de l’action du héros.

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barbares, ni les étendards de l’Islam surgis des gorges dans la fuite des gerboises et l’indifférence des aigles: une armée dont je ne connais que ces quatre cavaliers blancs et ce cavalier rouge devant un guide prosterné. Les soldats sont engagés entre ces montagnes verticales, dont l’une vacille et va s’écrouler sur eux. Alexandre fait signe au guide de se relever, et lui montre du doigt la montagne qui tremble: ‘Oh, ce n’est rien, répond l’indigène, ce sont les singes […].’ Alexandre regarde, là-haut, la crête menaçante, parcourue de bonds furtifs. Et l’armée reprend sa marche.” (p. 248)

Jeu des couleurs, où le blanc des “compagnons” renvoie au rouge du chef; murmure de l’Histoire, dans lequel ce franchissement quasisolitaire (“je ne connais que ces quatre cavaliers”) s’oppose aux conquêtes déferlantes de Rome, des barbares, de l’Islam, frémissement de l’immobile et confusion du minéral et de l’animé, avec le grouillement de la muraille de singes: voici un tableau étonnant, à la veine presque surréaliste, mais qui, grâce au trait de Malraux, concourt à la fascination exercée par le conquérant. L’autre sujet de la seconde partie du texte est la réflexion sur le destin d’Alexandre. D’abord, à la suite de Droysen, Malraux reconnaît dans le Macédonien la manifestation d’un dessein politique universel: “Il ne voulait pas posséder, mais conquérir”–nous retrouvons ici, n’estce pas, les grandes affirmations du Roman français médiéval sur une volonté de conquête qui va de pair avec la célébration de la largesse et la vitupération contre l’avarice23–et s’il conquiert, c’est en vue de soumettre toute l’humanité dans une sorte de consensus parfait: “Annexer les grands vaincus sans les écraser, puis soumettre le monde au gouvernement d’un roi-dieu” (p. 533). Reste la question du tragique du personnage (Roi, je t’attends à Babylone), et la réflexion de Malraux s’engage ici dans une voie différente, afin de définir, à côté du pôle que représente ce personnage de tragédie, le pôle mythique qui s’oppose à lui: “Quel serait l’autre, l’‘antagoniste’” (p.533)? Or cette recherche l’amène à nuancer, ou du moins à mieux définir le tragique d’Alexandre et à modifier le titre de son récit en congédiant le souvenir de Calanos. Dans une perspective grandiose, il s’interroge d’abord sur la succession des empires et des grandes civilisations. La destruction de 23 Voir les remontrances adressées à Porus dans la branche III, laisses 129-134, Le Roman d’Alexandre, tr. Laurence Harf-Lancner, éd. E. C. Armstrong (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1994), pp. 432-39.

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l’empire achéménide ouvre la voie aux légions romaines, mais aussi au monde hellénique dans lequel se formera le christianisme, tandis que la terre conquise sur les Perses dans leurs plus lointaines contrées (Pakistan, Ouzbékistan, Afghanistan) deviendra terre d’Islam.24 Au niveau de l’Histoire du moins, le partenaire avec lequel Alexandre a rendez-vous n’est donc plus celui d’une tragédie ordinaire: “L’interlocuteur tragique d’Alexandre n’est pas la mort; c’est le destin du monde” (p. 533). La fin du héros à Babylone est ainsi repoussée au second plan. Mais qu’est ce qui peut, dans une perspective tragique, remplacer le trépas comme antagoniste essentiel du héros? Le “pas encore,” et notamment l’Islam, qui est destiné à succéder au conquérant, ne saurait en tenir lieu, puisque ce “destin du monde” est tout entier à construire. Il faut donc se tourner vers une autre figure, que Malraux reconnaît dans le Double du héros, fruit divinisé de l’élaboration légendaire dont le conquérant est lui-même l’auteur: l’exaltation des héros homériques, d’un univers imaginaire “que peuplent les héros de l’Iliade, les demidieux, et d’abord Dionysos” (p. 536). Un univers dans lequel il est luimême entré, mais qui suppose, pour se réaliser pleinement, sa disparition brutale et provoque l’accélération irrésistible de son cheminement vers la mort: “Il jette en hâte sa traîne de royaumes aux dieux impatients qui l’attendent” (p. 536). C’est donc sa propre légende qui le guette, afin de le détruire et de le consacrer à jamais: “Roi, je t’attends à Babylone!”, conclut Malraux. “Qui donc l’attend? Par la voix du brahme, Alexandre entend parler son double, pour la première et la dernière fois” (p. 536). Es-tu maintenant, mon cher Rupert, saturé de formules grandioses, dignes d’un héros hors du commun? En voici une encore, pour la bonne bouche. J’ai dit plus haut que d’autres récits de voyance figurent dans le texte de Malraux: l’un d’eux, noté de manière comparable à celui qui concerne Alexandre, semble évoquer la passion et la crucifixion de Jésus (pp. 536-37). On s’étonnera moins dans ces conditions de trouver Alexandre et Jésus réunis dans une formule flamboyante: “Le Conquérant erre dans l’imagination du monde 24

Comme tous ces territoires, et particulièrement l’Afghanistan, avec Hérat ou Kaboul, nous ont parus familiers au moment de la guerre qui a suivi le 11 septembre 2001! Comme l’écrit encore Malraux, ces villes “se sont toutes nommées Alexandrie la Lointaine” (p. 535).

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comme le Christ plonge dans le cœur de l’Europe. Notre limaille dessine ses grandes moires autour de ces jeunes morts surnaturels” (p. 541). Telle est donc, mon cher Rupert, la réflexion exubérante mais parfois admirable de Malraux sur Alexandre. Ajoutons que l’écrivain regrettait de ne pas connaître toutes les versions du corpus alexandrin: “Je voudrais lire, affirme-t-il, le récit copte de sa légende: le roi y boit aux sources des quatre fleuves du Paradis. Et la version éthiopienne, dans laquelle le Saint Esprit lui révèle le secret de la Trinité” (p. 543). En même temps, quelle déception pour nous lorsqu’il avoue “Je ne me souviens même pas de notre version médiévale” (ibid.): il a connu pourtant une version tardive et partielle du texte, dont il donne quelques extraits significatifs,25 mais ce n’est visiblement pas elle qui l’a inspiré dans sa réflexion. Qu’importe après tout, si la puissance de son évocation rejoint et, j’en suis sûr, nourrit la compréhension que nous pouvons avoir de nos textes médiévaux!

25 “Certains faiseurs-de-contes prétendent qu’Alexandre était un nécromant: ils mentent, les félons […] tous les compagnons d’Alexandre nés le même jour que lui […].” Alexandre envoie à Alexandre “un éteuf semblable à ceux qui servent à amuser les enfants, un lacet, un peu d’or.” Mais “le texte s’arrête à l’énumération des forces de Darius,” (p. 543).

JANE H. M. TAYLOR

“A rude heap together hurl’d”?1 Disorder and Design in Vérard’s Jardin de Plaisance (1501) critic of whom otherwise I know nothing at all, a certain Gemino A. Abad, divides anthologies of lyric poems into two self-explanatory categories, “potpourri” and “suite.”2 Critics have agreed, with unusual unanimity, that Anthoine Vérard’s Jardin de Plaisance3 is a potpourri–and there is no denying its miscellaneity. What I do want to suggest, however, has to do with artful commerciality, exploitation of new technologies and skillful manipulation of readerly proclivities and public taste. The Jardin de Plaisance, I shall concede, is indeed a potpourri–but Vérard, or his compiler, make strenuous efforts to have us read it as a suite, using techniques which persuade the reader of textual design, and which prod him or her in the direction of a holistic reading. They do so, I shall suggest, because, skillfully, they activate and exploit what the Gestaltist would call the reader’s “set to perceive”; they turn the reader into their willing accomplice, activating his or her acquired eagerness to detect pattern and connection in gratuitous or random juxtapositions. What I want to do here is to analyze just what are the textual and paratextual features that anchor the “reader’s wandering viewpoint”4–what it is that is apt to make even skeptical readers ready to perceive arrangement and not just contiguity, and just what the consequences are for our decoding of miscellaneity. I should have liked, of course, given time, to examine in detail the collection as a 1 Quoted by Annabel Patterson, “Jonson, Marvell, and Miscellaneity,” in Neil Fraistat, The Poem and the Book: Interpreting Collections of Romantic Poetry (Chapel Hill: Univ. of North Carolina Press, 1985), pp. 95-118. 2 A Formal Approach to Lyric Poetry (Quezon City: Univ. of Philippines Press, 1978), pp. 24-5 and 380-81. 3 I use the facsimile edition and volume of introduction and notes edited by E. Droz and A. Piaget, 2 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1910-25). I shall give references to the text from volume I; references to the notes (vol. II) will be prefaced D/P, with page number. 4 See Wolfgang Iser, The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1978), pp. 108-9.

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whole–but as François Cornilliat says, the Jardin de Plaisance is “un monde, où l’on se perd,”5 so I shall take for particular attention just one short sequence of poems by François Villon: I shall hope to show, by this retreat from macro- to microtext, that the publisher’s and compiler’s strategies, their techniques and technologies, maintain a creative tension between integration and fragmentation, by providing for any individual poem a contexture6 which cannot but suggest, however spuriously, architectural metaphors and heuristic principles. It is this perception of pattern, this drive to make poems read in sequence “mean” in ways that they do not when read discretely, that ultimately constitutes, I shall argue, the pleasure of a text whose pleasures may well seem, to the modern reader, inaccessible. Let me start, then, with publisher and compiler–and specifically with the commercially astute Anthoine Vérard who stamps himself so firmly and so characteristically on the volume. Mary Beth Winn, in her excellent recent book on Vérard,7 and Cynthia J. Brown, in her study of authorial and editorial self-assertiveness in the late Middle Ages and early Renaissance,8 have both drawn attention to the way in which Vérard takes visual charge of the volumes he publishes by substituting for the conventional author-portrait with which medievalists are all familiar the image of the publisher himself presenting the finished work to the king or to the patron. The present volume is no exception– on the contrary: it opens with a portrait of Vérard,9 with his distinctive fringe of hair and his plain merchant’s robe, kneeling in front of the 5

“Or ne mens”: Couleurs de l’éloge et du blâme chez les Grands Rhétoriqueurs (Paris: Champion, 1994), p. 79. 6 I borrow the term from Fraistat, The Poem and the Book. By it, he means “the contextuality provided for each poem by the larger frame within which it is placed, the intertextuality among poems so placed, and the resultant texture of resonance and meaning” (p. 3). 7 Anthoine Vérard, Parisian Publisher, 1485-1512: Prologues, Poems and Presentations (Geneva: Droz, 1997). On Vérard, see also, of course, John Macfarlane, Antoine Vérard (London, 1900; rpt. Geneva: Slatkine, 1971). 8 Poets, Patrons, and Printers: Crisis of Authority in Late Medieval France (Ithaca NY: Cornell Univ. Press, 1995). 9 The image is a re-cycled one: Vérard had first used it as early as 1488 as the frontispiece for an edition of Aristotle’s Ethics (see Anatole Claudin, Histoire de l’imprimerie en France, 4 vols. [Paris: n. p., 1900-14], pp. ii and 114-16); for a checklist of points at which the image is used, see D/P, pp. 29-30, and for a reproduction, see Winn, Vérard, fig. 5.24, facing p. 436.

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king to whom, it seems, the Jardin de Plaisance is dedicated,10 and surrounded by elegant courtiers. The procedure is typical of Vérard’s audacity: as Winn also points out,11 the publisher systematically appropriates and misappropriates the texts he publishes and offers to royal households, on commission or sometimes on spec., volumes he claims as entirely his own; here, however, what he implies by his imprimatur is that he, the royally-sanctioned publisher, underwrites from the very outset the quality of what he is presenting, suggests an authoritative guiding editorial hand. To this must be added the fact that Vérard does not suggest that he has himself compiled the volume: rather, he implies that it is the work of someone who calls himself L’Infortuné12–who may, perhaps, be at least by implication the clerkly, scholarly figure who is pictured in a second author-portrait woodcut on f. diiiv, and who seems to be presenting a completed, nicely-bound volume to an elegant patron in an ermine-trimmed robe.13 We are asked, it seems, to infer the existence of, as it were, an editorial team: Vérard and L’Infortuné, publisher and clerk: the message, that editorial control and choice have framed this volume, is over-determined in a way which, as far as I am aware, is unique to this particular collection. But who is L’Infortuné? I mean this only peripherally in biographical terms: a great deal of critical ink has been spilt, fruitlessly I fear, in attempts to identify him with one or other of the poets named in the anthology: Jehan de Calais,14 Jean Jourdain,15 Regnaud Le Queux,16 etc. Much more important for the purposes of this particular and prestigious volume is the nature of the poem with which L’Infortuné claims our readerly attention: a long ars poetica, the 10

For Vérard’s royal patrons, see Winn, Vérard, ch. IV. The date of the Jardin de Plaisance would seem to indicate that the royal patron was Louis XII, on whose relations with Vérard see ibid., pp. 123-30. 11 Winn, Vérard, ch. III. 12 Pseudonyms of this sort are not unusual in the later Middle Ages: the author of Le Chevalier des dames, ed. Jean Miquet (Ottawa: Presses de l’Université d’Ottawa, 1990) calls himself Le Dolent Fortuné. 13 This too is one of Vérard’s bread-and-butter portraits: as D/P point out (p. 30), Vérard had made use of it as early as 1492 in an edition of the Art de bien mourir. 14 On this contention, see E. Langlois, De Artibus rhetoricae rhythmicae: sive de Artibus poeticis in Francia ante litterarum renovationem editis (Paris: Émile Bouillon, 1890), pp. 65-6. 15 For all of which, see D/P, p. 37. 16 Which is the contention of D/P: see pp. 38-40.

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Instructif de seconde rhétorique, which stands first in the volume as a whole.17 This ingenious and highly prescriptive treatise–which probably dates from 1480 or so18–gives instructions for all varieties of verse-form and castigates vices like repetitiveness, improper rhyme, excessive latinity, and poor scansion. The details are unimportant– although there are points to which I shall return later in this study; what matters, for my present argument as to strategies of editorial control, is the mere fact that it should be an art of poetry that opens the volume. The implication, surely if unstatedly, is that the publisher has appointed an editor or compiler whose teacherly authority guarantees the quality of what the anthology will contain: that having explained what best practice is, L’Infortuné will now demonstrate it. I shall borrow an expression from Menakhem Perry,19 and argue that readers of the Jardin de Plaisance are inescapably influenced by what Perry calls the “primacy effect”–that they cannot, in other words, but construct hypotheses as to the function of the Instructif in framing the collection, and that the most likely hypothesis, given its author’s grave attention to vices and models, has to do with distinguishing good from bad poetry. The “message” of the Instructif, in other words, is to reinforce the message of the two initial woodcuts: this is a collection carefully selected for aesthetic excellence, by a single editorial hand, under the guidance of an authoritative, highly reputable, and tasteful publisher, and which can be submitted with confidence to its public– not to mention its (royal) patron. I shall return later to the Instructif, but for the moment, I want to concentrate on the strategies–the ingeniously worked paratextual features–whereby Vérard insists on the editorial integrity and coherence of the Jardin de Plaisance. Let me start with the title–which 17 Which D/P attribute to Regnaud Le Queux–though the attribution has not been widely accepted. The only full-scale study remains that of Langlois, De Artibus, pp. 65-74. 18 The terminus a quo is 1472 or so–but the author cites as masters of the art of rhetoric none of the rhétoriqueurs and poets of the late fifteenth century, which makes it unlikely that the treatise much post-dates the 1470s (the point is made by D/P, pp. 48-50). 19 “Literary Dynamics: How the Order of a Text Creates its Meanings,” Poetics Today, 1 (1979), 35-64 and 311-61. Among other things, Perry usefully sums up the results of psychological tests which have shown the crucial influence of initial information on the process of perception.

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is, of course, banal enough: miscellanies and compilations and manuals building on the “garden” metaphor, jardin or hortus,20 are two-a-penny in the later Middle Ages and the Renaissance. But Vérard and his compiler have an ingenious paratextual take on the topos: they have chosen to concretize it and make it the key to an explicit narrative pre-text which, however absurd or perfunctory, invites the reader to structure and pattern the poems to which he or she is exposed, and to integrate each individual text into a diegetic frame. L’Infortuné–clearly an opportunist–seems to have seized on the allegorical garden which figures in one of the earlier texts that he has selected, Le Chastel de joyeuse destinee,21 at the climax of which a dreamer has a vision of the castle set in magnificent parkland, a lieu de plaisance, and prompted by this slightest of hints, as from this fourth poem in the collection, he builds, as the volume progresses, an elaborate fiction whose message is inclusion and exclusion. The garden, which is presided over by the Dieu d’amours, is a privileged and leisured locus, not dissimilar to Deduit’s garden in the Roman de la Rose: the amatory and the erotic are the centre of all preoccupation, discussed, debated, celebrated in ballade and rondeau. In the garden, those who indulge in misogyny may be indulged or condemned, the Belle Dame may be excused or found wanting; to be welcomed is paradise, to be excluded purgatory. This in itself connotes textual organization: the choice of texts, it implies, is not random but rather purposeful, designed: intended to enshrine a dialogue on matters erotic and amatory, drawing on all the best and most authoritative texts and treatises, to which the reader is, enjoyably, invited: he or she is, as it were, incorporated into the continuing dialogue in the garden. And not only that: L’Infortuné also devises a narrative, imposes linearity and direction. Through a series of intermittent rubrics, we trace the career of a “hero,” L’Amoureux, Le Chevalier Oultré d’Amours, who is finally banished from the garden into a forest beyond its walls–at which point his lady dies, and he himself, having 20

A fait divers: under WorldCat, 1500-1600, there are some 30 titles on the model Jardin de […]; cf. also Frédéric Lachèvre, Bibliographie des recueils collectifs de poésies du XVIe siècle (Paris: Champion, 1922). 21 The text seems to appear nowhere else. Lachèvre attributes the poem to Michault Taillevent–but Robert Deschaux, Un poète bourguignon du XVe siècle, Michault Taillevent (Geneva: Droz, 1975), is unconvinced.

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confessed and written his last will and testament, dies romantically of grief. Now I would not wish to overplay this diegetic frame: the rubrics which transmit it are infrequent,22 and there is no sense in which the reader can in sober fact actually integrate each of these exceedingly disparate texts into a truly coherent frame narrative.23 But merely to have the collection underpinned in this way by linearity and direction predisposes the reader to find authoritative and significant order24–sets in motion what I earlier called the reader’s “set to perceive,” invites him or her to search for inferential meanings or covert intertextualities. That this is a matter of deft calculation on the part of Vérard or his compiler seems to me incontrovertible: Vérard presents himself, consistently, as Winn shows, as the deviser and architect of the volumes that he presents to his public, as having built and woven, knitted and created them (“Ay fait bastir, filler, ourdir et tistre / Ce present livre,” he says of another volume).25 That the stratagem was successful is suggested by the fact that Vérard repeated the experiment and more than once, aware presumably that his public preferred suites, however perfunctory, to potpourris. A few years later, for instance, in 1509, he was to publish another miscellany to which he gives a composite title, La Chasse et Départ d’Amours.26 He attributes the whole volume, rather underhandedly, to Octovien de Saint-Gelais– underhandedly, since only the first poem, La Chasse d’amours, is Octovien’s27 and Vérard is simply capitalizing on a big poetic name.28 The volume consists of the Chasse and of another longer poem, Blaise 22

See appendix for the complete list of rubrics, with page references. One might compare, say, Petrarch’s much more coherent rime sparse–and indeed Vérard’s editor may indeed be thinking of just that. 24 Annabel Patterson asks, rightly, in her contribution to Fraistat’s The Poem and the Book (see note 1) “to what extent does the existence of authoritative and significant order in a volume depend on the predisposition of the reader to find it or to find it absent?” (p. 98). 25 The prologue to Le Passetemps de tout homme, quoted by Winn, Vérard, pp. 623. 26 Surviving copies are listed by Winn in her edition of La Chasse d’amours (Geneva: Droz, 1984), pp. xvii-xxii. 27 Though even that attribution is a touch doubtful: the editor expresses (pp. xi-xii) some doubts as to Octovien’s authorship. 28 On the complex construction of the volume, see Lachèvre, Bibliographie, pp. 1213, and Winn’s edition of La Chasse d’amours, pp. ix-xvii. 23

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d’Oriol’s La Departie d’Amours (hence, of course, the title), to which Vérard has attached miscellaneous lyrics by various late medieval poets and especially by Charles d’Orléans–and the miscellaneous lyrics are presented as the work of the hero and heroine of the Chasse d’Amours: precisely the stratagem of the Jardin de Plaisance. Vérard recognizes, in other words, that a poetic aggregate is made most compelling, given most density, made most pleasurable, if it is possible, however spuriously, to perceive a firm editorial hand which has imposed a “serial” structure across the collection as a whole.29 But I spoke earlier of paratextual features, in the plural, and I should like to turn now to a yet more compelling paratextual principle of editorial unity: Vérard’s programme of woodcuts. These–and again, this is typical of Vérard’s commercial enterprise and acumen–exploit a relatively new and ingenious technology which the publisher had very recently imported from Strasbourg30 for his edition of what is usually known as the Grand Térence:31 interchangeable blocks. What is involved is permuting a series of woodblocks, so many characters, a certain number of architectures (castle, city, town), a set of four different trees, so as to provide illustrations for every occasion–helped by the fact that the Terence blocks were given scrolls, tituli, so that they could be appropriately labelled, which means, in turn, that Vérard can re-label them against the Jardin de Plaisance. Now of course we are all more than accustomed to seeing fifteenth- and sixteenth-century publishers, Vérard as much as any other, as opportunist: they allowed nothing in their workshops to go to waste, and notoriously re-used cuts from stock in what look suspiciously random positions. But it is precisely for that reason that we may in this instance, I think, speak of the publisher’s intention: to re-use the Terence cuts, Vérard, or his hacks, must on every occasion make choices as to the different dispositions of the permutable blocks. Vérard can, in other words, illustrate, not simply ornament; he can use the cuts to point readers in 29 For further remarks on this point, see Winn’s interesting discussion of Vérard’s compilational strategies (Vérard, pp. 427-32), and cf., on another miscellaneous volume, Les Louenges à Nostre Seigneur, Eugénie Droz, “Notice sur un recueil de louanges,” Romania, 49 (1923), 48-62. 30 As D/P point out (pp. ii and 31-2), a publisher from Strasbourg, Jean Gruninger, had devised the technique in November 1496 to illustrate the plays of Terence. 31 On which see Winn, Vérard, pp. 128-9.

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particular hermeneutic directions; he can, most particularly, construct an iconographic “story” across the collection as a whole, to match the one adumbrated in the rubrics and sketched with the texts. An example: take a rubric towards the end of the collection when, as I explained earlier, the fiction supposes that the lover is banished from the garden. It reads: “Comment l’Amant yssant du Jardin de Plaisance entra en la forest cuydant avoir plus de joye, et il entra en tristesse en plusieurs façons.”32 Whoever has made the selection from the common stock has clearly made a concerted–and not unsuccessful–effort to make the two codes present here, verbal and iconographic, correspond: he has taken all four of the “tree” motifs, and has placed in the “forest” which he has thus implied the drooping, regretful figure which most consistently–on thirteen out of eighteen possible cases–passes for l’Amant, or Le Chevalier Oultré.33 The image-system, in other words, reinforces the integrative, homogenizing34 effect which is, we have already seen, elicited by the perfunctory narrative. But to what end? I insisted, at the beginning of this study, on the miscellaneity of the Jardin de Plaisance, and disclaimed any ambition to argue that it is a suite and not a potpourri. This I shall maintain–but I shall argue that the commercially canny Vérard, and presumably his compiler, are playing with texts in ways which provoke a particular “plaisir du texte:” a pleasure which is implicit in any act of reading, but which their joint strategies have greatly accrued.35 A reading of any text, I submit, involves–quite independently of intention on the author’s or editor’s part–the construction of hypotheses which progressively create coherence and relevancy across the various data presented: an obligatory process because–and I turn here to linguists

32

JP, f. ccvir. Other figures do, from time to time, represent the lover–but this particular image figures no fewer than 13 times in that role, whereas the other representatives, three of them, figure only once each. 34 I use this adjective in the wake of Adrian Armstrong (University of Manchester) who, in an interesting paper, “Love on the Page: Materiality and Literalness in Jean Bouchet’s Amoureux transi and its Avatars,” given at a colloquium at the Institute of Romance Studies in London in March 1999, made points which concur interestingly with mine. 35 I am, of course, referring to Roland Barthes’s Le plaisir du texte (Paris: Seuil, 1973). 33

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like Ducrot, as well, once again, as Perry36–it is impossible to read without hypotheses as to what might motivate the co-presence of specific events or discourses, hypotheses which can be tested and refined as the reading progresses. The commonest of reading manœuvres–and here I turn to Jonathan Culler–is to “naturalize” the text: “bring it into relation with a type of discourse or model which is already, in some sense, natural and legible,”37 make it conform to existing literary or cultural conventions. To do so is to engage actively with the text, to anticipate, to re-read retrospectively–to detect purposeful links and iterations–to turn mere words into an apprehensible and significant aesthetic experience, to make reading pleasurable, exciting, engaging. Because of this “drive for sense,” I submit, any text will force its own meaning–as, too, will any compilation:38 predisposed to find coherence, the reader will, inevitably, read from poem to poem, coordinate text with text. In the present instance, as I have argued, the volume is provided–even if post hoc–with two concurrent codes which foreground narrative systems implying linearity and sequentiality, and which provide a narrative hypothesis familiar to the point of banality; this cannot but familiarize the text, mobilize the reader’s intertextual competencies.39 It encourages him or her, in other words, to that most enjoyable of readerly activities: the constructing of a “story” which will account for the apparent randomness of phenomena; that Vérard and his compiler have provided the merest outline of that “story” makes the whole process, if anything, even more pleasurable. 36 What follows is much indebted to Perry (see above, note 19). I also acknowledge my debt to Oswald Ducrot, Dire et ne pas dire (Paris: Hermann, 1972), and to an interesting article by H. H. Clark, “Bridging,” in P. N. Johnson-Laird and P. C. Wason, eds., Thinking. Readings in Cognitive Science (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1977), pp. 411-20. 37 See his Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics and the Study of Literature (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1975), p. 123. 38 Some of the points I make here are implicit in certain of the essays edited by Doranne Fenoaltea and David Lee Rubin, The Ladder of High Designs: Structure and Interpretation of the French Lyric Sequence (Charlottesville: Univ. Press of Virginia, 1991), and in the work of Neil Fraistat (see note 1 above). 39 I am, of course, thinking here of Kristevan intertextuality: see her “Word, Dialogue and the Novel,” translated in her Desire in Language (Oxford: Blackwell, 1980), pp. 64-91, and “Problèmes de structuration du texte,” La nouvelle critique, sp. issue, “Linguistique et littérature” (Nov. 1968), 55-64.

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I labour this point because whereas until now I have been talking about identifiable editorial strategies which are the responsibility of Vérard and his compiler, I should now like to turn to a more resistant topic: what are the reading strategies which the Jardin de Plaisance imposes, what is the plaisir of a text which would seem to us so chaotic and so alien? I emphasize that the reading-process which I shall now attempt to sketch is independent of editorial intention: it depends on the reader’s perception of pattern,40 of coincidence between the texts themselves and the carefully-judged integrative codes which I have just attempted to describe, between the “story” propounded in the rubrics and illustrations, and the run and thrust of the texts themselves. Take, for instance, a group of miscellaneous, unattributed lyrics on ff. xciii-xcv.41 They would seem, on the surface, merely to rehearse the usual platitudes and topoi of courtly discourse– and yet, the reader cannot, I think, but construct a Zumthorean “narrativité latente”42 based on recurrent isotopies43 which imply travel, journey, parting. The poet’s lady is absent but, reassuringly, sends word (“Puis que d’elle nouvelles ay / A mon gré ainsi que desire, / Dois je chanter […].;” D/P 350); he waits, confidently, for her return (“J’attens le confort de la belle; / J’attens brief le retour d’elle;” D/P 351); he has only memories to sustain him (“Puis qu’ainsi est que ne puis parvenir / Aux haultains biens de mon doulx souvenir […].;” D/P 355); he longs to see her again (“Je demande voz beaulx yeulx voir, / Ma tressouveraine maistresse, / car c’est l’espoir de ma liesse […].;” D/P 357); he begs a friend to send him news of her by letter (“Faictes moy sçavoir de la belle / Tout ce qui s’en pourra escrire, / Pour eslegier mon grief martire […].;” D/P 360); absence is driving him to despair (“C’est assez pour mourir de dueil, / Qui sommes ung 40 What I shall suggest here has parallels in what Fenoaltea describes, for Ronsard’s lyrics, in her Du palais au jardin: L’architecture des Odes de Ronsard (Geneva: Droz, 1990). I should also acknowledge a debt to one of my research-students, Charles Heppleston, who detects patterns (“sequences”) of a similar sort in Guillaume de Machaut’s Louanges des dames. 41 D/P (pp. 193-5) numbers them 351-362. 42 “Les narrativités latentes dans le discours lyrique médiéval,” in Minette Grunmann-Gaudet and Robin F. Jones, eds., The Nature of Medieval Narrative (Lexington KY: French Forum Monographs, 1980), pp. 39-55. 43 On which see François Rastier, “Systématique des isotopies,” in A. J. Greimas, Essais de sémiotique poétique (Paris: Larousse, 1972), pp. 80-105.

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cueur et ung vueil, / Ma dame et moy, / Quant nulle foiz je ne la voy […].;” D/P 364). Now to construct this story, in an act, I admit, of readerly mauvaise foi, I have ignored a few intermediary poems which do not fit the “familiarized” story that I have just elaborated; my argument, however, is that the group of poems themselves, because of the integrative superstructure which the collection possesses, has forced my reading, triggered, pleasurably, my readerly ingenuity. But this is just one example,44 and I should like now, briefly, to turn to the more challenging instance which I mentioned at the beginning of this paper, and which is, I suggest, an even better instance of the integrative, homogenizing reading that Vérard’s techniques encourage us to impose on the miscellaneity of the Jardin de Plaisance: the particular segment of the Jardin de Plaisance which is devoted to the poems of François Villon (Jardin de Plaisance, ff. cviiv-cixv). The selection is scant, just eight45 of his lyrics: the ones conventionally known as “Question au clerc du guichet,” “Ballade des pendus,” “Débat de Villon et de son cœur,” “Louange et requête à la cour,” “Ballade des proverbes,” “Ballade des langues ennuyeuses,”46 “Ballade de la Grosse Margot,” “Ballade des menus propos.”47 Now, these eight poems, which are numbered 448-56 in D/P’s exhaustive catalogue, are at first sight lost in a wild miscellany of some 550 ballades and rondeaux (D/P nos. 60-612), most of them entitled simply “Rondel,” or “Autre rondel,” “Ballade,” or “Autre ballade,” and yet there is, I think, a pattern adumbrated in the “contexture” of this little group of ballades which activates precisely what I called “the reader’s 44 To which might be added another which I deal with in a paper “”Mise en mélange au quinzième siècle: feuilleter le Jardin de Plaisance,” to be published in a volume entitled Le Goût du lecteur à la fin du Moyen Age, ed. Danielle RégnierBöhler (2004), and which homogenizes and integrates a sequence of poems by Alain Chartier. 45 To which should be added one isolated poem, D/P no. 643, “Ballade contre les ennemis de France.” 46 Which is preceded by a poem intermittently included in Villon’s œuvre, the rondeau which begins “Jenin l’anemy”: Dufournet, for instance, includes it in his edition for Garnier-Flammarion (Paris, 1992), pp. 314-5; Rychner and Henry do not (Le Lais Villon et les poèmes variés, 2 vols. [Geneva: Droz, 1977]). 47 These are, respectively, nos. xv, xi, xiii, xvi, and v in Le Lais Villon et les poèmes variés, and ll. 1422-56, 1591-27, of Le Testament Villon, ed. Rychner and Henry (Geneva: Droz, 1974); the last, the “Ballade des menus propos,” is no. vi of the poèmes variés.

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set to perceive”; I am referring to some of the miscellaneous ballades which immediately precede the Villon group. These constitute another of the sequences to which I referred above–and this time they are loosely grouped by title: D/P no. 432, “Balade pour ung prisonnier”; no. 436, “Balade pour ung prisonnier”; no. 439, “Balade pour ung prisonnier”; no. 440, “Autre balade pour ung prisonnier”; no. 441, “Balade pour ung autre prisonnier”; no. 442, “Encores balade pour ung prisonnier”; no. 443, “Encores de ce.” Now, virtually all of these ballades contain elements–images, lexemes–which serve to justify the titles given to the poems: briefly, the first, no. 432, purports to be inspired by “la grant destresse Ou suis en une prison mis” (my emphasis throughout); no. 436 is written, claims the poet, from “ceste prison hayneuse;” no. 440, says its poet, is written from a “prison […] obscure et desplaisante.” No. 441 is, I think, using prison less as a pseudo-autobiographical reference than as a metaphor which–rather disconcertingly–merges the God of Love and God Himself (“Amours a fait homme et femme formee / Et leur donner [sic: donna?] de tous biens largement, / Car pour nous tous de prison defermer / Receut Dieu mort tresangoisseusement […]”); no. 443 has its speaker address bitter reproaches to an interlocutor who, it says, “complains, disant que grief mal as / Et que prison te blesse rudement;” only no. 442–although it is entitled “Encores balade pour ung prisonnier”–makes no explicit reference to prison, and confines itself to one of those stoic refrains, “Endurer fault humaine creature.” But there is nevertheless an embryonic “story segment” here, a Zumthorean “narrativité latente”–and, reverting to the point that I made earlier about how difficult it is to read the sequence of Villon’s lyrics that Vérard has chosen to include in the Jardin de Plaisance without integrating these last into a diegetic continuum. For which, after all, are the lyrics that Vérard has chosen to include?48 They are, of course, initially at least, a sequence which

48

It is important, of course, to be wary of seeing editorial design in every choice of lyric. See Ralph Hanna III, “Miscellaneity and Vernacularity: Conditions of Literary Production in Late Medieval England,” in The Whole Book: Cultural Perspectives on the Medieval Miscellany, eds. Stephen G. Nichols and Siegfried Wenzel, Recentiores: Later Latin Texts and Contexts (Ann Arbor: Univ. of Michigan Press, 1996), pp. 3751. As he warns us, “a combination of happenstance acquisition and variously

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focuses precisely on imprisonment, condemnation, and criminality, and which, even the most cautious critics are inclined to agree,49 most probably had to do with Villon’s condemnation and imprisonment in the Châtelet in the aftermath of the affray in the rue de la Parcheminerie in 1463: Villon’s appeal to the clerc du guichet at the Châtelet, his passionate voicing of the plight of the pendus, his submission to the justices of the Parlement de Paris. I spoke earlier of “primacy effect”; I now adopt another of Perry’s expressions, “recency effect,” and suggest that this coincidence between contexture and lyric is likely to elicit precisely that retrospective re-reading which I earlier postulated as an inescapable resort in the search for coherence: to use a different critical perspective, the sort of “retrospective patterning” of which Barbara Herrnstein Smith speaks, which “illuminates […] connections and similarities,” and whereby “the reader perceives that seemingly gratuitous or random events, details and juxtapositions have been selected in accord with certain principles.”50 And it seems to me not impossible to argue–though I do so with bated breath–that we may be able to return to editorial strategy, even intention, since it is L’Infortuné, after all, who seems to have chosen this particular order in which to present Villon’s lyrics,51 and certainly he who has chosen, by labelling the little preceding sequence with those revealing titles which have to do with prison, to focus our readerly attention precisely on that lexeme, that tempting diegetic thread. What I am arguing here has to do with arrangement: it is salutary to compare Vérard’s “editorial” strategy, for instance, with that of the socalled Rohan chansonnier52 which merely scatters those of Villon’s motivated selection is quite typical of a large range of Middle English manuscript books” (p. 47). 49 Rychner and Henry, for instance, the most authoritative recent editors, are happy that these poems should be read autobiographically: see their edition of Le Lais, and cf. Michael Freeman, François Villon in his Works: The Villain’s Tale (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000), pp. 50-53. 50 Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1973), p. 119. 51 This is, of course, a dangerous assertion–but it does not seem that any surviving manuscript preserves Villon’s lyrics in precisely the order chosen by L’Infortuné, and nor is it, for instance, the order chosen by Pierre Levet for the editio princeps of Villon’s œuvre published in 1489. 52 Ed. Martin Löpelmann, Die Liederhandschrift des Cardinals de Rohan, Gesellschaft für romanische Literatur 44 (Göttingen, 1923).

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poems that it includes, rather randomly, across the volume. I labour this point because the “story” that the lyrics construct would seem to militate against mere happenstance: the reader is, I would submit, manipulated into narrative reconstruction. But that this should be so is, I consider, reinforced precisely by the various strategies which I described above: the determined effort, via the rubrics, to construct an overarching narrative, the careful choice and placing and manipulation of image, all insist on editorial input and careful planning. Just as we have learnt in recent years to look for order and purpose in some at least of the great romance miscellanies of the Middle Ages,53 so, perhaps, we should look again for principles of compilation in the great lyric collections:54 when we do so, we may well discover aesthetic principles of a so-far unimagined sort.

53 Interesting mises au point and useful bibliographies will be found, for example, in Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book: the Poetics of Writing in Old French Lyrics and Lyrical Narrative Poetry (Ithaca NY: Cornell Univ. Press, 1987) and Lori Walters, “Le rôle du scribe dans l’organisation des manuscrits des romans de Chrétien de Troyes,” Romania, 106 (1985), 303-325, and the question is pursued in exhaustive detail in Keith Busby, Codex and Context: Reading Old French Verse Narrative in Manuscript, 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002). For a codicological view, see Lucy Freeman Sandler, “Omne bonum: Compilatio and Ordinatio in an English Illustrated Encyclopedia of the Fourteenth Century” in Medieval Book Production: Assessing the Evidence. Proceedings of the Second Conference of the Seminar on the History of the Book to 1500, Oxford, July 1988, ed. Linda L. Brownrigg (Los Altos Hills, CA: Anderson-Lovelace, 1990), pp. 183-200. 54 Scholars like Jean-Claude Mühlethaler are already at work in this domain: see for instance his excellent “Charles d’Orléans, une prison en porte-à-faux. Co-texte courtois et ancrage référentiel: les ballades de la captivité dans l’édition d’Antoine Vérard (1509),” in Charles d’Orléans in England (1415-1440), ed. Mary-Jo Arn (Cambridge: D.S.Brewer, 2000), pp. 165-82.

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APPENDIX THE “DIEGESIS”: VERARD’S RUBRICS lv. Comment les amans estans au Jardin de Plaisance a leur plaisance: l’ung des amoureux se complaint de son cueur qui se debat a son oeil. lx. Comme les amans qui sont audit Jardin de Plaisance aprés ce debat du cueur et de l’oeil se esjoyssent et esbatent a faire plusieurs balades et rondeaulx pour les dames qui y sont, les ungs pour l’onneur des dames et les autres au deshonneur. Ensemble les responces des dictes dames aux amans. Et d’autres plusieurs choses joyeuses. cxxvi. Comment ung povre amoureux qui estoit en la compaignie des dames estant au Jardin de Plaisance s’enhardit de deprier l’une des dames, et les responces de la dicte dame a ycelluy amant. cxxixv. Comment deux amoureux, l’ung estrange de sa dame et l’autre escondit, se complaignent ensemble au Jardin de Plaisance. cxxxiiv. Comment ung amoureux fait ung dialogue a sa dame au Jardin de Plaisance, et puis elle fait la conclusion. cxxxviv. Cy aprés s’ensuivent les lamentacions de Jehan de Calais, lequel n’estoit plus au Jardin de Plaisance. cxliiv. Comment au Jardin de Plaisance est baillé sentence en la court d’amours contre la Belle Dame sans Mercy. cxlviii. La relation faicte au Jardin de Plaisance du debat de l’amant et de la dame qui est sans conclusion. cliii. Le racomptement fait au Jardin de Plaisance de deux amans fortunez d’amours. clxi. La complainte du prisonnier d’amours faicte au Jardin de Plaisance clxii. La lamentacion faicte au Jardin de Plaisance du povre serviteur sans guerdon. clxivv. Comment au Jardin de Plaisance est fait debat de l’homme marié et de l’homme non marié. clxviv. Le livre des dames a icelles baillé au Jardin de Plaisance pour les instruire et doctriner en quelle maniere elles se doivent tenir et conteni[r]. clxxiiv. Cy aprés ensuit comment au Jardin de Plaisance deux dames, l’une nommee La Noire et l’autre La Tannee, se debatent de leurs amours. clxxix. Comment au Jardin de Plaisance ung des amans descript la comparison des biens et des maulx qui sont en amours.

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clxxxiiv. Comment au Jardin de Plaisance l’amoureux est au purgatoire d’amours et privé de joye. clxxxviv. Comment le Dieu d’Amours, pour resjouyr amans et amantes qui sont au Jardin de Plaisance, ordonne faire une chasse appellee la Pipee du Dieu d’Amours. cxcii. Comment au Jardin de Plaisance l’advocat des dames se treuve, qui obtient arrest pour elles contre eulx qui dient mal d’elles, et ne saulvent leur honneur feminenin par Faulx Parler qui treuve faulses paroles. cxcviiiv. Aprés que le Dieu d’Amours eut fait faire au Jardin de Plaisance sa chasse et pipee, et que l’advocat des dames eut obtenu arrest contre ceulx qui ne saulvent honneur femenin par faulx parler qui contreuve faulses paroles, les amans firent balades joyeuses et amoureuses ainsi qu’il s’ensuyt. ccvv. Comment l’amant yssant de Jardin de Plaisance entra en la forest cuydant avoir plus de joye, et il entra en tristesse en plusieurs façons. ccxxix. Comment au Jardin de Plaisance Malebouche chasse le chevalier dudit Jardin de Plaisance, dont sa dame en meurt de courroux. ccxxxi. Comment la dame, se complaignant douloureusement en requerant la mort et depriant, soubdainement la vint frapper de sa dardre mortelle dont piteusement elle mourut. ccxxxiiiiv. Comment le chevalier est oultré de courroux pour l’amour de sa dame qui est allee de vie a trespas. ccxlivv. Comment le cueur du Chevalier Oultré se debat contre son corps aprés sa doleance de la mort de sa dame. ccxlvii. Comment le Chevalier Oultré d’Amours trespasse de dueil de sa dame. ccxlviiiv. Comment ledit Oultré se confesse et fait son testament.

†KARL D. UITTI

The Codex Calixtinus and the European St. James the Major: Some Contextual Issues ew West European manuscripts have received as much studious attention over the centuries as that known generally as the Codex Calixtinus.1 Yet, when all is said and done, only four facts appear to have engendered widespread agreement, namely: (a) that this pricelessly beautiful artifact ought to be dated at some point in the 12th century; (b) that it celebrates the pan-European veneration extended during that period to Christ’s apostle James the Major, i.e. the son of Zebedee; (c) that it was claimed falsely–or “poetically”–to have been compiled by Guy de Bourgogne (1060-1124), the Cluniac Archbishop of Vienne who reigned as Pope Calistus II from 1119 until his death five years later, and, finally, (d) that it comprises, in addition to an appendix-like number of disparate texts, five books of unequal length which are devoted respectively to: (I) homilies and sermons in honor of St. James, two accounts of his martyrdom and liturgical offices related to his cult (over one-half of the Codex is given over to Book I); (II) twenty-two miracles ascribed to the saint; (III) the translation of his body from Jerusalem to Galicia (the shortest of the five books); 1 I refer here to the manuscript located at present in the cathedral archive of Galician Compostella (Santiago de Compostela). There survive a substantial number of texts quite similar to this one, all completed, it was believed, under the authority of Pope Calistus II and subsequently dispersed over Europe. The title Codex Compostellanus is often used as a label in order to distinguish the Compostellan manuscript from the other Calistus-inspired exemplars. Under the auspices of the Xunta de Galicia, the German scholar Klaus Herbers and the Spaniard Manuel Santos Noia joined forces to produce a beautiful edition of the 201 folios of the Compostellan manuscript replete with critical forematter, colored plates of the initial folio of each book, a bibliography, various indices and complete folio indications (Santiago de Compostela: Grafinova, S. A., 1998). Abelardo Moraleja, C. Torres and J. Feo published a Spanish-language translation, with copious notes, of the Liber Sancti Jacobi: Codex Calixtinus based on a corrected version of the American scholar, Walter Muir Whitehill’s 1944 transcription of the Latin text (Santiago de Compostela: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1951); a somewhat revised version of this translation was published in 1992 by the Instituto Padre Sarmiento, de Estudios Gallegos.

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(IV) the so-called Pseudo-Turpin, that is, an historical work once believed to have been composed by Archbishop Turpin who was viewed as an eye-witness participant in Charlemagne’s legendary intervention at the saint’s behest in Spain after the Moorish conquest of that land (the events leading up to the Battle of Rencesvals, as well as the battle itself, are recounted here); and, lastly, (V) a book of practical travel advice for pilgrims wending their way from, or through, France in order to venerate St. James at his Compostella sepulcher. The codex also contains a veritable treasure-house of musical notation designed to accompany the many hymns, etc. it contains. Virtually all else concerning the codex and its content has been argued over by modern historians–its date of composition, its authorship, as well as the purposes it was designed to serve. Many of these arguments have been somewhat acerbic; and some bear indisputable traces of xenophobia. Yet, a closer look at some of the contexts governing the facts–the diverse stories variously recorded and several other kinds of evidence– suggests to me that what to many scholars has appeared to be contradiction and uncertainty in regard to the different figures of the apostle St. James in Western Europe may perhaps be better understood as a kind of richness, or mixture of simplicity and complexity, that over time came to characterize the “historical figure” we call St. James the Major, including, e.g., his “confusion” with his fellow disciple, St. James the Minor, son of Alpheus. It is not so much that there existed– and exist–many St. Jameses, but rather that St. James the Major takes on what seem initially to be a bewildering variety of forms and shapes. The present essay seeks to explore some of these issues with special attention focused on the meanings contained in, and exploited by, the Codex Calixtinus. It is my hope that we will find that the variety just mentioned is in reality less bewildering than it is, in fact, a sign of extraordinary vitality. The Codex Calixtinus has, as previously suggested, been variously dated, but most scholars appear to agree that the date at which the compilation received its final form should be located at some point

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around the middle of the 12th century.2 This, we recall, postdates by about a generation the Golden Age period of the chanson de geste, with the text underlying that of the Oxford Roland commonly assigned to ca. 1100 and that of the Poema de mío Cid to ca. 1140. Pope Urban II’s call to arms at Clermont against the Muslims took place in 1095, with the First Crusade to the Holy Land occurring during the final two years of the 11th century. Aided by numerous French allies and with their material help the Christian “reconquest” of Iberia had been proceeding full tilt during much of the 11th century, and the panEuropean pilgrimage to St. James’s sanctuary at Compostella had, by 1100, begun to attain enormous proportions, with pilgrims flocking over recently secured roads to the saint’s burial place in that city. The presence in Spain of a large number of French prelates and other ecclesiastics–often from Cluny (and somewhat later from Cîteaux)– contributed indispensably to the alignment of Hispanic Christianity with the West European Catholicism identifiable with Rome and the papacy.3 The tireless efforts made by Bishop–later Archbishop and 2

In an interesting essay entitled “The Geography and History of Iberia,” published in the collection edited by Maryjane Dunn and Linda Kay Davidson, The Pilgrimage to Compostella in the Middle Ages (New York: Garland, 1996), Colin Davis offers cogent arguments suggesting 1147 as the terminus ad quem for the Codex Calixtinus; he further suggests that facts corresponding to the 1120s and even 1130s were available to its compiler. It is quite reasonable to assume that work on the compilation lasted over a rather extended period of time. Equally convincing arguments concerning the problem of dating and issues of authorship have been furnished by Marie De Menaca in her remarkably intelligent and thorough study, Histoire de saint Jacques et de ses miracles au Moyen-Âge (VIIIème-XIIème siècles) (Nantes: Université de Nantes, 1987), which, though focusing on the miracles attributed to St. James in the Codex Calixtinus, offers the best review of scholarship concerning the Apostle I have so far seen. 3 The 11th and 12th centuries also witnessed significant French immigrant settlement in newly Christianized areas of Iberia, both in urban and in rural areas, as part of repopulation efforts favored by various Spanish kings. Finally, it should be mentioned that intermarriage between Iberian nobles and royalty and their French–especially Burgundian–counterparts was commonplace, especially as regards the Kingdom of Castile. For example, the two sons-in-law of King Alfonso VI of León-Castile, who, himself, had been married to four Frenchwomen, were of the ducal family of Burgundy. The kings of the de facto newly established independent Portugal were also of part-Burgundian origin. Daughters of Spanish royalty married Burgundian and other French nobles. For a well-documented study of the French presence in 11 th- and 12thcentury Spain, see Marcelin Defourneaux, Les Français en Espagne aux XIe et XIIe siècles (Paris: PUF, 1949), chs. 1-4.

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Metropolitan–Diego Gelmírez on behalf of his now resplendent see of Compostella contributed much to the ever-growing prestige of St. James’s shrine both inside and outside of Iberia. St. James, promoted to the patronage of a revived Christian Spain, was fully identified with the Holy War against the “infidel Moors” and came increasingly to be known by his sobriquet, the “Moorslayer” (Santiago Matamoros). Such, in brief, was the context within which the Codex Calixtinus came into being. Strangely enough, however, the picture of St. James that emerges from this book does not focus on the crusading, militant Santiago Matamoros one might be tempted to identify with the crusading combativeness that seems to dominate the Roman Catholic Europe of the time. The St. James of the Codex may far more accurately be identified with the disciple of Christ who, in obedience to his Lord’s command to bring the Good News to Spain (and, by extension, to far-away Europe), conveys his powerful message of the efficacy of the Christian faith-based Hope to his often beleaguered correligionaries. To be sure, nothing in the Codex Calixtinus contradicts the combative Christian knight epitomized in the God-serving figure of Santiago Matamoros. He too, most assuredly, is an emblem of Hope, especially in moments when to hope does not appear to be reasonable, that is, in times of seemingly unredeeming duress. The Christian victory at the Battle of Clavijo offers a case in point. The battle is dated usually on 23 May 844 and, apparently, was later seen to be the source of Spain’s royal ex voto leading to St. James’s becoming the patron saint of Spain.4 4

Whether this battle actually ever took place has engendered much scholarly debate, with many positivistically inclined historians doubting its other than legendary status and those, mainly Spanish, of a traditionalist bent often defending its historicity. In the period concerning us at this juncture the issue is moot and need not be dealt with in further detail here. It should however be noted that according to legend (or history) the battle was at least in part designed by the Christians to put an end to the infamous Tribute of the One Hundred Maidens imposed upon them by their Islamic conquerors, and consequently fits nicely into the spirit of the Christian Reconquista. For such Spanish traditionalist historians as Julián Cantera Orive (see his La batalla de Clavijo y la aparición en ella de nuestro patrón Santiago [Vitoria: Editorial Social Católica, 1944]), the Positivist bête noire is the Frenchman, L. Barrau-Dihigo, especially two monograph-length articles of his entitled, respectively, “Étude sur les actes des rois asturiens, 718-910,” Revue Hispanique, 46 (1919), 1-192, and “Recherches sur l’histoire politique du royaume asturien, 718-910,” Revue Hispanique, 52 (1921), 1-

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The Christian King Ramiro I, faced with a militarily powerful enemy, had every reason to be fearful as to his chances for success in the up-coming battle. However, during the night preceding the encounter between his forces and those of the Muslims, St. James appeared to him promising that, provided that every man did his duty (the nature of which the saint outlined in exact detail), the Christians would prevail. In fact, just as matters had reached a very low point for the hard-pressed Christians, the saint appeared riding a white steed and, joining the fray, killed Moors right and left, bringing victory to Ramiro’s cause. Thus was Santiago Matamoros born, entering the history of Christian Spain. Santiago Matamoros in no way contradicts the St. James presented in the Codex Calixtinus. After all, the former brought Hope to King Ramiro and his army; and despite overwhelming odds to the contrary they were victorious when, on balance, rationally they surely ought not to have been. The major importance to European history of St. James in the new crusade-inspired self-consciousness that developed in the Roman Catholic West during the 11th and 12th centuries–what we might call his specifically Hispanic dimension–has lasted largely to the present day, as the celebrations that took place at Santiago de Compostela during the Año Jacobeo Jubilee year of 1999 on and about the saint’s feast of 25 July testify. The predominance accorded Santiago de Compostela has come largely to overshadow–even to co-opt–other very early venerations accorded the son of Zebedee both in Spain and, most particularly, along the Atlantic seaboard (Brittany, Great Britain, and probably Ireland). A number of interesting questions arise from this situation. What, precisely, inspired the author of the PseudoTurpin to link Charlemagne’s interventions in Moorish-dominated Spain with that saint? To what factors–and these must have been multiple–was owed the truly immense pilgrimage to Compostella and the saint’s tomb so celebrated by the Codex Calixtinus? Indeed, what authorized the transformation into Santiago of the apostle martyred at the hands of Herod? Or, in other words, what traits associated with St. James in Biblical times led to this particular transformation? And how 360. Most studies debunking the “historical truth” of both the Battle of Clavijo and the Tribute of the Hundred Maidens consist of fine-tuning Barrau-Dihigo’s tone-setting work.

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might one explain the medieval association of the son of Zebedee with the second theological virtue of Hope? To state patronizingly that the son of Zebedee was naïvely “confused” by the Middle Ages with James the Minor, the son of Alpheus and author of the Epistle bearing his name (who was traditionally associated by the Fathers with the virtue of Hope), surely begs more questions than it answers.5 Now then, as was stated above, Book III of the Codex Calixtinus treats of St. James’s posthumous translation to Galicia, i.e., to the northwestern extreme of the Iberian peninsula. Placed on a small boat after his martyrdom–the first of Christ’s disciples to undergo this final sacrifice–and accompanied by seven disciples of his, the saint sailed through the Mediterranean, and after reaching the open ocean his boat turned north. Our Codex’s notes that these seven disciples belonged to the original group of nine whom he had converted during an earlier voyage to Galicia when he was still alive. He returned to Jerusalem with seven, leaving the remaining two to preach in Spain. But this account appears to interweave two traditions involving the saint’s presence in Spain.6 A (presumably) old tradition dealing with St. James’s preaching there while he was still alive, in obedience to the Resurrected Christ’s injunction to his disciples immediately before His Ascension to telling the Good News to peoples unaware of Him (Acts 5 Canto XXV of Dante’s Paradiso offers a perfect example of the conflation of the two Jameses. We recall that the pilgrim in this canto has just passed his examination in Faith, the first of the three Theological Virtues, at the hands of St. Peter (Canto XXIV). Beatrice hears thunder and announces the arrival of the “barone, / Per cui laggiù si visita Galizia” (17-18), and who “fa risonar la speme in quest’altezza” (v. 31). The saint about to arrive is the one (son of Zebedee) whom people visit in Galicia, and he is also associated with Hope. Later, in speaking to the saint, the pilgrim remarks: “Ti mi stillasti con lo stillar suo [David] / Nella pistola poi […]” (vv. 76-77); the saint is the author of the New Testament Epistle normally attributed to James the Minor. Unless one prefers to tax Dante with ignorance–a choice the reader makes at his own peril!–this conflation is deliberate and meaningful. Consequently, we must face the question of its likely, or at least plausible, meaning. Unfortunately, limitations of space forbid our dealing here with this fascinating question. 6 See p. 384 fn. of the above-mentioned Spanish translation of the Codex Calixtinus done by Moralejo, Torres and Feo. At least one modern scholar has pointed out specific textual “contradictions” between Books I and III (see P. David, “Études sur le livre de St-Jacques attribué au pape Calixte II,” Bulletin des Études Portugaises, vols. 10-13 [1947-49], referred to by Moralejo, et al. Furthermore, David argues that Book III was not originally included in the Codex but was added later to the text.)

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i: 4-9), appears to have been conflated with St. James’s better known posthumous arrival at Iria Flavia, in Galicia. Interestingly, however, it is less a matter of Spain in the two traditions than of Galicia which is common to them both.7 13th-century documents in the cathedral of Zaragoza provide the following story. At a date following closely upon the Ascension (ca. 40 AD) and with the blessing of the Blessed Virgin, St. James, “passing via Asturias and Galicia [a trajectory essential to his story] and wending his way with his new disciples through Castile arrived finally at Zaragoza in Aragon, a land known as Celtiberia, on the banks of the Ebro river. There St. James preached for many days, and having converted many former heathens he chose eight whom he made his [local?] collaborators.8 During daytime they all spoke of the Kingdom of God; at night they took shelter in order to rest.” On the night of 2 January 40 AD the saint and his companions heard “angelic voices singing Ave, Maria, gratia plena” and they saw “the Virgin Mother of Christ standing on a marble column.” The Blessed Virgin, who was still alive, asked St. James to build her a church, with the altar built around the column where she was standing. She promised that “the place would last until the end of time in order that the power of God might perform mighty works and miracles through my intercession on behalf of those who because of their needs implore my patronage.” The Blessed Virgin then disappeared and St. James, helped by his eight newly converted disciples, commenced to build the church commanded of him. Along with the cathedral at Compostella, the Basilica of the Virgen del Pilar in its present-day Baroque splendor is one of the most venerated shrines in the Hispanic world. Although, as was noted, the Codex Calixtinus briefly remarks on a trip made by St. James to Galicia while he was still alive, it makes no mention whatsoever of the Blessed Virgin or of Zaragoza; indeed 7 The Codex Calixtinus (ch. i) describes St. James’s fellow apostles as traveling to “diversa cosmi climata,” whereas he travels according to the Will of God to “[h]oris Hesperie,” i.e., to the extreme western part of the world–the land, in other words, of Finisterre. Spain is unmentioned, although, obviously, Galicia, like Brittany, Britain and Ireland, is very much a part of the far Abendland of Atlantic Europe. 8 When one compares the Zaragoza documents with the assertions of the Codex Calixtinus the number of St. James’s disciples/converts and coworkers appears unclear. Nine? Nine plus eight? Merely eight? One assumes that the Zaragozan texts wish to emphasize St. James’s Aragonese followers.

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Spain goes entirely unmentioned in the Prologue to Book III. Of the nine disciples he had gained in Galicia he took seven of them back with him to Jerusalem and left two to continue preaching the Word of God in Galicia. These seven sailed with the martyr’s body back to Galicia (their home territory, as it were); after burying the apostle, they resumed preaching to the gentile “Spains” (“ad Yspanias”). To an astonishing extent, we note, St. James’s life is so far centered on, or close to, the sea. The son of Zebedee, and like his (younger?) brother, St. John, he was a fisherman, and, we recall, when Christ invited him and St. John, along with St. Peter, to follow him, He promised to make of them “fishers of men.” Subsequently, however, the sea takes on an even greater centrality to his story. St. James’s missionary work in Galicia (and also, if the story concerning the Virgen del Pilar has got matters right, elsewhere in Iberia), as well as his return to Jerusalem (and consequent martyrdom), were both carried out thanks to sea voyages. Finally, his martyred body was transported in a boat that happened to turn up in Jaffa all prepared for sailing and completely available to the saint’s Galician disciples who had accompanied him to Jerusalem and now wished to escape with him from Herod’s fury. Protected by the Lord, the sevenday trip was untroubled until the vessel was unloaded of its apostolic cargo by its Christianized Galician crew. (One would not be surprised to learn that too, like St. James, they at an earlier time had also been fishermen.) At any rate Our Lord’s prophecy has come true; the sea has made it possible. The apostle and his disciples have reached Galicia, referred to in the Codex Calixtinus as the “desiderabile solum,” a home-like term signifying ‘floor,’ ‘land,’ ‘ground.’ Difficulties begin after the ship’s landing at Iria Flavia. According to the “saintly” Pope Leo’s “Letter Concerning the Translatio of St. James the Apostle,” the apostles’ disciples, returning to their native Galicia, remove his body inland, to Libredón, about eight miles from the sea (see ch. ii of Book III9). 9

Various etymologies have been advanced in explanation of Libredón. Of these, interestingly, two are Celtic: LIBER+DUNUM ‘Pagan deity’ + ‘camp [CASTRUM], fortified place’ (cf. Fr. Liverdun), and Llwybr+dunum ‘camp [CASTRUM] of the roads.’ (See Moralejo, et al., p. 394). Another debated issue: To which Pope Leo ought this “Letter” be attributed? It seems likely that the saintly and enterprising Pope Leo IX (1049-56) would be both temperamentally and chronologically a good candidate,

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The Codex Calixtinus (Book III, ch. i) furnishes a detailed, even novelistic account of St. James’s eventual burial. In keeping with the domestic nature of solum, the disciples are seeking a suitable final resting place in their native Galicia for the apostle–a definitive home for the saint whose presence in Galicia they understand as willed by God (to Whom they voice their joyous thanks) and the greatest possible honor that might befall their country. As they proceed eastward, bearing the saint’s coffin, they learn that the owner of a field which interests them is a lady named Lupa (or, in the Codex, Luparia). After some effort they succeed in meeting her. Explaining their mission to her, they ask whether she might not look favorably on giving to them a small piece of the field where they had temporally left the saint’s body, and in particular a little temple in which there was placed a pagan idol and which was much visited by the neighboring heathen population. Though a pagan, Lupa was a noble widow of principle who, like Dido, refused remarriage to her various suitors so as to remain faithful to the memory of her dead husband. She spoke politely to her Christian visitors, but, quite hypocritically, instead of refusing their request she told them to see the king at Dugium;10 he would find a solution to their problem. While some disciples remain behind in vigil over the apostle’s remains, the others rush to see the king. This last is struck dumb by the disciples’ request, however, and inspired by the devil, he secretly gives orders that after leaving him they should be ambushed and killed. A warning from God prompts them to take flight. The king orders his minions to give chase and, when they and he catch up with the fleeing disciples, to perform his orders. although Leo VII (936-39) is possible; it appears “poetically” that Leo III (795-816) would best suit the purposes of the Codex, but not Leo IV (847-55). Meanwhile, neither Leo V (903) or Leo VI (928) would fit the bill adequately. It has been alleged that Leo III was made aware of Pelayo’s discovery of St. James’s tomb in 813; perhaps he and the more recent Leo IX were conflated in the Codex. 10 Citing the opinion of the scholar A. López Ferreiro, whose 11-volume Historia de la santa a.m. Iglesia de Santiago de Compostela, Moralejo, et al.’s notes identify Dugium (which they call Dugio) as a “ciudad marítima al N. del Cabo de Finisterre, hoy casi completamente cubierta por el mar, pero de la cual aún se ven algunos indicios cerca del arenal de Langosteira, entre las parroquias de San Vicente y San Martín de Duyo, no lejos de Corcubión», que conservan todavía el viejo nombre” (p. 388 fn.).

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Once again the Lord intervenes. The disciples are at the point of being seized when the bridge over which their pursuers had chased them gives way, sending the enemies of God to their deaths far down in the river below. After giving thanks to God, St. James’s holy disciples return to Lupa where they tell her their holy adventure, repeating to her their earlier request to cede them the little temple so that they might rid it of its pagan idol and give it over to St. James and the true God Whom they serve. Frightened at what might happen to her family once the news of the death of the king and his henchmen became known, Lupa devises a new stratagem. She decides to appear to accede to the disciples’ wishes, and bids them to seek some oxen on a nearby hill to help them. Giving her thanks and also thanking God for her change of mind, the disciples go up the hill, but find no oxen there. Instead, they discover a land laid waste and a ferocious dragon about to destroy them. However, the disciples remember the teachings of their faith: with the sign of the Cross they overcome the dragon who, quite simply, implodes. After offering thanks to the Lord, the disciples exorcize the brook running across it and sprinkle droplets of its purified water over the site; they also change its name from the very pagan-sounding Mount Oak (Illicinus) to the Holy Mountain (Mons Sacer). At last finding the oxen, who are almost as terrifying as the dragon, the disciples approach them in peace and they immediately become gentle and ready to work. When Lupa sees the disciples and the now-domesticated animals enter her palace she is convinced by the various miracles and immediately converts. Faith in the Lord and peace prevail over (pagan) violence and self-centered human powerseeking. A worthy sepulcher for the remains of St. James is constructed, and when the population in the area sees its beauty, as well as the fruitful growth produced by the newly blessed water on the heights of the Holy Mountain, many conversions take place. Our Codex takes pains to tell us of what happened to the disciples once their funeral tasks were completed. Two remained as guardians of St. James’s tomb until “they had paid their debt to Nature and were called to Paradise” where their master welcomed them in joy along with the other seven (?) disciples (ch. i) who were ordained at Rome with the episcopal insignia (infulis episcopalibus aput Romam) by none other than the apostolic St. Peter and St. Paul (Prologue). Thence they were sent to Spain to preach the Word of God: Torquatus at Acci (present-day

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Guadix in Granada province); Tissephons at Vergu (Albuniel de Cami, in Jaén province, perhaps Verga, in Almería province[?]); Secundus at Abula (Ávila, or, more likely, Abla, located between Guadix and Almería); Endalecius at Urci (a town close to Vera, province of Almería); Cecilius at Heliberri (Elvira, near Granada); Esicius at Carcese (there exist various possibilities: Cazorla or Carchel, both in Jaén province, or perhaps Caravaca or Cieza, in the province of Murcia); and Euphrasius, at Eliturgi (Cuevas de Lituergo, in Jaén province, between Bailén and Andújar). It is surely no coincidence that all these locations would later be situated in the very heartland of Morrish Al-Andalus. These saintly ecclesiastics are said to have died on 15 May (Roman calendar), but according to the old Mozarabic calendar their feast is celebrated on 1 May. What the Codex Calixtinus has presented in its account of St. James’s translatio with his Galician disciples back to (pagan) Galicia is in effect the narrative of what amounts to be a sea-centered, Western Atlantic subset of the Apostolic Succession. The active protagonists of this story are, of course, St. James’s disciples. Their Celtic bona fides and nature are stressed repeatedly, as is, naturally, the closeness of the son of Zebedee to Christ Himself. Like St. Peter and along with his brother St. John, St. James is one of Christ’s innermost circle of disciples–witnesses of His Transfiguration (St. Mark ix:2; St. Luke ix:28-36) , of several of His miracles (e.g., His “secret” resuscitation of the dead daughter of one of the rulers of the synagogue, Jairus [St. Matthew ix:23-26; St. Mark v:22, 35-43]), and chosen to be His companions in Gethsemane (St. Matthew xxvi:37)11 St. James’s translatio to Galicia is thus depicted in the Codex Calixtinus as belonging to the wider Christian translatio to Rome, the residence of the papal successor to St. Peter. 11 Chapter iii of Book II of the Codex Calixtinus recounts St. James’s resuscitation of a boy who died of a sudden illness during the pilgrimage he and his parents had been making to Compostella. It had been St. James who rendered the woman able to conceive, doing so as a result of her husband’s having made a pilgrimage to St. James’s tomb some sixteen years earlier in order to implore the saint to forgive him his sins and to give him and his wife the possibility of having a child. The Codex makes the point that the saint’s posthumous power derives from Christ as exemplified in His resuscitating three people while He was among us on Earth; St. John (xiv:12) is quoted: “Qui credit […] in me, opera que ego facio ipse faciet et maiora horum faciet.”

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Nevertheless, the narrative recounting St. James’s burial in Galicia, as has been suggested, and the sea-centeredness characterizing St. James’s story combine to suggest a Celtic specificity that includes Galicia within a geography of Atlantic seaboard peoples that appear to share a common culture and, to a considerable degree, a common history, especially as regards their complex acceptance of Christianity. Thanks to their proximity to the sea and to their development of a way of life largely dependent on sea travel–fishing, commerce, mass migrations–the essentially Celtic inhabitants of Ireland and important swatches of territory in Northern and Western Britain, as well as in Continental Armorica (Brittany) and extreme Northwestern Iberia (Galicia, present-day Portugal, and, to a considerable extent, Asturias) remained for many centuries in constant contact with one another. Such contacts are alluded to as early as the time of ancient Rome by historians and geographers, and they appear to persist under the various régimes (Suevi, etc.) that followed Rome.12 This is the context, she avers, that explains the otherwise curious statement of the 12

The name Gallœcia is Roman, and means ‘little Gaul,’ chosen, apparently, by the Roman legionaries because they found adversaries who fought (the same tactics, the same arms and [non-]dress, with the same help provided by their women) in a manner identical to that found by the Romans in Gaul. In her remarkable article (to which we shall return shortly), Denise Péricard-Méa (in Pèlerinages et croisades [Paris: Éditions du Cimité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques, 1995], pp. 67-79, esp. pp. 68-70) notes that in Classical and medieval times Irleand and “Spain” were indistinctly referred to as Iberia and Hibernia. Even when they were accurately distinguished, she shows, the distances were incorrect: “Au Ve siècle, Orose, qui a parcouru toutes ces régions décrit lui aussi ‘l’île Hibernie (Hibernia), située entre la Bretagne (Britanniam) et l’Espagne (Hispaniam)’ dont ‘les parties antérieures qui s’étendent dans l’océan Cantabrique–qu’il appelle d’ailleurs Britannique–regarde à bonne distance La Corogne.” She continues: Cette paronymie est bien connue des spécialistes de la culture celte. Elle fut signalée en 1960 par Mario Esposito, en 1978 par Christian Guyonvarc’h et plus récemment encore par Bernard Merdrignac, historien spécialiste du haut Moyen Âge breton. Pour ce dernier cette paronymie puise sa source dans des origines historico-légendaires communes. Tacite disait déjà que les habitants du sud du pays de Galles avaient pour ancêtres des Ibères ayant traversé la mer pour s’y établir. Si celui-ci définissaient les Brigantes comme un peuple de Grande Bretagne, Orose donne Brigantia comme “cité de Galice”, la ville de La Corogne, homonymie qui traduit bien ces origines communes. Dès le haut Moyen Âge, on dit sur le continent que Irlande et Espagne ont été peuplées par “Scota, fille de Pharaon qui serait passée d’Égypte en Scythie puis en Galice avant que son fils Yber ne donne le nom de sa mère à l’Irlande.

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Venerable Bede (Migne, Patrologie latine, 94, pp. 926-27-30), which Péricard-Méa gives in a French version: “[…] les ossements sacrés de ce bienheureux furent transportés du côté de Hibernis et y fut caches dans [c]es ultimes contrées, à savoir face à la mer Britannique” (p. 67). Lack of space prevents our providing much further evidence of constant contact throughout the Middle Ages between the various Celtic communities of Galicia, France, Britain and Ireland. Worthy of note, however, is the mass migration of British Celts (mainly to Armorica, but quite significantly to Galicia over the 5th and, mostly, the 6th centuries). Thus was born the British-Celtic diocese of Britonia located on the Atlantic coast in northern Galicia and Asturias (near Mondoñedo). The Bretoñes presence established close relations with the Tours-influenced monastic Catholicity of Dumio, introduced and headed by the remarkable St. Martin of Braga (ca. 520-80) who settled in Galicia and founded the monastery at Dumio (Braga) ca. 550. Also, this presence brought to Galicia reinforced connections with the monastic Christianity of Ireland the religious and cultural influence of which, through its numerous traveling monk-missionaries, on Merovingian Gaul and, in general, on Western European Catholicity can scarcely be overestimated. (Ireland, we recall, had never been conquered before Henry II Plantagenet in 1172). The traffic went in both directions, however. At various times throughout the Middle Ages Galicians went to Ireland and substantial numbers of them settled there. As late as 1599 the Pope appointed Fray Mateo de Oviedo, a resident of Compostella, archbishop of Dublin. He was borne to his new metropolitan see by a fleet equipped lavishly by King Phillip II of Spain and consisting of a first flotilla of some fortyfive ships and 3,000 men, followed by a second flotilla of twelve ships and 800 men. Galicians helped substantially their Irish Catholic cousins in various rebellions fought against the English king on behalf of Irish independence. After the chieftains of numerous Irish clans–the O’Neills and the O’Donnells–were forced to give up their lands and power to James I (James VII of Scotland), they and their families emigrated to Galicia. Numerous other Irishmen emigrated to Spain’s American empire. The story and meaning of St. James is, as we have on various occasions suggested, intricately interwoven into the tissue of the ancient and medieval Celtic world of the Atlantic seaboard–a world whose culture and deepest meanings are inextricably linked to the sea.

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To put the matter succinctly, the tale of St. James’s arrival and burial in Galicia, as well as the follow-up destiny of his Galician disciples, show that this Celtic world constituted the port of entry for the apostle’s penetration of the vast European hinterland. Or, to put the matter in another way, the beautiful story of the disciples who found an appropriate burial site in Galicia and who converted Lupa from her erstwhile pagan ways is that of their finding and securing a beachhead, whereas their subsequent missionary activity, sanctioned by the Rome of St. Peter, marked the steady progress of their (and their followers’) missionary activity of conversion throughout what would become Catholic Europe. And as the example of such holy Irishmen as St. Columbanus and many others provided the model–the mentalité–for the activity engaged in on behalf of St. James, so the deep interest in the activity of these men on the part of the papacy furnished a model for the account given of St. James’s translatio by Book III of the Codex Calixtinus. Book III of our Codex is an extraordinary poem; it follows perfectly on Book II’s elegantly touching narrative of St. James’s miracles. Before leaving the issues of “Celticity,” let us return to a remarkable story recounted by Denise Péricard-Méa in her aforementioned article. There she discusses the pardon celebrated in the seaside town of Locquirec (the Baie de Lannion, in the département of Finisterre) and establishes a richly documented context for it; this context has to do with a Northern Celtic (i.e., Scottish, British, and Irish) veneration for the saint we now tend almost exclusively to associate with Spain and Compostellan Galicia, as well as with the Spanish Christian Reconquista which, as we shall observe, has much to do with the birth of a Catholic crusading spirit during the 11th and 12th centuries and is formative to Book IV of the Codex Calixtinus, the so-called PseudoTurpin Chronicle. Péricard-Méa points out that the Stuart kings of Scotland and England chose St. James as their patron: in a Book of Hours, James IV is depicted with his patron saint dressed as a pilgrim. Joseph of Arimathea, of Grail fame, was said to have evangelized Great Britain: one of his companions was, apparently, our St. James.13 St. James also 13 According to Péricard-Méa (p. 70) this “fact” was proclaimed by the English delegation at the Council of Basel, and was not disputed by the Spanish delegation there headed by Alfonso de Cartagena.

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is reported as attending in Britain the consecration as bishop of St. Samson, future founder of the monastery of Dol (the diocese including the parish of Locquirec). An old legend is given by Péricard-Méa in its 19th-century written form: Un jour, à ce que j’ai ouï dire, ou plutôt une nuit, des marins de cette côte virent sur la mer une barque étrange, en forme de huche à pétrir, qu’enveloppait une nuée lumineuse. Elle venait vers le rivage, contre vents et marées, sans voiles, sans équipage, sans gouvernail. Quand elle eut abordé, les gens s’approchaient et virent, étendu dans le fond, le corps d’un moine vêtu d’un habit de pèlerin. Des pêcheurs qui avaient voyagé reconnurent saint Jacques et dirent: C’est saint Jacques, d’Espagne ou de Turquie. Il vient pour faire des miracles dans notre contrée. Recevons-le avec respect, d’autant plus que saint Kirek est bien vieux. (pp. 72-73)

Péricard-Méa’s description of the pardon celebrated faithfully each year is worth its weight in gold: it replicates in spirit the sort of serviceable saint of Book II (the Miracles) of the Codex Calixtinus: Chaque 25 juillet effectivement, de mémoire d’homme et bien au-delà puisque les premiers documents historiques le mentionnent en 1704 comme un fait habituel, le «Grand Pardon» réunit toute la communauté villageoise afin d’obtenir les faveurrs de saint Jacques et d’un autre saint au nom de consonnance spécifiquement bretonne [celte?], Kirek. Le cérémonial s’ordonne autour d’un double thème, l’enfance et la mer. C’est en effet sous la figure de deux enfants que saint Jacques en costume de pèlerin et saint Kirek en costume d’évêque précèdent les prêtres, eux-mêmes suivis des enfants du village. À la fin de la messe la procession se dirige en chantant vers le port. Les insignes, portés par les marins tant qu’il y en eut consistent en statues et bannières de saint Jacques et de la Vierge, grand voilier offert jadis en ex-voto par les rescapés d’un naufrage, et reliquaire contenant une relique jamais mentionnée ailleurs, du «sang de saint Jacques». Arrivés sur le môle, clergé, statue et enfants embarquent sur un bateau, s’éloignent de quelques encablures et s’immobilisent pour bénir tous les bateaux du port qui viennent demander la protection de saint Jacques [patron saint of pilgrims] sous les yeux des fidèles assemblés sur les quais. (p. 73)

A bit further on, Péricard-Méa mentions a “reliquaire” located outside the St. James church, suggesting that in times past it was viewed as the burial place of the apostle. Parish registers dating from the 18th century note that three dead babies had been buried there, despite the fact that, under the ancien régime, the Parlement de Bretagne had approved laws requiring all burials to take place in proper cemeteries. She suggests, to my mind quite convincingly, that at Locquirec it came to be believed that the saint who protected pilgrims and travelers would be the ideal holy guide to lead the souls of small babies–stillborns, very young

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infants– to Heaven. Too young to find their own way, these infants needed the saint’s help. Who better than St. James, the patron saint of pilgrims? For that reason, then, parents buried their dead infants in the same place as the saint himself so that their dead children might conveniently avail themselves of his services.14 As in Galicia and other Celtic lands, the son of Zebedee was pressed into service by those who sought to convert to Christianity the resident pagans of Brittany. The village of St. Jacques (located some 20 km. south of Paimpol) furnishes a case in point. Between the road leading to the village and the local church (now in a state of disrepair, unfortunately, but replete with stunningly beautiful folk paintings and sculptures of apostles and the Blessed Virgin) one finds a stone basin fed by an underground source. In former times the village women did their washing there. At one end of the rectangular basin a seated stone statue of St. James seems to preside over the site, in all probability a former druidic sacred spot.15 The apostle appears to be protecting the washerwomen who toiled there from potential marauders arriving by road at the village. Thus, St. James’s usefulness, along with his protection of travelers, and his active participation in the process of conversion to Christianity–all of which are illustrated, and indeed emphasized, in the 14 See pp. 77-78. She also notes that St. James was seen as the patron saint of orphans in medieval Germany. She adds: on peut peut-être aussi rapprocher cette coutume de la découverte faite en 1991 lors d’une fouille de sauvetage à Norges-la-Ville où les archéologues bourguignons ont mis à jour un sarcophage, sans couvercle, reposant à l’extérieure de l’église, contre le mur sud de la nef actuelle et contenant un squelette d’adulte au-dessus duquel avaient été déposés, en trois couches distinctes, dix-sept enfants dont plusieurs très jeunes. (p. 78) 15 A similar scene may be found on the grounds of the parish church of IlliersCombray (dedicated to St. James, though called St. Hilaire by Proust, in his Combray). Not far from Chartres, Illiers is situated on one of the routes leading from Paris to Compostella via Chartres. The church replaces a sacred place formerly tended by druids; like the church at St. Jacques in Brittany, it too contains a well fed by an underground stream. Trees and sources of this sort were commonly held to be sacred by pre-Christian Celtic religions. (See various references to St. Martin of Tours’ missionary work of conversion in Gregory of Tours, Historia Francorum, passim, and, in particular, various anecdotes pertaining to St. Martin’s work with pagan rustics as recounted by Sulpicius Severus’s early 5th-c. Vita Sancti Martini (e.g., the story of the “sacred” pine tree).

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Codex Calixtinus (Book II and, especially, in the tale of his disciples as recounted in Book III)–are displayed and stressed in the stories to which we have just referred. It would appear most plausible, I believe, to consider the St. James we have been considering as antecedent to the militant warrior of the Battle of Clavijo and, in general, of the Christian Reconquista in Spain, although by no means is this earlier, largely Celtic St. James contradictory of the latter one.16 These words describe fairly accurately what we have called here the “Celtic”–the “useful”–St. James whose memory is preserved and disseminated essentially by oral story-telling. One should contrast this St. James with the far more literary, and learned, St. James of much of Book IV of the Codex Calixtinus, even though the latter, as was said, does not so much contradict the former as, so to speak, derive from him. Acting according to their master’s example of unswerving faith17 and, as it were, proving through their own example, his disciples–those who succeeded in burying him appropriately at Libredón, along with many others, including St. Samson of Dol–were essential in the conversion to the Western Catholic faith of the peoples of Europe. Hailing from Galicia, from the Western British Iles, from Brittany, and, of course, particularly from Ireland,18 these “disciples” penetrated further and further East into Merovingian Europe, into Lombardy, and Switzerland (e.g., St. Columbanus at Luxeuil [Burgundy] and at Bobbio [Lombardy], and at many other places). By the time of Charles the 16 In her Une Chapelle de pèlerinage Saint-Jacques de Tréméven en Côtes d’Armor: Dossier (Perros-Guirec: La TILV, 1999), Michèle Turbin succinctly and convincingly makes this very important point: La ferveur suscitée par l’apôtre dont le corps repose à Compostelle n’entre pas dans la catégorie des dévotions dites populaires. Saint Jacques est à tous les points de vue un intercesseur exceptionnel […] Son culte, vivifié par le pèlerinage, a une audience universelle. Mais il est en particulier patron des pèlerins et des chevaliers, invoqué par les agonisants qu’il guide vers le ciel comme il est un guide sur terre, il protège les droguistes (pharmaciens), les chapeliers, les rhumatisants et les éleveurs de pommes […].” (emphasis mine; pp. 87-89) 17 St. James’s faith is testified to and illustrated by St. Jerome’s De Viris Illustribus (392) which tells of the son of Zebedee who, witnessing Christ on the Cross, swore that he would not eat bread until he would see and speak with his Resurrected Lord. 18 For a detailed, very informative, and highly readable narrative concerning Irish missionary activity in Ireland itself–a kind of paradigm of Celtic Christianization–see Lisa Bitel, Isle of the Saints: Monastic Settlement and Christian Community in Early Ireland (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1990).

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Hammer (732) and King Pippin, the Carolingian “usurper,” Catholic Europe was in a position materially and spiritually to hold back the Muslim invasion and even intervene in Spain. The historical memory of Charlemagne’s powerful and very Christian Empire was quite alive at the time of the anti-Islamic crusades of the 11 th and 12th centuries, as the chansons de geste of the period, and many other documents, testify. It was then that Santiago Matamoros came into his own on a pan-European scale. Book IV of the Codex Calixtinus completes the triptych which acts to “historicize,” or “Europeanize,” the content of Book I. Entitled Ex Re Signatur Jacobis Liber Iste Vocat Ipsum Scribenti–Sit Gloriam Sit Qui Legenti, Book I gives the apostle’s biography, a recital and explanation of the particular days in which he is venerated, and numerous offices and masses (including one owed to Bishop Fulbert of Chartres). Books II, III, and IV as we have seen already for the first two of these, treat the saint’s–and, very significantly, his disciples’– activity in the world.19 Limitations of space preclude our according Book IV the detailed attention it deserves, for it does no less than incorporate the story of the Celtic/Galician St. James into the mainstream of European history– the story which was incarnated by the Emperor of the Romans (crowned by the Pope on Christmas Day in the year 800), Charles the Great (Karolus Magnus, or, Charlemagne). The text was frequently copied as a separate work (some one-hundred and fifty manuscripts of it survive) and, around 1200, it began to be translated into the vernacular. It is usually known as the Pseudo-Turpin Chronicle; our Codex calls it the Historia Turpini and its author “Turpinus Domini Gratia Archiepiscopus.” Turpin, we remember from the Song of Roland, accompanied Charles on his expedition to Spain, and fought with Roland and the Twelve Peers at Rencesvals; it is said that he survived the wounds he suffered there and was taken to Vienne–Pope Calistus II’s former see–where he convalesced and wrote up his eyewitness chronicle.

19

As noted above, Book V of the Codex Calixtinus is to all intents and purposes a guide for pilgrims, replete with practical advice (and warning concerning the perfidy of the Basques!); to my knowledge it is the oldest such handbook in West European culture.

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In many respects the version of events furnished by Turpin “colonizes” Spanish history, much to the annoyance of many modern traditionalist Spanish historians (e.g., Cantera Orive). Not only do the armies of the Emperor liberate enslaved Spain from its Muslim conquerors, the clerics accompanying him succeed in converting the Galicians from their stubborn “Saracenism” (sic; ch. xix). Charles, we learn, appointed bishops and priests in the various cities and called a Church Council in Compostella where he obliged the various kings of the “Spains,” including Galicia, as well as all the prelates, to swear fealty and obedience to the bishop of St. James at Compostella. The Historia Turpini, we have suggested, integrated the story and meaning of St. James into the West European consciousness and imagination.20 As a perfectly wrought artifact and as an example of careful medieval Latin style, the Codex Calixtinus possesses a profundity equaled only by the magnificent Pórtico de Gloria above the main entrance to the Compostellan cathedral. And, as we are beginning to understand, its architecture is extraordinarily well contrived, with the triptych formed 20

The penultimate chapter (xxii) of Turpin’s narrative contains, in addition to a “classic” portrait of Charles and a description of Aachen (Charles’s capital), a fairly lengthy depiction of the church dedicated there to the Blessed Virgin. Possibly deriving from Einhard’s 9th-century Vita Karoli, the account mentions the many allegories painted in this building, as well as pictures of Charles’s victories in Spain. A lengthy and solemn description of the Seven Liberal Arts follows, suggesting that the compiler of our Codex was fully conscious of the fact that his historiographical task– the learned incorporation of St. James’s story into the pan-European Christian poetic sense of its identity, or history–required its being articulated according to the principles underlying the curricula of the 11th- and 12th-century schools (particularly of France). (Let us also recall here that Calistus himself–or the narrator speaking with his voice–had also stated in the Argumentum constituting the forematter to Book II the importance of writing: “Summopere precium est beati Jacobi miracula ad decus Domini nostri Ihesu Christi scripture et memorie eternaliter commendare” [p. 159].) If what we have suggested is in fact the case, then the compiler was fully conscious of what he deemed to be the historical truth of his material and intended his history to be understood as true. What, outside of Spain at least, had been above all transmitted orally receives the dignity of letters thanks to his labor. The European poetic imagination may rightly be seen as one of the beneficiaries of “Turpin”’s work. Its deeply rooted offshoots have grown for many centuries, both in Europe itself and in America. Not only the Paradiso of Dante’s Commedia, but other medieval works like Joinville’s Histoire de saint Louis and Primat’s Grandes Chroniques de France, and such more recent masterpieces as Alejo Carpentier’s “El camino de Santiago” in La guerra del tiempo (1958) and Marcel Proust’s Combray (Du Côté de chez Swann [1913]) are in significant ways progeny of the Historia Turpini.

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by Books II, III, and IV embedded in an overall tripartite work consisting of Book I, the three afore-mentioned books, and Book V. Containing numerous hymns and antiphons, it is also a book to be performed by its officiants, its choirs and its listeners. Yet it all boils down to the apostle and what he stands for in the eyes of the individual West European Christian. Each of the five books fixes upon this fundamental relationship in its own way(s). Given the Biblical St. James’s closeness to Christ and his steadfast faith, by hearing him speak and by touching him the individual Christian comes as close as he can to the Son of God, his Redeemer. Nowhere is the depth and intimacy of this relationship more brilliantly and touchingly invoked than in chapter i of the Historia Turpini. Let us conclude our remarks in the present analysis with a closer look at this extraordinary chapter. The transcription given by Klaus Herbers and Manuel Santos Noia of the Codex Calixtinus is divided into paragraphs. The first paragraph of Book IV is given over to a brief biographical summary of the life and posthumous cursus of St. James (up to his burial in Galicia) and to an analogous summary of Charlemagne’s putting together of the Christian Empire of the West through many battles fought against Saracen pagans; Charles is weary (gravi labore ac tanto sudore fatigatus) and desires a rest (requiem). Meanwhile, St. James has slipped into oblivion: nobody is aware of his tomb or, for that matter, of his Galician presence. The narrative proper starts with Charles observing in the night heavens a vast roadway of stars that lead from Frisia over Gaul and Aquitainia, and, after crossing Germany (Theotonicam) as well as Italy, traversing Gascony, the Basque country, Navarre and Spain (Yspaniam), and ending in Galicia. He marvels at this starry highway (caminum), and desires to learn its significance. This paragraph sets up the material and issues raised by Turpin’s Historia. Despite his fatigue Charles is curious, indeed fascinated by the starry road; St. James is unhappy at the oblivion to which he has been reduced. Saint and Emperor have need of each other. The following paragraph starts with Charles in deep meditation on the stars when he receives the visit of a gentleman whose beauty and splendor cannot be rendered by words. The stranger asks Charles, “What are you doing, my son?” Charles replies with a question: “Who are you, my lord (domine)?” “I am the apostle James, disciple of

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Christ, the son of Zebedee, brother of John the Evangelist, chosen by Our Lord through His ineffable grace, on the shore of the sea of Galilee, to preach to the people, [but] killed with a sword by King Herod, and whose body rests unknown in Galicia, [a land] still oppressed shamefully by the Saracens.”21 St. James goes on to add: “I am astounded beyond words that you who have conquered so many cities and lands have not seen fit to free my country from the Saracens.” He gives Charles a task that only he is capable of performing: “I therefore inform you that just as Our Lord has seen fit to make you the most powerful ruler in the world, He has chosen you to prepare my pilgrimage road [ad preparandu iter meum] and to deliver my land from the hands of the Moabites [a term normally applied to the Almoravids, but here designating more generally the Muslim adversaries of the Christians fighting in Spain], and in this way you will earn for yourself a crown of eternal glory. The road of stars that you saw in the heavens signifies that from here you and the vast armies you raise will travel to Galicia, combat the perfidious pagan folk, free my roadway and my country, and visit my basilica and tomb.”

Three interviews with St. James convince Charlemagne, despite his fatigue, to do as he has been told: he raises numerous armies and heads for Spain. After praying to Christ and to St. James he assaults Pamplona which, with their help, he succeeds in taking. He and his troops then repair to “Galicia” (which comprises most of the Iberian Atlantic littoral, including almost all of Portugal), thence to León and Castile, to Aragon and Catalonia, to Valencia and Andalusia where his armies combat and vanquish the Muslims. With the special help of the Lord and Santiago Charles finally conquers the last Islamic stronghold, the city of Lucerna, after a four-month siege. (God caused Lucerna’s walls to fall down, like those of Jericho and for that matter Pamplona, and this miracle opened the stubbornly resisting city to Charlemagne.) Although subsequent Frankish emperors and kings were not able to maintain Charles’s success–a failure that prompted much religious backsliding–Turpin’s Emperor did in fact succeed for a time in freeing Iberia from Muslim domination. His feat thus would remain for centuries as an example of faith and hope that it might one day be repeated. 21

These English-language translations from the Codex Calixtinus are mine.

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Before undertaking the liberation of all of Spain, we are told, Charles visited St. James’s tomb in Santiago de Compostela, after which, alone, he went to the nearby seaside town of Padrón where he found no resistance and threw his lance as far as he was able, embedding it into the sea floor to the West, all the while giving thanks to God and the apostle for having brought him this far, but admitting that he could go no further. The Latin text is quite moving: “Inde visitaro sarcofago beati Iacobi, venit ad Petronum sine contrario, et infixit in mare lanceam, agens Deo et sancto Iacobo grates, qui eum usque illuc introduxit, dicens quia in antea ire non poterat” (ch ii, p. 202). The man-to-man conversations held by the holy apostle and the Emperor of the Romans under the canopy of St. James’s starry celestial road thus resulted of benefit to both of the individuals involved. Conditions were established that permitted the saint to fulfill his duty as his Lord had commanded–to bring the Word of God to West Europe (and particularly to Spain)–and, similarly, Charles was put in a position to do his duty as Christian king and emperor. His throwing his lance as far as he could over the sea is a sign that he knew in his own soul that he had done his very best since while doing so alone he thanked God and His apostle for the opportunity they gave him to do what he did. God’s intervention proves His love for Charles and for the peoples over which he reigned, and, meanwhile, Charles actions prove his ability freely to respond to that love and truly to be himself a worthy ruler. Finally, that Charles’s visit to Padrón involves the sea in so significant a moment of his life and reign bespeaks the great significance of the sea in the story of St. James and of the Europe with which he has become identified.22

22 Five of the twenty-two miracles (not including the one added as a colophon to the volume) ascribed to St. James by the Codex Calixtinus, Bk. II deal specifically with the apostle’s miraculous interventions at sea. As a group these miracles uncannily recall Christ’s promise to James the fisherman to follow Him and that He would make of him a “fisher of men.”

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Le héros et le saint dans la Queste del Saint Graal: image et ressemblance omme on l’a parfois remarqué, les liens qui s’établissent entre Dieu et sa Création sont moins envisagés au Moyen Âge en termes d’immanence et de transcendance–comme c’est sans doute le cas aujourd’hui–que sous le rapport de l’analogie.1 Une telle conception repose sur la parole même du Créateur telle que la rapporte la Genèse: “Et ait: ‘Faciamus Hominem ad imaginem et similitudinem nostram’” (1.27), formule que la Queste inscrit dans le corps même du texte, sans néanmoins distinguer formellement entre image et ressemblance.2 De souveraine importance dans le domaine de la théologie, cette distinction s’inscrit au sein d’une longue tradition: héritée de certains Pères (Grégoire de Nysse, Jean Damascène), elle a surtout été exploitée, à l’époque de notre texte, par “les ‘volontaristes,’ les cisterciens.”3 Plus généralement, le thème de l’image et/ou de la ressemblance correspond à cette renaissance qui, au XIIe siècle, clôt 1 Voir sur ce point R. Javelet, Image et ressemblance au XIIe siècle, de saint Anselme à Alain de Lille (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1967), p. 276. Voir aussi E. Gilson, L’Esprit de la philosophie médiévale (Paris: J. Vrin, 1932), qui montre la façon dont les notions d’analogie et de participation, empruntées au Platonisme, viennent inévitablement croiser, dans la perspective chrétienne, la causalité interprétée comme un don de l’être: Il y a peu de formules qui reviennent plus souvent chez saint Thomas que celle où cette relation s’exprime; puisque tout ce qui cause agit selon qu’il est en acte, toute cause produit un effet qui lui ressemble: Omne agens agit sibi simile. La similitude n’est pas ici une qualité additionnelle, contingente, qui surviendrait on ne sait comment, pour couronner l’efficace, elle est coessentielle à la nature même de l’efficience, dont elle n’est que le signe extérieur et la manifestation sensible. Si donc l’univers chrétien est un effet de Dieu, et la notion de création l’implique, il doit nécessairement être un analogue de Dieu. (p. 99) 2 La Queste del Saint Graal, éd. A. Pauphilet (Paris: Champion, 1923): “Li oisiax senefie nostre Creator, qui forma a sa semblance home” (p. 184). Toutes nos références renvoient à cette édition. En revanche, dans l’Estoire del Saint Graal, éd. J.P. Ponceau (Paris: Champion, 1997), nous trouvons: “Faisons home a nostre ymage et a nostre samblanche” (§ 81). Même en théologie, distinction ou absence de distinction ne sont pas significatives: selon les cas, les mêmes auteurs dissocient ou non image et ressemblance (cf. R. Javelet, p. 212). 3 Ibid., p. 188.

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par un sursaut magnifique l’augustinisme platonisant. Après la vague aristotélicienne, il perdra de son importance, et ces notions n’apparaîtront plus qu’en marge, dans les commentaires de textes bibliques. A bien des égards, la Queste s’offre par excellence comme le roman de la semblance.4 Sans prétendre épuiser ici tous les aspects de ce schème fondamental, nous voudrions nous intéresser à la façon dont l’ouvrage inscrit la doctrine de l’image au sein de sa structure anthropologique ou, selon les termes de la poétique littéraire, au sein du système des personnages. Parmi ceux-ci, il en est un qui jouit d’un statut tout à fait particulier, puisqu’il y apparaît “à la fois en héros et en saint,”5 ce dernier caractère suffisant à inscrire en lui, à côté de l’image, la ressemblance divine. S’il est vrai, comme le note Guillaume de Saint-Thierry, qu’une telle conjonction définit la perfection des élus,6 il n’est sans doute pas sans intérêt de montrer en quoi Galaad, ce “bon chevalier parfait,” ce “saint chevalier” participe de cette définition. De surcroît, au sein d’une œuvre qui traduit une réaction dévote vis-à-vis des romans courtois, il est permis de s’interroger sur le statut des héros arthuriens définis par référence à la figure du saint et placés entre l’image et la dissemblance. Enfin, dans un texte qui fait du saint le fils du héros principal, il faudra revenir sur cette relation privilégiée “car onques mes ne se resemblerent dui home si merveilleusement come il dui fesoient” (p.14).

4 Sur le sens du mot et sur le rôle de la catégorie, cf. D. Poirion, “Semblance du Graal dans la Queste,” dans Mélanges de linguistique, de littérature et de philologie médiévales offerts à J. R. Smeets, éds. Q.I.M. Mok, Ina Spiele et P.E.R. Verhuck (Leiden: [s.n.], 1982), pp. 227-41; M. Stanesco, “Parole autoritaire et ‘accord des semblances’ dans la Queste del Saint Graal,” dans Miscellanea Mediaevalia: mélanges offerts à Philippe Ménard, éds. J.-C. Faucon, A. Labbé et D. Quéruel, 2 tomes (Paris: Champion, 1998), t. 2, pp. 1267-79; P. Coupireau, “La semblance et les limites de l’homme dans la Queste del Saint Graal,” dans Entre l’Ange et la bête. L’homme et ses limites au Moyen Âge, éd. M.-E. Bély, J.-R. Valette et J.-C. Vallecalle (Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 2003), pp. 83-95. 5 M. Lot-Borodine, “Les Grands Secrets du Saint-Graal dans la Queste du pseudoMap,” dans Lumière du Graal, éd. R.Nelli (Paris: Les Cahiers du Sud, 1951), pp. 15174, ici p.162. 6 “Et haec est omnis eorum perfectio, similitudo Dei,” Lettre aux frères du MontDieu, éd. J. Déchanet (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1975), § 259.

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I. Perfection et ressemblances Dès le début du récit, la perfection de Galaad est posée. Elle est donnée–et non construite–par un roman qui la fixe à l’aide de formules récurrentes. Galaad est appelé tour à tour: “sainte chose” (p. 36), “saint chevalier” (p. 46), “le bon chevalier, le parfait” (p. 86), “li Bons Chevaliers” (p. 35), “li Bons Chevaliers, cil que vos alez querant” (p. 54), “le verai chevalier” (p. 249). Quel que soit l’adjectif employé (saint, parfait, bon, vrai), le mot chevalier surgit à chaque fois, comme une inévitable constante. C’est que, même si la Queste del Saint Graal “laisse se manifester les signes les plus nets et les plus audacieux d’une symbiose spirituelle de la religion et de la chevalerie,” elle est d’abord et avant tout “un roman de chevalerie.”7 Au terme du parcours, ce que voit Galaad au fond du Graal, c’est “l’essence même du chevalier, la prouesse et les granz hardememenz, ces incomparables merveilles,”8 saisies en leur point d’origine. Si Galaad est bien identifié à la classe des chevaliers, il se signale cependant par une différence spécifique, comme le soulignent les adjectifs cités précédemment, ce que le texte traduit aussi dans le langage de la ressemblance. Au cours d’une vision, le protagoniste apparaît à Lancelot sous la forme d’un lion, ce qui suscite le commentaire suivant: “si le muoit en figure de lyon, ce est a dire qu’il le metoit oultre toutes manieres d’omes terriens, si que nus ne li resemblast ne en fierté ne en pooir” (p. 137). La glose est aussitôt suivie de ces mots, adressés à Lancelot: “de chevalerie nel puet nus ressembler, ne toi ne autres.” Si aucun des chevaliers ne peut ressembler à Galaad, c’est parce que ce dernier “est de si haute vie que ce est merveille”; en d’autres termes, c’est parce qu’il possède en lui la ressemblance divine. A n’en pas douter, l’univers de la Queste repose sur ces notions de similitude et de participation que la métaphysique chrétienne emprunte au platonisme. E. Gilson a souligné l’originalité de cette dernière catégorie: elle “répugne à la pensée logique […] puisque toute participation suppose que ce qui participe est et n’est pas ce dont il participe.”9 Ainsi en est-il de la figure de Galaad, placée au centre de 7

J. Frappier, Autour du Graal (Genève: Droz, 1977), pp.123 et 114. E. Baumgartner, L’Arbre et le Pain (Paris: SEDES, 1981), p.154. 9 E. Gilson, L’Esprit, p. 98. 8

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cet univers: il participe de la ressemblance divine même s’il n’est pas le Christ; sa venue doit être comparée à celle de Jésus, “de semblance ne mie de hautesce” (p. 14). La participation exclut l’identification pure et simple car elle signifie nettement l’infériorité du participant: “Ce qui est semblable par participation reçoit la dissemblance,” rappelle Pierre Lombard au XIIe siècle.10 En tant qu’elle associe semblance et dissemblance, la notion de participation rend compte du rapport de Galaad à Dieu mais également de celui qui s’établit entre les chevaliers arthuriens et le fils de Lancelot: séparés de lui par le péché, ils aspirent à lui ressembler, à partager sa compagnie. Dès 1925, E. Gilson a montré que notre roman est sous-tendu par une théologie cistercienne de la grâce. S’il affirme qu’“il ne faudrait expliquer la Queste qu’après avoir assimilé le De gratia et libero arbitrio de saint Bernard, son commentaire sur le Cantique des Cantiques et son De diligendo Deo,”11 il accorde une place de choix au premier de ces ouvrages. Dans cet opuscule composé vers 1127, saint Bernard envisage le libre arbitre dans le triple état de nature, de grâce et de gloire, ce qui le conduit à distinguer trois degrés de liberté: la libertas a necessitate affranchit l’homme de l’état de nature grâce au libre vouloir dont il dispose en tant que créature raisonnable. La libertas a peccato requiert le concours de la grâce car “elle suppose un être affranchi de la concupiscence et, de ce fait, capable de diriger son vouloir vers son objet propre, le Souverain Bien.”12 La libertas a miseria, enfin, est d’un ordre transcendant car elle “affranchit l’homme de sa condition pour le faire vouloir de la volonté même de Dieu.”13 Chacune de ces libertés est interprétée comme un degré de ressemblance: “En ces trois libertés consistent l’image et la ressemblance de Dieu, selon lesquelles nous avons été créés, en sorte que l’image se retrouve dans le libre arbitre et la ressemblance dans les deux autres libertés.”14 Dès lors, “la distinction image/ressemblance 10

Cité par R. Javelet, p. 141. E. Gilson, Les Idées et les Lettres (Paris: J. Vrin, 1932), p. 68, n.1. 12 P. Magnard, “Image et ressemblance,” dans Saint Bernard et la philosophie, éd. R. Brague (Paris: PUF, 1993), pp. 73-85, ici p. 80. A Bohort qui n’évoque que la première des libertés, celle du libre arbitre, un ermite rappelle le rôle que joue la grâce (voir p. 165). 13 Ibid. 14 Bernard de Clairvaux, De la grâce et du libre arbitre, chap. IX, trad. P. Magnard, art. cit. 11

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n’est plus une photographie de l’homme intérieur, c’est son histoire; cet homme intérieur est considéré comme une destinée […]. On pourrait considérer qu’il y a d’abord l’œuvre de Dieu, une nature donnée, une image; puis une activité humaine à sens différent, aboutissant soit à la ressemblance, soit à la dissemblance.”15 Ressembler, pour une image, consiste à imiter son modèle, c’est-àdire à aspirer à rejoindre son archétype. C’est ce mouvement ad imaginem qu’évoque la Queste à travers les paroles que le Christ adresse aux trois élus, à ceux qui “en mortel vie [sont] devenu esperitel” (p. 270). Au regard de ce déploiement spirituel, de cette projection dans le temps de la distinction image/ressemblance, le roman semble suivre deux voies, selon qu’elle lance les chevaliers à l’extérieur, dans le monde des aventures et des périls ou bien qu’elle recoure, notamment lors des entretiens spirituels, à une grammaire de l’intériorité. Ces deux voies correspondent, au sein de la sphère cistercienne, à deux inflexions doctrinales : d’un côté se trouve Bernard de Clairvaux, pour qui la liberté est considérée comme l’essor de la vie spirituelle. On connaît l’importance que revêt chez lui le thème de l’ascèse: la restauration se présente sous l’aspect d’une purification plus que d’une illumination. Notre roman ne prône pas autre chose lorsqu’il évoque la quête: “qui i velt entrer et venir a perfection d’aucune chose, il li covient avant espurgier et netoier de totes ordures terrianes” (p. 116). En marge de cette voie fondée sur la conquête des libertés de grâce et de gloire, il est une autre inspiration, qui se manifeste tout particulièrement au cours des phases de réflexivité. M. Lot-Borodine, la première, a souligné l’influence exercée par Guillaume de SaintThierry, lequel représente notamment une tradition plus fidèle à Augustin et à son psychologisme: La ressemblance se rétablit de deux manières différentes dans les deux doctrines, parce qu’elle n’est pas située exactement au même endroit. Chez saint Bernard, elle est essentiellement dans le bon usage du libre arbitre; sa restauration est donc essentiellement celle de la liberté. Chez Guillaume, elle est surtout dans la “mémoire” augustinienne de Dieu, d’où naît la raison; c’est donc dans le rappel de la présence de Dieu que consiste la restauration de l’image oblitérée.16 15 16

n.1.

R. Javelet, p. 188-89. E. Gilson, La Théologie mystique de saint Bernard (Paris: J. Vrin, 1931), p. 150,

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Les nombreux entretiens au cours desquels les chevaliers d’Arthur sont invités à rentrer en eux-mêmes jouent ce rôle. L’épisode du chevalier à la litière, durant lequel Lancelot, comme entransé, assiste à l’apparition du Graal doit aussi être rattaché à cette inspiration. C’est ce que suggère P. Matarasso lorsqu’elle analyse le motif de la torpeur spirituelle.17 Dans ses Sermons sur le Cantique des Cantiques, composés de 1135 à sa mort, en 1153, saint Bernard reprend les idées de Guillaume, à telle enseigne que sa propre conception de l’image et de la ressemblance se répartit en deux blocs doctrinaux bien distincts. Au sein de ce second corpus, la distinction entre l’image et la ressemblance disparaît au profit d’une triple ressemblance. La Lettre aux frères du Mont-Dieu, souvent jugée moins confuse que les Sermons sur le Cantique, peut soutenir notre exposé. Galaad réunit en lui les trois ressemblances que distingue Guillaume: la première est commune à tout être vivant; inamissible, elle subsiste en dépit du péché: “cette ressemblance divine en l’homme n’est pour lui, quant au mérite, d’aucun poids au regard de Dieu: elle est un don naturel, non le fruit de la volonté ou du labeur de l’homme” (§ 260);18 la seconde ressemblance est “plus proche de Dieu, parce que volontaire”: “c’est lorsque l’âme raisonnable brûle d’imiter, en quelque sorte, par la grandeur de sa vertu, la grandeur du souverain Bien, et l’immutabilité de l’éternité divine par sa constance à persévérer dans le bien” (§ 261); la troisième ressemblance est “tellement particulière dans ce qu’elle a de singulier, qu’on ne lui donne plus le nom de ressemblance, mais celui d’unité d’esprit. C’est quand l’homme devient avec Dieu une seule chose, un seul esprit, non seulement par l’unité d’un même vouloir, mais encore par je ne sais quelle expression plus vraie d’une vertu qui n’est plus capable, ainsi qu’on l’a déjà dit, de vouloir autre chose” (§ 262). Par des voies indépendantes, Guillaume et Bernard se rejoignent donc. Le parcours accompli par Galaad au cours de la Queste paraît bien être celui qui le conduit vers l’unitas spiritus, point culminant de l’ouvrage, au moment où le protagoniste est appelé à regarder à 17 18

P. Matarasso, The Redemption of Chivalry (Genève: Droz, 1979), p. 118 et ss. Lettre aux frères du Mont-Dieu, éd. cit.

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l’intérieur du Graal. Le texte rend compte de ce qu’il voit à travers ce qu’il dit: “Ore voi ge tot apertement ce que langue ne porroit descrire ne cuer penser. Ici voi ge l’a començaille des granz hardemenz et l’achoison des proesces; ici voi ge les merveilles de totes autres merveilles!” (p. 278). Dans l’un de ses sermons, Bernard s’écrie: “Quelle ressemblance prodigieuse, en effet, que celle que fait voir la vision de Dieu, ou plutôt encore celle qu’est la vision de Dieu.”19 “Passant du génitif objectif au génitif subjectif, Bernard veut dire que Dieu, de fin sur laquelle se modélise l’image, devient principe: il s’agit moins de voir Dieu que de se voir de l’œil même de Dieu.”20 La référence à la chevalerie, qui a parfois déconcerté, ne s’expliquerait donc pas seulement parce qu’elle prend place dans un roman chevaleresque; elle revêt un sens mystique car elle surgit au moment où Galaad atteint la troisième ressemblance, celle qui le fait vouloir de la volonté même de Dieu, qui le fait voir de la vision de Dieu. Au moment où le chevalier Galaad parvient au terme de son parcours spirituel, il se voit de l’œil de Dieu, et c’est précisément ce retournement de la fin en principe qui permet d’expliquer l’insistance sur l’origine (“l’a començaille des granz hardemenz et l’achoison des proesces”). II. La région de dissemblance Nombreux ont été les historiens des idées à souligner l’ardent dynamisme qui caractérise la renaissance du XIIe siècle: “il exprime la tension spirituelle dont les pôles sont la création et la divinisation,”21 ce que résume admirablement Guillaume de Saint-Thierry: “la seule fin de notre création, comme de notre vie, c’est la ressemblance avec Dieu: à son image, en effet, nous avons été créés.”22 C’est entre ces deux bornes que s’inscrit la Queste del Saint Graal, au sein d’un univers sans eschatologie historique puisque l’âme humaine a pour horizons une origine divine et un salut à réaliser, “fléché directement sur le Dieu transcendant qui est Amour.”23 19

Œuvres mystiques, tr. A. Béguin (Paris: Seuil, 1953), sermon 82, § 8. P. Magnard, art. cit., p.84. 21 R. Javelet, p.xiii. 22 Lettre aux frères du Mont-Dieu, éd. cit., § 259. 23 R. Javelet, p. xiii. 20

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Si la ressemblance est bien ce qui fonde le mouvement spirituel du récit, tout le romanesque semble se confondre avec cette région de dissemblance24 dans laquelle les chevaliers arthuriens sont comme exilés.25 Plus précisément, c’est autour de la seconde ressemblance, celle qui exige de l’âme un mouvement volontaire afin de persévérer dans le bien, que s’organise le roman, en une dialectique qui oppose ordinatio et inordinatio. Ce dernier mot revient fréquemment chez Guillaume et chez Bernard pour évoquer un amour qui n’est plus ordonné à sa fin, pour dénoncer le désarroi de l’homme incapable de rapporter l’image qu’il constitue à son modèle. Sa volonté est désorientée du divin; elle n’est plus droite (recta) mais inclinée, “courbée” (curva) vers le charnel, le temporel, le périssable. La Queste oppose ainsi deux chevaliers désirés, deux figures qui fixent le désir des autres chevaliers en constituant comme deux points de mire: il y a, d’un côté, le chevalier de l’ordinatio, Galaad, qui atteindra la troisième ressemblance, et, de l’autre, Lancelot, le chevalier de l’inordinatio, “li plus biax chevaliers et li mieldres et li plus gracieus, et li plus desirrez a veoir de toutes genz et li mielz amez qui onques naquist a nos tens” (p. 20). C’est pour avoir “courbé” son désir et l’avoir ordonné à Guenièvre qu’il est devenu le meilleur représentant de la chevalerie terrestre mais aussi, comme le souligne un célèbre passage du Lancelot,26 c’est ainsi qu’il a perdu le privilège de parvenir aux plus hautes aventures du Graal. La Queste exploite cette aporie courtoise avec une rigueur toute monastique en montrant la façon dont le chevalier est entré dans la région de dissemblance. Un des sermons adressés à Lancelot s’offre ainsi comme une relecture de la scène de la première rencontre:27 les regards échangés par les futurs amants deviennent des dards lancés par le démon et le héros, déstabilisé, quitte aussitôt la voie de la rectitude: “Chanceler te fist il, si qu’il te fist guenchir fors de la droite voie et entrer en cele que tu 24

Cette expression est d’origine augustinienne (Confessions, VII, 10) et même platonicienne. Bernard la conjoint à la parabole de l’enfant prodigue en terre lointaine pour lui donner une valeur spirituelle. Elle renvoie à la vie terrestre après le péché originel: c’est le monde de la concupiscence. 25 Cf. M. Voicu, “‘Serjanz de Dieu’ ou ‘serjanz au deable’: l’homme et ses (nouvelles) limites dans le Lancelot-Graal,” dans Entre l’ange et la bête, pp. 19-36. 26 Ed. A. Micha (Genève: Droz, 1978-), LXXXV, 2-3. 27 Ibid, XXIIa, 21-22.

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n’avoies onques coneue” (p. 125). Au moment où commence la Queste, l’amant de Guenièvre n’est donc plus le meilleur chevalier du monde; c’est Galaad qui aimante désormais l’aspiration chevaleresque, comme le souligne Yvain: “car certes je ne desirrai onques mes autant chose que je veisse come je fesoie a conoistre le Bon Chevalier” (p. 31). Lancelot lui-même, en quête de rectitude retrouvée, n’a de cesse de placer Galaad dans le champ de son appétence spirituelle. Ainsi, c’est entre l’image et la ressemblance et par référence à la figure sainte de Galaad que se déploie l’espace héroïque. Le merveilleux graalien y joue comme un indice de dissemblance. Lorsque s’ouvre le roman, le Saint Vessel s’offre à la vue de l’ensemble de la cour, comme pour rendre compte de la première ressemblance, celle qui correspond à l’image inamissible de Dieu; par la suite, il ne se manifeste plus qu’aux chevaliers qui ont retrouvé les chemins de l’ordinatio, c’est-à-dire de ceux qui agissent en fonction de la ressemblance: “li signe del Saint Graal n’aparront ja a pecheor ne a home envelopé de pechié” (p. 161). A la fin du roman, ses épiphanies sont réservées aux trois élus et seul Galaad sera admis à en contempler les merveilles. En un sens, la quête du Graal est avant tout une quête de Galaad, lequel entraîne les chevaliers dans son sillage. De même que, devant le Graal pur, il importe de se présenter pur, de la même façon seuls des chevaliers sans péché peuvent se trouver dans la compagnie de Galaad. Très significativement, les aventures de Gauvain prennent place immédiatement après celles de Galaad, comme pour souligner l’écart qui sépare les deux chevaliers. L’éloignement du Bon Chevalier, la distance qu’il creuse avec le neveu d’Arthur au moment où débute la quête, confèrent une véritable profondeur à la région de dissemblance dans laquelle se trouve le pécheur: “Or sui je li plus maleureus chevaliers dou monde, qui vois suivant ce chevalier de si pres et si nel puis atteindre,” déclare Gauvain (p. 51). Le principe analogique ne tarde pas à s’exprimer, à travers la bouche d’un prodome, comme si la notion de compagnie permettait de projeter sur le plan anthropologique la structure onto-théologique de l’image et de la ressemblance: “Certes, sire, la compaignie de vos deus ne seroit mie covenable. Car vos estes serjanz mauvés et desloiax, et il est chevaliers tiex come il doit estre” (p. 52). Il n’est sans doute pas utile d’entrer ici dans le détail; selon la perspective qui est la sienne, A. Pauphilet a bien montré comment,

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dans un ouvrage où les nécessités de la démonstration morale préexistent à l’inventio romanesque, les personnages “représentent divers types d’humanité, jugés du point de vue religieux et échelonnés depuis l’impiété jusqu’à la sainteté” (p. x). Au sein d’une fiction qui espace ainsi ses personnages en une soigneuse gradation, de dissemblance en dissemblance, Galaad n’est pas seulement celui qui couronne cette hiérarchie. Il est aussi celui qui montre la voie, à l’image du Christ. Nombreux sont les passages qui soulignent ce parallélisme, depuis l’aventure de la tombe jusqu’au long discours de la recluse, en passant par l’épisode du château des pucelles. Il ne faut pas négliger ce rapprochement car, comme le souligne Thomas de Cîteaux, le Christ accomplit une véritable recréation: “Hominem Deus formavit, diabolus deformavit, Christus reformavit.”28 S’il y a bien une création “à l’image,” comme l’indique Rupert de Deutz, il y aurait ainsi une seconde création “à la ressemblance,”29 placée sous les auspices du Crucifié. Dans une certaine mesure, une telle opposition recoupe la distinction de la nature et de la grâce et l’on pourrait admettre que le surnaturel (ou superadditum–ce pardon qui vient s’ajouter au don) n’a commencé qu’avec le Christ, si l’on excepte le bref épisode du paradis terrestre. Pour Hugues de Saint-Victor, deux simulacres ont été donnés à l’homme “en qui il pût voir l’invisible,” les symboles de la nature, par lesquels le Créateur était seulement signifié et les symboles de la grâce, par lesquels Dieu se manifestait présent.30 C’est évidemment à cette dernière catégorie qu’il convient de rattacher les Aventures del Saint Graal, selon l’autre titre du roman, et les manifestations du Saint Vaissel. Si le Christ est donc bien imago Dei recreans, toute ressemblance, c’est-à-dire tout parcours de restauration, ne peut se faire que ad Christum et il convient de souligner l’importance de cette préposition 28

Commentarium in Cantica Canticorum, 4, PL 206, 238d. Cf. R. Javelet, p. 327 et ss. Comme semble le suggérer M. Lot-Borodine, De l’amour profane à l’amour sacré (Paris: Nizet, 1961), Lancelot serait le prototype de l’homme créé à l’image tandis que Galaad incarnerait l’homme créé à la ressemblance: “A l’un deux fois né–avant et après l’appel–, le travail, les peines d’une lente ascension. A l’autre, né en état de grâce, en dépit du péché de sa conception, le don de l’avènement libre et joyeux!” (p. 160). 30 Cf. Hugues de Saint-Victor, In Hier. I, 1, PL, 175, 926. 29

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ad où s’élance la similitude. Des trois ressemblances distinguées par Hugues (ressemblance d’égalité, d’imitation, de contrariété),31 la seconde seule concerne l’homme; la première convient au Fils de Dieu tandis que la troisième correspond au diable, à celui qui “por la grant biauté de lui s’enorgueilli et se volt fere pareil a la Trinité, et dist: ‘Je monterai en haut, et serai semblables au Biau Seignor’” (p. 113). A simili per contrarium, le diable est l’auteur de tous les maux, alors que Dieu est le principe des biens. En tant qu’homme et en tant que saint, Galaad s’inscrit au sein de la seconde ressemblance: même si son assimilation au Christ a pu sembler audacieuse à certains critiques, elle reste fixée dans le cadre de la ressemblance d’imitation, comme s’empresse de préciser la fiction, puisqu’elle est, précisément, “de semblance ne mie de hautesce.” On voit se profiler de la sorte le thème de l’imitation du Christ, à une époque où “l’amour spirituel pénètre tout […] et fait transition vers cette piété affective et cette familiarité, sans ‘participation’ ontologique!, de l’imitation franciscaine de Jésus.”32 A cet égard, Galaad se situerait dans une position intermédiaire car il conserve les caractères aristocratiques liés à la figure sainte du Haut Moyen Âge, lui qui vient couronner une longue lignée de rois et de prophètes; la Queste, pourtant, met en œuvre l’idéal de la sequela Christi, qui se répand dès la fin du XIe siècle et que l’Eglise s’efforce de promouvoir au XIIIe siècle. C’est peut-être une telle observation qui a conduit R. Hartman33 à considérer qu’il manque quelque chose au personnage romanesque de Galaad pour être vraiment assimilé à un nouveau Christ: la souffrance, physique et morale; elle serait comme prise en charge par Lancelot luimême, et une telle hypothèse renforcerait à l’évidence le caractère indissociable du couple formé par les deux hommes. III. Le fils et le père L’insistance du roman sur la ressemblance naturelle de Lancelot et de Galaad a maintes fois été remarquée. C’est à elle que “dans la

31

Cf. Hugues de Saint-Victor, Misc., PL, 177, 804. R. Javelet, p. 455. 33 R. Hartman, La Quête et la croisade (New York: Postillion Press, 1977). 32

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Queste le mot semblance renvoie en premier lieu.”34 Comment la comprendre? A la différence de la notion de compagnie, envisagée plus haut, elle ne renvoie pas seulement à une cause finale, à ce dynamisme qui sous-tend le parcours de restauration, mais à ce don de l’être lié à la cause efficiente.35 C’est ce que souligne la reine Guenièvre, dont le regard fonde pour ainsi dire la ressemblance du père et du fils: “si dist que voirement l’avoit il engendré, car onques mes ne se resemblerent dui home si merveilleusement come il dui fesoient” (p. 14). De la même façon, lorsque Galaad rejoint Lancelot, il marque la prééminence du rapport de parenté sur celui de compagnie, l’une pouvant s’expliquer par l’autre: “A non Dieu, vos desirroie je a veoir et a avoir a compaignon sor toz cels del monde. Et je le doi bien fere, car vos estes comencement de moi” (p. 250). Le concept de parenté sous-tend la notion d’image car celle-ci “suppose la filiation ou une certaine causalité formelle. Elle n’est pas uniquement la subjective considération de l’esprit de l’observateur; elle réalise l’intentionnalité ou la nécessité dynamique de cet être qu’elle manifeste.”36 A ce titre, un tel rapport de paternité, fondamental pour la problématique romanesque,37 met en jeu le cycle du Lancelot tout entier, dont on a pu dire qu’il était “en son fond, l'élucidation d'un nom propre.”38 Au seuil de la Queste, la semblance “donne ‘la possibilité de penser en une seule fois, d’un seul acte, deux apparitions’: le fils et le père […].”39 L’ouvrage correspond à ce moment décisif, au sein du cycle, où s’opère le report de père en fils, report mis en scène au cours

34

M. Stanesco, art. cit., p. 1270. Voir note 1. 36 R. Javelet, p. 91. 37 Cf. R. Howard Bloch, Etymologie et généalogie (Paris: Seuil, 1989). 38 Ch. Méla, La Reine et le Graal (Paris: Seuil, 1984): “L'unité contradictoire du Lancelot est tout entière contenue dans le double nom du héros: ‘Galaad’ en baptême, mais ‘Lancelot’ d'après son aïeul, et le premier nom reste longtemps en sommeil, jusqu'au jour où cette dualité s'avère incompatible et exige son report de père en fils, c'est-à-dire dans la génération, de Lancelot à Galaad, désormais distincts” (pp. 350 et 332). 39 M. Stanesco, art. cit., p. 1273. 35

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d’une splendide vision: un homme tout environné d’étoiles se présente à la vue de Lancelot endormi, accompagné de sept rois et de deux chevaliers; puis une figure descend du ciel, qui chasse honteusement l’“ainzné des deus chevaliers” par ces mots: “Fui t’en de ci! car je ai perdu quan que je avoie mis en toi. Tu ne m’as pas esté fil, mais fillastre; tu ne m’as pas esté amis, mes guerriers. Je te di que je te confondrai, se tu ne me renz mon tresor” (p. 131). S’approchant du second, il le métamorphose en lion ailé, ce qui correspond au statut très particulier qu’il occupe vis-à-vis des autres hommes, à sa “haute vie.” Le vol figure la sainteté qui est la sienne: “Et cil començoit a voler, et devenoient ses eles si granz et si merveilleuses que toz li monz en estoit coverz. Et quant il avoit tant volé que toz li monz le tenoit a merveille, si s’en aloit contremont vers les nues; et maintenant se ovroit li ciex por lui recevoir, et il entroit enz sanz plus demorer” (ibid.). Entre le père et le fils, il y a bien report, selon la formule de Ch. Méla, et non dissociation; le congé signifié à Lancelot n’est pas irrévocable, pour peu que le chevalier accepte de rendre le “trésor” qui lui a été confié, c’est-à-dire de s’inscrire dans la perspective de la parabole des talents, si souvent convoquée à son endroit. La ressemblance de Galaad réalise bien une intentionnalité, comme le souligne un sermon adressé à Lancelot: “Se tu eusses toutes ces vertuz sauvees en toi que Nostre Sires i avoit mises […] tu n’eusses mie failli a achever les aventures dou Saint Graal, dont tuit li autre sont ore en peine, ainz en eusses tant mené a fin com nus hons, sanz le Verai chevalier, porroit fere” (p. 126). La position syntaxique occupée par le syntagme sanz le Verai Chevalier est particulièrement intéressante car elle manifeste à la fois un prolongement (de Lancelot par Galaad) et une substitution (ce dernier vient pallier un manque qui se détache sur fond d’irréel du passé). La prière que formule Lancelot au moment où il fait ses adieux à son fils est tout à fait révélatrice de cette unité de fonctionnement puisqu’il demande à Dieu d’être à la fois “ses serjanz terriens et esperitex” (p. 252). S’il est vrai que le roman est bien “ce drame du langage et du lignage,” si l’une des ambitions qu’il poursuit consiste à “faire du récit l’équivalent du lignage,” la ressemblance de Lancelot et de Galaad correspondrait à cette tension constante qui le caractériserait, “entre

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une possible continuité généalogique et narrative et son interruption.” 40 Tandis que Lancelot, comme chevalier terrien, assure la continuité vers d’autres récits, Galaad, en tant qu’il est cet homme vierge qui marque la fin du lignage de Salomon, incarne bien le mode de l’interruption: il est à la fois ce lion ailé dont le vol ouvre les portes du ciel et ce neuvième et dernier fleuve, plus profond que tous les autres, où le Christ se baigne complètement. Au fond, la ressemblance qu’assume Galaad vis-à-vis de l’image représentée par Lancelot correspondrait, dans l’ordre littéraire, à ce dynamisme mis en évidence par E. Baumgartner: si le couple Lancelot-Galaad exprime “the powers of Arthurian fiction and the mise en abime of its perilous dialectic,” Galaad “personifies one of cyclical literature’s extreme cases: the quest of conclusion.”41 Au sein de ce rapport entre langage et lignage, il ne faut sans doute pas sous-estimer la part du théologique. Car c’est bien la semblance christique qui permet au roman de créer les conditions d’un achèvement: en tant que produit d’une conception presque immaculée (car elle s’est accomplie sans désir) et “second Christ dans le lignage de celui-ci,” Galaad “se soustrait à toute généalogie. Son autosuffisance sans faille s’apparente à l’identité de l’engendreur et de l’engendré, aussi bien qu’à la coïncidence du signifiant et du signifié.” C’est ce qui lui permet de “transcende[r] la différence paternelle et linguistique”42 et d’accéder, au-delà du langage, à “ce que langue ne porroit descrire ne cuer penser” (p. 278). A contrario, c’est cette même différence paternelle et linguistique qui permet au cycle de se poursuivre vers la Mort Artu et d’envisager, sur un autre mode, une clôture plus proprement romanesque, celle qui consiste pour l’auteur anonyme à “ramentevoi[r] la fin de ceus dont il avoit fet devant mention.”43 La notion de ressemblance constitue donc une des clés de lecture fondamentales de la Queste. Strictement limitée au plan anthropologique, l’enquête a montré comment Galaad, en tant que 40

R. Howard Bloch, pp. 287-89. “From Lancelot to Galahad: The Stakes of Filiation,” tr. A. Crispin, dans The Lancelot-Grail Cycle. Text and Transformations, éd. W. Kibler (Texas: Univ. of Texas Press, 1994), pp. 14-30, ici p. 28. 42 R. Howard Bloch, p. 286. 43 La Mort le roi Artu, éd. J. Frappier (Paris: Droz, 1936), § 1. 41

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semblance, appartenait à un double réseau grâce à la ressemblance qu’il entretient avec Lancelot, son père, et avec le Christ. C’est en cela qu’il est à la fois héros et saint, conformément au statut particulier de ces Hauts romans du Graal qui mêlent étroitement chevalerie et théologie. Contrairement à ce qu’affirment certains critiques qui le rangent du côté du religieux et qui refusent parfois de faire de lui un personnage littéraire à part entière, il faut observer qu’il se trouve à l’origine d’une véritable poétique, sous-tendue par la dialectique de l’image et de la ressemblance. Associé aux épiphanies du Graal, le trajet qu’il accomplit au sein du récit désigne un itinéraire de perfection, qui conduit de la première à la troisième ressemblance. C’est à partir de lui que se construit romanesquement la région de dissemblance tandis que son assimilation au Christ permet de dessiner un parcours de restauration le long duquel s’inscrivent les héros arthuriens. Enfin, le couple qu’il forme avec Lancelot traduit une tension proprement littéraire entre, d’une part, la quête d’une conclusion, laquelle coïncide ici avec le désir du reditus, c’est-à-dire du retour à Dieu, et, d’autre part, la tentation du transitus à laquelle cède si volontiers la fiction chevaleresque.

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A Showcase for Talent: Performance in and of Flamenca1 n Orality and Performance in Early French Romance,2 I quoted at various points from the anonymous thirteenth-century Occitan romance Flamenca, which makes extensive descriptions of festive performances in court; I used this romance to provide evidence that minstrels and jongleurs performed romances from memory, and often musically—along with lyrics, chansons de geste, and many other kinds of works. In these pages, I return to the Flamenca. First, I want to have a closer look at the descriptions of performance found in it and to focus our attention on the theme of performance in the work.3 Second, I will argue that we can, and should, take the performance scenes in this romance “seriously,” as it were: they invite us to consider–to tease out from the text–the question of the performance of the Flamenca itself. I will show that this romance calls, at different moments, for at least three particular, and very different, types of performance which are of a powerfully dramatic character; one of them is also strongly musical in nature. Part I There are references to jongleurs and performance at many points in this romance.4 But the major references to performance occur early on

1 A preliminary version of this piece was presented as a talk at the Kentucky Foreign Language Conference in 1999. I am happy to publish it here in honor of my friend Rupert T. Pickens, a scholar esteemed and beloved by so many. 2 Orality and Performance in Early French Romance (Cambridge, D.S. Brewer, 1999), ch. 6. 3 Many aspects of the Flamenca have received careful scholarly attention. But issues related to the performance of this romance–like that of most verse romances– have not been much explored. Articles relevant to my concerns will be taken up below. 4 Christopher Page is one of the few scholars to have discussed Flamenca in terms of performance. See his Voices and Instruments of the Middle Ages: Instrumental Practice and Songs in France 1100-1300 (Berkeley, Univ. of California Press, 1986), pp. 161-64, 171-73. Page’s emphasis differs from mine; for example, he is more concerned with particular instruments and with ambiguities in the passage than I.

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in the work.5 The first passage that concerns us occurs shortly after the wedding between Lord Archambaud and the heroine Flamenca: Archambaud gives a great feast to honor his marriage, and his new bride, on St. John’s Day in June. We are told that at this feast there are, along with the numerous guests, more than 1,500 jongleurs. As the meal ends, the jongleurs stand up to perform. The passage runs from 598 to 713: 115 lines. I cannot quote this lengthy scene in full. Rather, I will first run through this passage rapidly, then return to a few points in somewhat more detail. The passage begins by speaking of the musical character of the performances. There is a brief enumeration of musical genres and well-known musical works: pieces for viol; songs, descorts, lays (600601). The “Lay of Honeysuckle” (“lais del Cabrefoil”) and others are mentioned (603-605). Next, different instruments are enumerated (607-615). Stringed instruments are the first to be evoked, and the most numerous: arpa (harp), viula (viol), giga (rebeck), rota (rote), mandura (mandora), sauteri (psaltery), and manicorda (monocord). But there are other instruments too: flute (flaütella), fife (siula), bagpipe (musa), and reed-pipe (caramella). Next comes an enumeration of performers other than musicians: marionettists, jugglers, acrobats, and others (615-20). The passage then turns in greater detail to different sorts of literary genres and matières, and runs through the extensive repertory of all the jongleurs present (621-709). This catalogue includes virtually all of the romances that we know today, and some that we do not know. Among the romances are both antique and breton romances. All of Chrétien’s romances are here (669ff.), though he is not mentioned by name. This extensive repertory also includes chansons de geste (699ff.); biblical material such as the stories of Lucifer’s fall, David and Goliath, Samson and Delilah, and Judas Maccabeus (654-60, 702); and lyric 5 The opening lines of the work–the first few folios–are missing from the single extant manuscript: Carcassonne, BM 34. It does, happily, seem pretty clear that at the start of the story we are not missing very much. The ending of the romance is also lacking from the manuscript, and this is a particularly serious loss as we do not know how the work ended–or even, indeed, how many folios are lacking. All quotations and translations are taken from The Romance of Flamenca, ed./trans. E.D. Blodgett (New York: Garland, 1995). Another valuable facing-page translation is that The Romance of Flamenca: A Provençal Poem of the Thirteenth Century, ed. Marion E. Porter, trans. Merton Jerome Hubert (Princeton: Univ. of Princeton Univ. Press, 1962).

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poetry, such as Marcabru’s songs (706). Thus, in this lengthy passage we first have consideration of the musical character of many performances; then a list of kinds of performers; finally, a list of matières. However rich and interesting this passage, it leaves many questions unanswered. Among them are the following: Did jongleurs and other performers work together, or was each performing his own “mestier” (620)? One rather has the impression that the latter is the case; there are no references to teams or groups or troupes, and each kind of performer is listed in the singular: “l’us,[…]l’us”–one does this, another one does that. How many performances were going on simultaneously? And how was simultaneity worked out logistically, in different spaces in or around the castle? To the extent that performances were presented sequentially, how was this handled: for example, in what sort of order was material presented? Was this order random, or did it have some conceptual logic, e.g., noble, “dignified” material first, then bawdier material late in the evening? But from the information presented to us, a few points are of particular interest: –First, it is highly unlikely that we are to think of this as a realistic description, given the extraordinary profusion of performers and material. This is very “over-the-top,” as we would say today, and this passage is perhaps best understood as a glorification of, or at least an advertisement for, performers. It draws attention to their art in all its excellence and variety. –This is a virtually encyclopedic enumeration of performers and repertories. Thus, it seems likely that this passage lists everything that could be performed, rather than everything that was actually performed in any particular feast, however great, however lavishly bankrolled and well-attended by performers. –In this long list there is nothing that we would identify specifically as “theatrical,” though some subjects here became part of the dramatic repertory later (for example, the fall of Lucifer). I think that what this means is not that nothing here was theatrical, but rather that everything was conceived and performed in more or less dramatic fashion: with a heavy use of gestures and of the body as a whole, as well as with music. In the late twelfth and thirteenth century, we are in a period when “theatre” is just beginning to be separated out–differentiated–

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from jongleur performance in general. Here, everything seems to be a “show” put on by performers. –It is worth noting that this sort of passage blurs traditional oral/written distinctions: many things listed here originated unquestionably in books (for example, the stories from the Bible), while other works and genres are part of the traditional oral tradition (for example, the epic material). But they are all, now, presented as being part of the jongleur’s repertory.6 –Finally, by far the lion’s share of this catalogue goes to romance. Romances of all kinds are presented as performable–and as in fact performed by jongleurs. At no point here or elsewhere in this romance is there any reference to romances being read aloud in court festivities.7 Thus, performers are presented as working from memory– and as having their hands, and their bodies, free. Part II If performers’ hands and bodies–and voices as well–were free, to what uses were they put in the performance of Flamenca itself? The passage that I have just examined encourages, indeed authorizes, us to ask questions about how this work was performed (or intended to be performed). One kind of performance can, I believe, be eliminated: private/silent reading, which is our norm today; this work presents romances as intended for public, “physical,” and often musical performance by jongleurs. Embedded in this work are the indications for several particular and different kinds of performance intended to accompany, supplement and dramatize the story-telling. I focus on three of them (not that I believe these to be the only ones present in the romance). I term these,

6 It is worth noting that the word that Blodgett invariably translates as “minstrel” is in the original “jongleur.” 7 However, Flamenca and her friends have been reading to each other (or have been read to from) the story of Floire et Blancheflor; see 4481ff. But this kind of “performance,” which I term “erotic literacy,” is not done by minstrels or jongleurs, but by men and women of the court; it is a decidedly private phenomenon. On this issue see Vitz, “Erotic Reading in the Middle Ages: Performance and Re-performance of Romance,” in Performing Medieval Narrative, eds. Evelyn Birge Vitz, Nancy F. Regalado and Marilyn Lawrence (Boydell & Brewer, in press).

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first, “the madman”; second, “eroticized liturgical performance”; third, “intermittent amorous dialogue.” Before we proceed, it will be helpful to set the long passage I have been discussing back into the plot as a whole. This story is not primarily about the marriage of Flamenca and Archambaut. Archambaut soon becomes jealous of his wife, so jealous that he locks her up and makes her life miserable: she goes nowhere and sees no one, except her female companions. But a new man–a handsome, noble, learned young man named Guillem de Nivers–falls in love with Flamenca, through her reputation for beauty and her sad story. He manages to get to see her and to enter into contact with her; he asks for her love, and she accepts. They then carry on a clandestine love affair, divided into two periods or moments (only the first of which I will take up in these pages). We do not know how the romance ended: the manuscript suddenly breaks off. We turn now to the three performance styles on which I will focus. It is my contention that we can tease out from the text itself the kind of performance that Flamenca invited. The first type of performance concerns the figure of Archambaut, who, as noted, becomes madly jealous of his new wife. He turns into a madman–and his madness and foolishness are, I think, not just to be narrated in a tame and purely verbal sense of the word, but impersonated in a strong sense: acted out, not merely with words but with gestures, indeed with the whole body. Here is a description of Archambaut: Quant cuja cantar et el bela, quant cuja sospirar bondis; neguna ren non eissernis. Lo pater noster diz soen del simi, que res non l’enten. Tot jorn maleja e regana, e fa.il gran dol li genz estraina: Quant hom estrainz era intratz el si fes mout afazendatz, e siblet par captenemen; suau diz: “A penas m’en tein que no.us get fors en decazeig!” E det torneja son correig e vai chantan tullurutau e vai danza[n] vasdoi vaidau; leva.lz cilz et a si donz guinha[…]

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Adoncas fai un joc cani, que las dens mostra e non ri. (p. 56, 1044-59, 1071-72)

In this passage, we are dealing with a “mad” voice and intonation: when this man sings, he bellows; when he sighs, he yells. We are also dealing with physical behaviors that call for strongly dramatic acting on the part of the story-teller himself or another jongleur. The performer’s face is certainly engaged: the mad “gelos” raises his eyebrows and winks, he shows his teeth like a dog. His hands are also engaged: the madman twists his belt with his fingers. Indeed, the jongleur’s entire body is involved for we “see” and “hear” this character whistling, singing, and dancing. In short, a high level of physical gestures and behaviors is called for in the performance of the passage. This strongly physical “crazy” representation/impersonation continues off and on for many lines, at some points rising in dramatic intensity. At one point, the madman “rages against himself,” pulling his hair and beard, biting his mouth, grinding his teeth, shaking, quaking, burning with rage, flashing nasty looks at Flamenca. A si meseis fortmen s’irais, tira.s los pels, pela.s lo cais, manja.s la boca, las dens lima, fremis e frezis, art e rima, e fai trop mals oils a Flamenca. (pp. 58, 60, 1119-23)

Again, the jongleur must impersonate this “madness”; he must to a substantial degree, act it out. One interesting detail: the narrator says that many people are now performing satirical songs–sirventes, coblas, estribot, and others–about the horribly “gelos” Archambaud (p. 62). Thus, even within the work, Archambaud’s behavior has entered into the performed musical/satirical tradition. At one point, suddenly feeling particularly “mad,” he races off to find his wife, swinging his arms as though he is about to dance with a peasant girl. When he discovers her sitting quietly with some women, he stumbles down the steps in a rage: Poissas s’en eis el escalier et es cachutz trastotz evers sus els escalos a travers, et ap pauc non s’es degollatz.

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Le malastrucs malaüratz grata l[o] suc, grata la cota, leva.l braier, tira la bota; poissas si dreissa, pois s’aseta, pois esterilla, poissas geta un gran badail e pois si seina: “Nomine Domi! qual enseina es aiso de bon’aventura!” (p. 66, 1258-69)

This is a dramatic scene, whose acting out may well also call for acrobatic talent–for a “culbute”–as this madman falls down the stairs. This scene contains many other gestures and physical actions as well: after his dramatic fall, the madman adjusts his clothing and shoes, stands up, sits down, stretches, yawns, and crosses himself. In short, this character is “characterized” not just by crazy words pronounced in an extravagant fashion, but by extreme physical behavior; this is not just a “narrative” character, but a dramatic personnage. Moreover, we should not forget that one of the most popular kinds of performers in the medieval period was the “fool,” often portrayed as a madman. Through jealousy, Archambaut has become a “fool.” We are told that Archambaut, who no longer washes or shaves, pulls out handfuls of his hair and sticks them in his mouth. He behaves like a mad dog: No.s lavet cap ni.s ras la barba; aquella semblet une garba de civada quant es mal facha; pelada l’ac per luecs e tracha e mes los pels totz en la bocha. Quan la fort gelosia.l tocha el estraga si coma cans. (p. 70, 1329-35)

We have here a full-fledged madman character (also described as a devil and a bull: “fels aversiers,” 2446; “taurelz,” 4587). His presence dominates the action in the early part of the romance; Flamenca says and does little. Archambaud has taken the stage–and it is my contention that this character is not merely “evoked” or “described”; he is acted out either by the narrator/jongleur, or by another player. Of the three types of performance that we will examine, this is by far the broadest and the least subtle. Nevertheless, it was no doubt powerfully effective, and much appreciated by its audiences.

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A second type of character and performance that we find in this romance is a good deal more subtle: I call it “the eroticized liturgical performance,” which flows from Guillem’s strategy for entering into contact with and wooing the imprisoned Flamenca. Here, we need to return briefly to the plot before focusing on performance. Thanks to Flamenca’s jealous husband, no one (in particular, no man) can see her, except at church, and even at church she is veiled and has no contact with anyone, except the clergy. However, we discover that the handsome and talented Guillem has been to school in Paris and can serve at Mass: he knows how to read from the Psalter; he knows the chant responses; he can say the lesson from the lectionary (p. 120). All the initial wooing take place in and through his performance of the liturgy, much of it strongly tinged with eroticism.8 We begin with an erotic reading of a liturgical text. Before Guillem goes into church to see Flamenca the first time, we are told that he opens the Psalter and reads “Dilexi quoniam” (Psalm 114 in the Vulgate). This psalm was a regular part of the Vespers service, recited in Vespers each Monday–but its use here is essentially a erotic play on the opening word: “Dilexi” [I have loved]. We move on to more-or-less eroticized performance of chant; there are several such passages. The first time he appears in church, Guillem “performs” the Easter liturgy, with the priest. The priest recites the “Asperges me” and Guillem joins him on “Domine,” doing a superb job–but with his eyes turned toward the little enclosure where Flamenca is standing: Le preires dis: Asperges me, Guillem[s] s’i pres al Domine e dis lo vers tot per ent[i]er. An[c non] cug mais qu’e cel mostier fos tam ben dig […] A Guillem remas totz le canz et a son oste que l’ajuda; 8 Helen Solterer has discussed the playfulness and “flamboyance” with which the world of the clergy and that of the juglars are combined in this work; while she is concerned with “language games” within Flamenca, her emphasis is not on the literal performance of the romance itself. See “Language Games in Flamenca,” in The Spirit of the Court: Selected Proceedings of the Fourth Congress of the International Courtly Literature Society, Toronto 1983, eds. Glyn S. Burgess and Robert A. Taylor (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1985), pp. 330-38.

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mais soen gara vaus la muda, que del pertus los ueils non mou. (pp. 128, 130, 2476-80, 2485-88)

The point that I am getting at here, and throughout my consideration of this part of the romance, is that Guillem is not just “described as” doing these things by a story-teller, but that a jongleur playing this part sings at least the beginning part of the liturgical chants that are referred to. It is hard to imagine that the words of the Easter chants would be simply spoken in performance, and not actually sung. The two questions in my mind are, first did the performer sing the entire chant, or just the first few words of it? And, no doubt more importantly, was the singer a different jongleur from the narrator, or the same person? The same question goes for the character “doing” Archambault: does the story-telling jongleur shift gears and “become” Archambault, or do we have a separate performer playing the madman? Clearly, we have here the singing of highly important chants of the Mass by the performer, accompanied by an amorous use of the eyes (p. 128). In another relevant passage, we are told that Guillem, his heart full of joy, sings an Easter chant, “Signum salutis,” and that his beautiful singing brings joy to others: Quan Guillems vi la bell’ensena del ric tesaur qu’Amor[s] l’ensenna, le cors li ri totz et l’agensa et signum salutis comensa. Le sieus cantars plac mout a totz, car mout avia clara voz et cantet ben e volentiers. (p. 130, 2500-06)

Here again, it is difficult to believe that this chant would simply be mentioned, and not actually sung–and we are clearly in the presence of a well-trained liturgical singer: he is good! One final example of the beautiful chant-singing, with sexual connotations: Now that Guillem serves at Mass, he sings the “Agnus Dei” with, we are told, his clear and beautiful voice (p. 202, 3918-20). 9 This highly important chant from the Mass–with Flamenca presumably understood as the “lamb”–certainly invites singing in part or in toto, by the performer. 9

For the theme of the seductively singing clerk, see also Chaucer’s “Miller’s Tale.”

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Guillem finally manages to approach Flamenca himself, and to hand her in person the book to kiss (p. 204, 3954-55)–which brings us to the issue of “amor-ized” liturgical gestures. In one passage, Guillem watches as Nicholas, the “clergue” who is functioning as altar boy, gives the peace to Flamenca with a holy book which she kisses. 10 After Mass, he manages to get his hands on that book and he kisses the page over and over: “e plus de mil ves lo foil baia” (p. 136, 2604). Thus, in this part of the romance, we have not merely eroticized liturgical singing, but the gestures that accompany the liturgy, in a series of highly performable scenes. We have liturgical singing and gestures; we may also have yet another kind of musical/gestural performance: We are told that Guillem finds a way to replace Nicholas as altar boy (he gives the young man a scholarship to go study in Paris–my favorite detail!–p. 188). Guillem learns to ring the bells for Mass, and he does it so well that the steeple and the church itself marvel at him: “e quant venc a sonar lo clas / fes lo tam ben qu’eis le cloquiers / s’en meravilla el mostiers” (p. 198, 3838-40). We may well have here yet another sort of musical performance going on: an amorous ring of church bells. At this point we move into a new phase of the relationship between Guillem and Flamenca, and into my third type of scene and of performance: the intermittent amorous dialogue. We are now concerned with the performance issues that flow from Guillem’s strategy for actively initiating his affair with Flamenca. He has contrived to give her the kiss of peace through the book that she kissed in Mass, and which he then kissed passionately himself. But, we are told, he desires much more than that. Now begins a remarkable dialogue. There is nothing remarkable in the words themselves which are highly conventional. Guillem says: “Hai las” (p. 204, 3955; these words will also be quoted later as “ai las”). Flamenca responds with a question: “Que plains?” (p. 224, 4350; also quoted as “que plans?”). He replies: “Mor mi” (p. 232, 4509). She 10

On the “kiss of peace” in the medieval Mass, see Joseph A. Jungmann, S.J., The Mass of the Roman Rite: Its Origins and Development, trans. Francis A. Brunner, 2 vols. (Westminster, MD: Christian Classics, 1986; German revised edition, 1949), vol. 2, pp. 321-32, esp. p. 329. The kiss of peace was sometimes done on a “paxboard”: members of the congregation kissed the image of Christ; here, it is done on a book, apparently a psalter.

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asks: “De que?” (p. 246, 4767). He replies: “D’amor” (252, 4884). They continue in this mode. Generally, she asks a question, and he answers it (though there are two moments at which she makes statements rather than asking questions).11 This is, then, a dialogue which consists of twenty exchanges, of about thirty words in all. What makes it interesting, despite the conventional nature of the exchange, is that it takes place over the course of about 1800 lines, roughly from 3953 to 5725. These few words are surrounded by action and by many other words, in particular many other monologues by the key characters and extensive dialogue. This Flamenca dialogue occurs entirely during the “peace” at Sunday Mass–during those few seconds that are the only moment when Guillem, in his function as clerkly celebrant, can approach Flamenca. So this dialogue takes weeks to be accomplished, since no more than two words are exchanged on any one occasion, and each time only one person speaks. These words are delivered in great haste and furtively. Sometimes the syllables are just mouthed dramatically– ”mimed”; otherwise they are whispered. Nevertheless, they are performed with great feeling: the two lovers have waited a week to speak one or two words to each other! The importance of eye movement is emphasized. These brief moments are all accompanied by one repeated (if slightly varied) liturgical gesture: the kiss of peace done on a book. All of this already makes it, in my view, an extremely interesting long, or repeated, scene–and a dramatically challenging performance situation. We have a series of moments of strong dramatic intensity, and requiring a high level of control of the voice and of the body: the torso, arms, neck, face, mouth and eyes. There is yet a further, clever twist to the performance of this scene. The characters–Guillem and Flamenca–do not just deliver their lines; they also compose and rehearse them in the romance, before the audience. We are told that Guillem and Flamenca each think long and 11 The entire dialogue reads as follows: Guillem: “Hai las” [Alas]. Flamenca: “Que plans?” [Why grieve?] G: “Mor mi” [I die]. F: “De que?” [Of what?]. G: “D’amor” [Of love]. F: “Per cui?” [For whom?]. G: “Per vos” [For you]. F: “Qu’en pucs?” [What can I do?]. G: “Guarir” [Heal]. F: “Consi?” [How?]. G: “Per gein” [With craft]. F: “Pren l’i” [Seize it]. G: “Pres l’ai” [Got it]. F: “E cal?” [So how?]. G: “Iretz” [You’ll go]. F: “Es on?” [And where?]. G: “Als banz” [The baths]. F: “Cora?” [And when?]. G: “Jorn breu” [Shortly]. F: “Plas mi” [Agreed].

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hard about what has just been said to them by the other: they repeat the words spoken to them over and over; they savor them and puzzle over their meaning; they debate what they should say next. They practice their lines–their bits of line–for days in advance. In fact, these 20 exchanges, these few words, are repeated some of them more than five times each. All of which means that the audience of the romance– ”we”–learns the words as well, and we are as ready to say them as the jongleur or jongleurs who actually speak them. We too learn these little speeches by heart. Let me take just one example to demonstrate and elucidate this point. After Guillem first says that “alas!” to Flamenca, we are told that she repeats it over and over to her two young female companions, Alis and Margarida, as they try to figure out what the beautiful young clerk might mean by his plaintive message, and they debate as to how Flamenca should reply. Eventually they fix upon what should be her answer: “Que plans? (p. 222, 4316-20). Here is Flamenca talking with her friends. Flamenca begins: El dis ai las! E que dirai? -Donna, per Crist, si fos en me, so dis Alis, eu sa[u]pra ben de qual guisa li respondera, e ja, so.m cug, no m’i pecquera: El dis ai las! Ara diguas…. Ai las! Que plans? Li demanderatz! -Ai las! Que plans? Certes, fa si; ben aia qui cest mot chausi! Ai las! Que plans? trop ben si fa. A Dieus! Ai tal con obs i a.” Mais de mil vez aun ajostat ai las! que plans? e recordat la semana enans que venc al dimenegue; adonc no.s tenc Guillems de servir a la messa. (pp. 222, 224; 4310-25)

Such are their rehearsals of the scene: the women evaluate possibilities, and recite several times the words that Flamenca will say. Then the actual moment comes: Quant el’ac lo sauteri pres, devaus destre, on s’era mes en Archimbautz que pres l’estet, quais per escrima plus l’ausset

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et l’autra part fes biaissar, et quant volc la carta laissar tot planamenz e senes gap a dig: “Que plains?” pois dreissa.l cap et esgaret ben la semblansa de son amic et la mudansa de sa color, e ben conois que savis es e trics e mois, e canta ben at a bels pels. (p. 224, 4343-55)

Thus, first we have the repetition of “ai las” and “que plans” with a whole series of different emphases and intonations: puzzled, hesitant, triumphant […]. Then we have the silent enunciation of “Que plains?” by Flamenca herself, along with an amorous and inquisitive look. These words are accompanied by important gestures: Flamenca (that is, the performer playing Flamenca) holds the book up as in a fencing move and leans away from her suspicious husband; she enunciates the words carefully but noiselessly; she lifts her head and looks closely at her lover. We can certainly say that a remarkable amount of performance variety and subtlety–and of audience response and involvement–is milked from these few exchanges, these few words. This long scene is a tour de force of narrative invention, but also of dramatic writing in that it calls for, and would draw on, performance skills of a high order. It is worth noting that this lovers’ dialogue, both in structure and to some degree in exact wording, bears a striking resemblance to a song by the well-known late-twelfth-century Troubadour Peire Rogier.12 It

12 This song, whose opening line is “Ges non puesc en von vers fallir,” consists in part of an exchange between two lovers which begins: Ailas! –Que plangz? –Ia tem murir. – Que as? –Am–E trop? –Ieu hoc, tan Que.n muer. –Mors? –Oc. –Non potz guerir?– Ieu no. –E cum? –Tan suy iratz.– De que? –De lieys, don suy aissos.– Sofre. –No.m val. –Clama.I merces. – Si.m fatz. –No y as pro? –Pauc. –No.t pes, si.n tras mal. –No? –Qu’o fas de liey. D.E.T. Nicholson, ed., The Poems of the Troubadour Peire Rogier (Manchester: Manchester Univ. Press, 1976), p. 89, vv. 41-48. On the “intertext” between Peire Rogier’s song and Flamenca, see Jean-Michel Caluwé, “Flamenca et l’enjeu lyrique:

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is highly probable that the audience of Flamenca recognized, and enjoyed, the dialogue between Guillem and Flamenca as a variation on a familiar song, a set of conventional topoï. Given this likelihood–that listeners already knew Peire’s song–and given the attention devoted in Flamenca to “rehearsal” of their dialogue by the lovers (and friends), it is virtually certain that by the end of this long passage the members of the audience of Flamenca also knew the new dialogue which has been rehearsed and performed before them by heart. They have been very powerfully, if subtly, drawn into the memorization and performance of this long, remarkable scene. Conclusions We have looked at three performance styles, connected to three different episodes of this romance: the madman, eroticized liturgy, and the intermittent love dialogue. These three performance types, while not the only ones which can be teased out of this extraordinary romance, nevertheless serve to give us a sense of the range of talent that the Flamenca called forth. As we reconstruct and imagine the performance of Flamenca in its own day, we seem to have two basic choices. One is that this romance served as the showcase for the performance skills of a group of players. Their jeu(x) would have accompanied, and at times replaced, the voice of the narrator/story-teller. Thus, we would have one actor/jongleur to do the mad Archambaut; another–a trained singer–to do the elegant and liturgically gifted Guillem; for Flamenca herself, we would have a jongleresse or a young male actor; we might well have other performers–musicians and actors–as well. Or else we are looking at a single performer with an astoundingly wide range of talents: someone with acrobatic skill, and the ability to play both highly dramatic, comic roles, and subtle love dialogue; this performer also needs a beautiful voice and at least a veneer of clerkly learning. If we accept this hypothesis, we are in the presence of a truly La médiation de Jaufré Rudel et de Peire Rogier” and Jean-Charles Huchet, “De Dilexi quoniam à Ailas! Que plans?: De la citation à l’intertexte dans Flamenca,” in Contacts de langues, de civilisations et intertextualité, I, ed. Gérard Gouiran, (Montpellier: Université Paul-Valéry, 1992), pp. 837-53 and 957-66, respectively. See also Solterer, “Language Games.”

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amazing “one-man band.” I think that this is the more likely hypothesis–however amazing it may appear–for two reasons. The first is the emphasis on solo performers which I have already noted in that preliminary passage referring to performers and performance. All performers are referred to as working alone (except for the musicians who tune up their vieles to play dance music together, 731ff). The other reason is that that the dialogues and gestures whose dramatic and musical character I have evoked are all woven into the narrative web, rather than being cut apart in any way as separate “pieces.” Often we move from narrator to dramatic character in a single line, and we may move back and forth several times over the space of a few lines. But did such one-man bands exist? Were there individual jongleurs with such a wide array of talents? Here, of course, as on so many other issues relating to performers and performance, we are sadly lacking in information–but nonetheless I believe the answer is quite clearly “yes.” For example, Edmond Faral in his still-invaluable Mimes français du XIIIe siècle (Testes, Notices et glossaire)13 discusses a jongleur whose name survives and who embodied many of the characteristics of which we are speaking. This figure, called Vitalis, composed his own epitaph in Latin14 apparently during the Carolingian period. In his epitaph, Vitalis claims that he was able to imitate the voices and gestures of all kinds of people, men and women alike, whom he made come alive in performance. He says, for example: “Fingebam vultus, habitus ac verba loquentum / Ut plures uno crederes ore loqui”: thus, he could imitate the facial expressions, the physical mannerisms, and the words of several different characters at once, so

13 Mimes français du XIIIe siècle (Testes, Notices et glossaire) (Genève: Slatkine Reprint, 1973 [orig. Paris, 1910]), pp. xi-xv. Since Faral, other historians of drama have also been interested in Vitalis. Richard Axton discusses him and his entertaining mimicry in European Drama of the Early Middle Ages (London: Hutchinson Univ. Library, 1974), pp. 17-18. See also Georges Gougenheim, “Le Mime Vitalis,” in Mélanges d’histoire du théâtre du Moyen-Age et de la Renaissance offerts à Gustave Cohen (Paris: Nizet, 1950), pp. 29-33. 14 At least, it is written in the first person. Edited in Anthologia Latina Sive Poesis Latinae Supplementum, ed. Francis Buecheler and Alexander Riese (Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert, 1964 [orig. 1906]), vol. I, Part 2, #487a, pp. 38-39 (the reference given in Faral is inaccurate).

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that from one mouth many different people seemed to speak.15 Faral’s discussion of Vitalis comes from his introduction to a series of texts, including Les deux boudeurs ribauds and others, which showed such talents at work. Whether we have before us a single jongleur, working in a timehonored tradition of mimicry, or whether a group of players performed this work together, it must truly have been a wonderful thing to see and hear a performance of Flamenca. We can only wish we had been there! Many of the remarkable and unusual features of this romance have excited the interest of modern readers and scholars. But, as I hope to have shown, by no means the least striking of these features is Flamenca’s dramatic and musical performability; it was a showcase for talent.

15 One question concerning Vitalis is the following: were the “people” (the speakers, loquentum) that he imitated the characters of story or drama, or just the real people present at some social event? (The latter is Gougenheim’s view in “Le Mime Vitalis.”) I see no reason to think that Vitalis was not doing both kinds of imitation: the very essence of Vitalis’ art, as described, was mimicry.

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The King’s Example: Arthur, Gauvain, and Lancelot in Rigomer and Chantilly, Musée Condé 472 (anc. 626) he present study focuses on Rigomer,1 the lead text in Chantilly, Musée Condé, MS 472 (=Ch), as a key to understanding the considerable work of the person who masterminded Ch’s execution, in all likelihood a compiler with a highly developed literary consciousness. Rigomer introduces concerns central to this eleven-work compilation produced between 1250 and 1275 in Flanders-Hainaut. The collection includes, in order: Rigomer, L’Atre périlleux, Erec et Enide, Fergus, Hunbaut, Le Bel Inconnu, La Vengeance Raguidel, Yvain, Lancelot, the first half of the longest version of the prose Perlesvaus, and several branches of Le Roman de Renart.2 Of the nine Arthurian verse romances in the compilation, Rigomer, a three-part romance incomplete at 17,271 verses, is the one whose composition was probably closest in time to the assembling of the collection. Rigomer is now believed to be the work of an anonymous poet rather than the “Jehan” mentioned in the

1 Les Mervelles de Rigomer von Jehan. Altfranzösicher Artusroman des xiii. Jahrhunderts nach der einzigen Aumale-Handschrift in Chantilly, ed. W. Foerster and H. Breuer, 2 vols. (Dresden: 1908-15). All quotations will be taken from vol. 1 of this edition. The third part of Rigomer, referred to as the “Quintefuelle episode,” after the name of the heroine’s lands, or the “Turin episode,” was present in Turin, Bibl. Univ. L IX 33, a manuscript destroyed in the fire of January 26, 1904. On this episode and its relationship to Ch, see Francesco Carapezza, “Le Fragment de Turin de Rigomer: Nouvelles perspectives,” Romania, 119 (2001), 76-112. Carapezza 85 discusses why, following Gaston Paris and Walters, it is preferable to refer to the romance as Rigomer rather than Les Mervelles de Rigomer, and provides a Table detailing the structure of the codex 87-88. See my entry on Rigomer in The Arthur of the French, ed. Glyn Burgess and Karen Pratt, Univ. Press of Wales, forthcoming. My analysis of Ch has also benefited from reading Peregrine John Rand, “Narrative Closure in a ThirteenthCentury French Manuscript: Chantilly, Musée Condé 472,” (Ph.D thesis, Cambridge Univ., March 1998), and his article “Model Knights, Model Loves, Models of Romance: The Stakes of Closure in Chantilly 472,” forthcoming. 2 A detailed description of Ch is found in The Manuscripts of Chrétien de Troyes, ed. Keith Busby, Terry Nixon, Alison Stones, and Lori Walters, 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993), vol. 2, pp. 39-41.

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text.3 As for Ch, Beate Schmolke-Hasselmann singles it out as the most important compilation of Arthurian verse romance to survive to modern times.4 Its importance derives from its inclusion of three Chrétien romances–Erec et Enide, Yvain, and Lancelot–and three late verse romances whose existence is unattested elsewhere–Rigomer, Le Bel Inconnu and Hunbaut. But the aspect of Ch that truly sets it apart is that it is one of a small number of manuscripts to combine verse and prose romance. Ch includes about the first half of the longest version of the Perlesvaus, which devotes considerable space to Gauvain’s Grail Quest. I have earlier characterized Ch as a “Gauvain cycle,” a compilation centered on the figure of Arthur’s nephew and chief advisor, a notion that has gained wide acceptance.5 Rigomer opens the collection by promoting Gauvain over all other knights, including the supposedly peerless Lancelot. Gauvain is alone among over fifty knights to be able to put an end to the enchantments of Rigomer Castle. But Rigomer sets the tone of the collection by subjecting Gauvain to the same sort of undermining as Lancelot. This compilation holds Arthurian verse romance and its heroes up to serious scrutiny. Late romances like La Vengeance Raguidel and Hunbaut tend to view Gauvain with a jaundiced eye; Le Bel Inconnu presents Gauvain’s son Guinglain, the continuator so to speak of Gauvain’s poetic legacy, with one foot in the Arthurian camp and the other in a non-Arthurian dreamland; Chrétien’s authority is dispersed and dismantled as Erec et Enide becomes separated from Yvain and Lancelot, and Lancelot is divested 3

Carapezza p. 77, n. 2. The Evolution of Arthurian Verse Romance. The Verse Tradition from Chrétien to Froissart, trans. M. Middleton and R. Middleton, Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1998 [Der arthurische Versroman von Chrestiens bis Froissart, Tübingen, 1980]. 5 “The Formation of a Gauvain Cycle in Chantilly Manuscript 472,” Neophilologus, 78 (1994), 29-43. For further discussion of Ch, including codicological matters, see my articles: “Chantilly MS 472 as a Cyclic Work,” in Cyclification. The Development of Narrative Cycles in the Chansons de Geste and the Arthurian Romances, Proceedings of the Colloquium, Amsterdam (17-18 December 1992), ed. B. Besamusca, W. Gerritsen, C. Hogetoorn, and O.S.H. Lie (Amsterdam and New York: North-Holland, 1994), pp. 135-39; “Parody and Moral Allegory in Chantilly MS 472,” Modern Language Notes, 113 (1998), 937-50. See Bart Besamusca’s discussion of Ch in The Book of Lancelot: The Middle Dutch ‘Lancelot’ Compilation and the Medieval Tradition of Narrative Cycles (Cambridge, UK: D.S. Brewer, 2003), pp. 151-53 and 166-70. 4

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of its prologue, epilogue, and many of Chrétien’s own verses preceding the epilogue.6 By placing Rigomer at the head of his compilation, the anonymous compiler primes his audience to view verse romance as preparing the way for the Christian recasting of Arthurian themes made by the Perlesvaus author. I see this as part of what Keith Busby terms the “leveling” that takes places in the thirteenth-century reception of romance, in which verse is rewritten “in the likeness of prose.”7 Busby’s comment helps explain the logic behind the inclusion of the Perlesvaus in Ch. Rupert Pickens–whose work on the relation between Perceval and its continuations in verse and prose has had a strong influence on my ideas concerning Ch–has described the Perlesvaus as an interpretive translation into prose of Perceval.8 My thesis in the present study is that Rigomer provides a fitting introduction to the entire compilation. This includes the two texts that appear to have little place in the company of nine verse romances, the Perlesvaus and the Renart material.9 In surveying the “whole book,” as Stephen G. Nichols proposes we do,10 it is obvious that the extended prologue of the Perlesvaus casts its authority over all the works in the collection, by virtue of its length and its proselytizing fervor. The verse romance prologues that are present are relatively short. Hunbaut’s prologue of 44 verses, the longest of the group, has a sermonizing quality it shares with the Perlesvaus prologue. The Hunbaut’s anonymous poet makes an appeal for material sustenance for himself by telling his audience that they “cannot take it with them.” His motives are a bit suspect, since the 6 The transcription ends on v. 5853 of Mario Roques, ed., Le Chevalier de la Charrete (Paris: Champion, 1981). 7 “Rubrics and the Reception of Romance,” French Studies, 53 (1999), 129-41. Busby concludes by saying “the producers of the illustrated and rubricated Chrétien manuscripts have re-written the master’s verse in the likeness of prose.” 8 “Le Conte du Graal (Perceval),” in The Romances of Chrétien de Troyes: A Symposium, ed. Douglas Kelly (Lexington, KY: French Forum, 1985), pp. 232-86, at 233. See also his Welsh Knight: Paradoxicality in Chrétien’s ‘Conte du Graal’ (Lexington, KY: French Forum, 1977). 9 I have treated the inclusion of the Renart material in the studies mentioned in n. 5, and will have more to say about it in forthcoming works. See also n. 12, below. 10 Stephen C. Nichols and Siegfried Wenzel, eds., The Whole Book: Cultural Perspectives on the Medieval Miscellany (Ann Arbor: Univ. of Michigan Press, 1996).

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contrast that he establishes between worldly and spiritual riches is calculated to procure him a part of his patrons’ worldly pot.11 The Perlesvaus author, on the other hand, anchors his story firmly in Christian doctrine, by repeating the precept that Christ, through his death and resurrection, renews the Law. He reinforces his echoes of the Christian credo with a striking scene in which Joseph of Arimathea takes Christ’s battered body down from the cross. Instead of defiling the remains, which Pontius Pilate quite expects the Roman soldier to do, Joseph does them great honor. Unlike the case in Hunbaut, the baseness of which the Perlesvaus narrator speaks is entirely a spiritual one, and he accompanies it with no self-serving pitch for material assistance.12 The conclusions that I am drawing from my long acquaintance with this manuscript are consonant with those made by John Dagenais13 and Mary Carruthers.14 For these critics, the appeal of literature in the Middle Ages went far beyond the intellect. This was even truer for vernacular than for Latin literature. Whether oral or written, vernacular texts were directed to the entire person, to the feelings and consciousness that were more often than not located in the heart. Texts were mirrors that presented specific examples of ethical and unethical behavior to their audiences, who were tacitly invited to compare their

11

Keith Busby, “Hunbaut and the Art of Medieval French Romance,” Conjunctures: Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, ed. Keith Busby and Norris J. Lacy (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), pp. 49-68, and Michelle Szkilnik, “Un Exercice de style au XIIIe siècle: Hunbaut,” Romance Philology, 54 (Fall 2000), 2942. I am grateful to Amy Ogden of the University of Virginia for pointing out to me that a similar stance is taken by the pardoner in Chaucer’s satiric Pardoner’s Tale. 12 The Perlesvaus is set off from the rest of the compilation by its pattern of initial letters, a pattern that seems to exert its influence over the branches of the Roman de Renart that follow it, turning that text into a series of exempla designed to reinforce, in a comic vein, Ch’s ethical preoccupations. 13 The Ethics of Reading in Manuscript Culture (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1994). Although concentrating on manuscripts of the fourteenth-century Spanish Libro de buen amor, Dagenais proposes a theory of reading corroborated by my own findings on the thirteenth-century French tradition. 14 The Book of Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1990), especially ch. 5, “Memory and the Ethics of Reading,” and The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400-1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1998).

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reflection to the ones given in the mirror-text so that they could correct the image of their moral selves.15 I contend that the compiler presents the texts in Ch as a series of ethical mirrors. In so doing, he takes his cue from Chrétien, who in his first extant romance and third text in Ch, describes his heroine as a mirror: Que diroie de sa biauté? Ce fu cele por verité Qui fu fete por esgarder, Qu’an se poïst an li mirer Ausi com an un mireor. (Erec et Enide, 437-441)16

When Chrétien refers to Enide as an “essamplaire” that no one can “contrefaire” (419-20), he implicitly equates Enide-as-mirror with his text. In presenting himself as “Cil qui fist d’Erec et Enide” in the first verse of his second romance, Cligés (not present in Ch) a verse he follows with a list of his prior works, Chrétien extends the metaphor of the text-as-mirror to his subsequent creations. In having Enide issue forth from a workshop (“Issue fu de l’ovreor,” 442), Chrétien furthermore equates her with the concrete realization of his texts in a physical artifact, the painstakingly transcribed and expensively crafted manuscript book. Thus Erec et Enide’s metaphor of bookmaker as artisan can apply to the compiler’s task of editing Chrétien’s romances and placing them in a context with other works in Ch. The text-as-mirror operates by means of positive and negative exempla. This is as true at the macrotextual level of the entire compilation as at the microtextual level of its constituent parts. The most common meaning of the exemplum is a narrative with an implicit or explicit moral whose goal is to change behavior through the eloquent communication of a piece of wisdom. Originating in classical rhetoric and adopted as a major persuasive tool in the Middle Ages, the exemplum was especially prized by preachers, in particular the thirteenth-century mendicant orders, and writers of “mirrors,” a term 15 See Einar Már Jónsson, Le Miroir: Naissance d’un genre littéraire (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1995). Jónsson has a more restrictive sense of what constitutes a mirror than Carruthers, whose contention restates the medieval commonplace that all texts could be given a tropological or moral interpretation. 16 Ed. Mario Roques (Paris: Champion, 1973).

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usually applied in the restrictive generic sense of “mirrors for princes.”17 Carruthers (Craft of Thought, pp. 159-60) cites Gregory the Great in support of her contention that in the Middle Ages all texts were in some sense mirrors: Reading presents a kind of mirror to the eyes of the mind, that our inner face may be seen in it. There indeed we learn our own ugliness, there our own beauty, for we should transform what we read into our very selves. (Preface to Moralia in Job, II.i and I.xxxiii).

In his Mirror in the Text Lucien Dällenbach offers an explanation of the process of reading by means of exempla that complements Gregory’s: In ancient rhetoric, the exemplum was a “persuasive similarity, an argument by analogy.” Operating through historical comparisons drawn by the orator with the present, this mode of argument was ideally aimed at inducing the listener to alter his/her self-consciousness and hence his/her way of loving or acting. It is therefore inevitable that, structured in terms of this ultimate goal, the role of the receptor essentially consisted in correctly interpreting the truth that was being propounded, recognizing its relevance and virtue and deriving a practical lesson from it.18

Along with the mirror, another common metaphor for the text as barometer of moral values came from the printing of coins, which more often than not displayed a ruler’s image. The figure’s profile defined itself in relief against the background casting. The potential for reversibility implicit in the coinage metaphor (heads/tails, façon/contrefaçon)19 illustrates how characters, in their status as signs, can function as positive and negative exempla in the same collection and even in the same work. The reader’s moral profile reveals itself through positive and/or negative comparisons with characters in the text. The Rigomer poet first asks his readers to evaluate Gauvain’s behavior in light of ethical standards, second, to compare their own 17 Jacques Berlioz, “Exempla,” Dictionnaire des Lettres Françaises: Le Moyen Age (Paris: Fayard, 1964), pp. 437-38. 18 The Mirror in the Text, trans. Jeremy Whiteley with Emma Hughes (Chicago: Chicago Univ. Press, 1989), p. 82 [Le récit spéculaire: essai sur la mise en abyme, Paris, 1977]. 19 See R. Howard Bloch, Etymologies and Genealogies: A Literary Anthropology of the French Middle Ages (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1983), pp. 164-67.

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behavior to Gauvain’s, and third to amend their behavior accordingly. The romance’s ethical imperative is not limited to males, since Rigomer provides a model for the female reader in Lorie, whom the author likens at times to Mary, mother of Jesus, and at others to Mary Magdalene. In the truncated version of the Perlesvaus present in Ch, as well as in the verse romances included in the compilation, Gauvain is at times a model of knighthood to imitate, at other times, a model to avoid. As sign, Gauvain has the potential of representing either the exemplary Arthurian knight or “Gauvain li contrefait,” as the Perlesvaus author calls him. Evaluating one’s behavior, and the standards by which one evaluates both the model figure’s behavior and one’s own,20 is equivalent to what the Perlesvaus calls reading “par essemples.” Reading ethically has the power to change one’s life, as the reader’s hermeneutic quest becomes a larger exploration for ways of going on the pilgrimage of human life. Augustine’s own case, as he recounts in his Confessions, illustrates reading’s potential to function as a conversion experience. He was prompted to convert to Christianity after hearing what he thought was a child chanting the phrase “tolle, lege” (“Take up and read”). Opening his Bible at random, his eyes fell upon 1 Cor.7:27-35, where Paul, an earlier convert to Christianity, enjoins his listeners to become “new men in Christ” (In City 22.18 Augustine is adamant that this phrase applies to women as well as to men). A reader’s identity was defined by the way he or she interpreted a text. To paraphrase an even more famous passage further on in the same Pauline epistle, the reader’s face was revealed in the text “as if in a glass, darkly” (1 Cor.13). By comparing a text’s positive and negative exempla with one’s inner self, the reader could perfect the moral portrait that he or she was etching on the tablets or inner book of the heart that was to be presented to God on Judgment Day.21 Thanks to those who created or presented texts orally or in various material 20 See M. Bruckner’s discussion of the ‘case’ on pp. 73-74 of “An Interpreter’s Dilemma: Why are There So Many Interpretations of Chrétien’s Chevalier de la Charrette?” in Lancelot and Guinevere: A Casebook, ed. with an introduction by Lori J. Walters (New York: Garland, 1996), reissued in paper by Routledge in 2001. Bruckner’s article was originally published in Romance Philology, 40 (1986), 159-80. 21 Eric Jager, The Book of the Heart (Chicago: Chicago Univ. Press, 2000), in particular ch. 3, “The Scriptorium of the Heart,” pp. 44-64.

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forms, human beings were able to see themselves with the objectivity necessary for self-correction. The Rigomer poet facilitates the moral improvement of his readers by casting his major characters as exempla that at certain times can be interpreted in bono and at other times in malo. He characterizes Arthur, Gauvain and Lancelot by means of oppositions. These verses from the prologue make ample use of contrast, emphasized by repetition and annominatio: Del roi Artu et de ses houmes Est cis roumans que nos lisoumes . . Si est tels chevaliers le roi, U plus ot sens et mains desroi. Quant plus ot sens, de desroi mains, Dont fu ço mesire Gauwains (7-11, my emphasis)

Arthur, so claims the poet-narrator, was the kind of knight in whom more sense than foolishness could be found, adding that only Gauvain matched him with as much sense and less confusion. This sort of wry, “backhanded compliment” sets up a contrast between the Arthur/Gauvain pair that extends the argument the two of them have at the beginning of Erec et Enide where Gauvain’s diplomacy averts disaster after Arthur’s rash reinstatement of the Hunt of the White Stag.22 The prologue’s discussion of sense and foolishness (desroi et sens) establishes this theme as leitmotiv of Rigomer and the collection it heads in Ch. The annominatio “desroi” continues the questioning of Arthur’s supposed exemplarity begun in Erec et Enide. Related wordplay is seen in the name of the character “Sagremors li Desres,” the hot-headed knight who rapes a passing maiden in the first part of Rigomer. Guillaume le Clerc’s play on the term mesaventure in the Fergus prologue highlights a corresponding use of positive and negative exempla in the fourth romance in the collection, as does the title Li Biaus Descouneüs of the sixth and central text. The contrastive reading of Rigomer’s major players starts the reader of Ch on a hermeneutic quest to explore the public and private ramifications of the wise leadership of kings, knights, and counselors. This quest 22

My thanks to Jane H. M. Taylor for this insight.

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continues through all the mirror-texts, which develop the topic from different angles. In the end the reader acquires a complex vision of Arthur and his court. Ch’s summa-like quality makes the Round Table into a mirror of creation. Its shape recalls the roundness of the globe symbolizing the universe as well as the circular model of literary composition referred to as “Virgil’s wheel.”23 Rigomer and the collection as a whole explore issues of wisdom in king and vassal through frequent recourse to positive and negative exempla. The Rigomer poet builds up the exemplary status of each of his major characters–Lancelot, Gauvain, and King Arthur–before deflating it. In part I (18-6402), dedicated to Lancelot’s quest to deliver the lady of Rigomer Castle from a spell that prevents her from marrying, Lancelot at first appears to be the paragon of chivalry. Two episodes put that impression into question. In the first, Lancelot rescues a naked young woman about to be raped. When he refuses his reward of the princess’ hand and her kingdom, we ascribe it to his feelings for Guinevere. To our surprise, Lancelot gets the young woman pregnant and then abandons her, consoling her with eloquent but empty promises. The second episode is more openly critical of Lancelot. After encountering many dangers on his path to Rigomer, Lancelot makes his way past the serpent guarding the entryway, only to be put under a spell whereby he loses his memory, and with it, his identity. Once inside the castle, Dionise’s attendant invites him to avenge her lady on an enemy, an act that would gain him Dionise’s hand in marriage and her kingdom. Although Lancelot appears to want to respond to the challenge (which raises the question of his feelings toward Guinevere, from whom he had departed from court in a scene reminiscent of his leave-taking in Chrétien’s Lancelot, the ninth text in the compilation), one look at this woman, described as more beautiful than a siren, puts him under a spell that renders him unable to exercise the force of his arms. When he lets her slip Dionise’s ring on his finger, he forgets

23 See the discussion of Kathryn Gravdal, Vilain and Courtois: Transgressive Parody in French Literature of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (Lincoln: Univ. Press of Nebraska, 1989), pp. 1-3. Gravdal reproduces a model of Virgil’s wheel taken from Edmond Faral, Les arts poétiques du XIIe et du XIIIe siècle (Paris: Champion, 1971), p. 87.

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who he is. His days are then taken up with the lowly tasks of a scullion boy in the cuisines of Rigomer. After a year as lord of the kitchens, Lancelot, the former example of all nobility, had become as stupid as a beast of burden. Barely able to speak and paunchy from snacking on kitchen scraps, Lancelot had come to deserve the reproach leveled by Dionise’s elegant messenger at the romance’s opening, where she expressed indignation that Arthur and his knights had become complacent creatures of appetite rather than heroic defenders of the oppressed. Lancelot’s later loss of memory seems rightful punishment for his failure to keep his promises; his nearly complete loss of speech his just desserts for having seduced the princess through deceptive speech, an act that becomes equivalent to the rape from which he had originally rescued her, thus canceling out that heroic deed. In the second part of the romance (6403-15916), Gauvain succeeds in freeing both Lancelot and Dionise. He is oblivious to the enchantments that have undone so many knights on their way to the castle: the serpent not only lets him pass the bridge unharmed, but bows down before him. A damsel who had earlier predicted Lancelot’s failure now announces Gauvain as Rigomer’s long-awaited liberator. Gauvain frees Lancelot and all the other knights in the castle by removing the gold rings from their fingers, signifying their enchantment by erotic love defined as appetite.24 Lorie informs Dionise that Gauvain cannot claim the promised recompense for having dissipated Rigomer’s enchantments–her hand and with it, the crown of Ireland, since Lorie means to keep him for herself. True to his characterization as “marriage broker” in much late verse romance, Gauvain arranges a suitable match for the disappointed queen and a knight called Midomidas. Gauvain is shown to be superior to Lancelot because he succeeds in ridding Rigomer of its enchantments, rather than coming under their spell as does Lancelot. Gauvain’s superiority to Lancelot at first includes moral superiority. We realize that the author, in a striking

24 Peter Noble, “The Role of Lorie in Les Merveilles de Rigomer,” BBSIA, 48 (1996), 281-90, argues that this differs from love as a form of magic that works for Christian ends, personified by Lorie.

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example of what Norris Lacy calls “motif transfer,”25 has transposed the reputation for flightiness with women that had been traditionally associated with Gauvain in post-Chrétien romance to Lancelot. After being built up throughout the romance, and finally even being compared to the savior come down from heaven to work miracles on earth, Gauvain is subjected to the same sort of undermining by luxure as was Lancelot. When Miraudiaus suspects that a lady he is trying to force into marriage will be championed by Gauvain, he falls grievously ill, even losing his taste for food and drink, because he harbors such a deep fear of this knight renowned everywhere for his valor. When Gauvain arrives, the ailing Miraudiaus proposes a civil agreement to him: if Gauvain fails to show up for battle at the appointed time, Miraudiaus will make his imprisonment comfortable indeed. Gauvain is quick to agree. After the two gorge themselves on food and drink, Miraudiaus declares that Gauvain has miraculously cured him. In gratitude, Miraudiaus orders his beautiful sisters and servant girls to satisfy his healer’s every whim, threatening to kill them on the spot if they withhold their sexual favors. Gauvain takes advantage of his host’s generosity with the gusto of a seasoned sinner. In the third part of the romance (15917-17271), the Rigomer poet dismantles Arthur’s image as exemplary ruler. The King’s actions at first appear to be heroic since he helps the Lady of Quintefuelle regain her inheritance. The royal image soon reveals major fault lines. When Guinevere questions Arthur’s decision to leave his kingdom in the hands of his best knight, Gauvain, by claiming to know someone better qualified for the position, Arthur becomes insanely angry.26 Only prevented by others from doing his wife violent physical harm, he threatens to cut off her head if she cannot find a better knight than Gauvain. Arthur’s diplomatic advisor clears up the quarrel between king and queen (which recalls his original function in Erec et Enide) by admitting that Lancelot is a better knight than he is. Gauvain then persuades Lancelot to accompany Arthur, the king whom he is 25

“Motif Transfer in Arthurian Literature,” in The Medieval Opus, ed. D. Kelly (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1996), p. 157-68. Lacy bases his notion of “motif transfer” on Wolfgang Müller’s concept of “interfigurality,” the borrowing of characters and the inevitable transformation entailed in the process. 26 Carapezza, pp. 102-06 believes this episode to be a recasting of the opening scene of Le Pelerinage de Charlemagne.

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cuckolding, on his travels. When Lancelot comes close to being burned alive by a panther’s breath, Arthur is happy that Lancelot survives. The reader is left to surmise that otherwise Arthur could be suspected of plotting to get rid of the man who is bedding his wife. The Rigomer poet reduces Arthur to the level of his knights in a variety of ways. Instead of setting the example for them as befits a king, Arthur becomes “just one of the guys.” And even his best knights have their less-than-heroic sides. One by one, the author reveals the distance that separates Lancelot, Gauvain, and the King himself from the exemplary figures they are supposed to incarnate. The image of king and court becomes indelibly tarnished. But the most damning comparison in the romance is that of Arthur and Willeris, the valiant multilingual parrot: Avec çou que si vallans ert, Une autre bontés li apert, Que Dames Diex li ot donee Et otroiie et destinee, Que parler savoit et entendre Si comme Diex li fist aprendre. Tant ert li oisiaus de grant sens, D’iluec a le cité de Sens N’ot bieste ne oisiel si sage. Parler savoit plusor langage. (11643-52)

If the model knight Lancelot becomes an anti-model in his beast-like inarticulate state as “king of the kitchens,” so the supposedly exemplary King Arthur is shown to be less linguistically gifted than a mere animal. In Ch, a world of contrefaçon, animals come closest to speaking the truth, as well as acting in an exemplary manner. The heroic and devoted lion of Chrétien’s Yvain, which occupies the eighth place in Ch, sets the tone of the collection. That Willeris has a name is especially glaring in a compilation populated by innumerable knights who lose their names, the most notable being Gauvain, “the knight without a name” of L’Atre périlleux. The Arthurian romances present in the compilation all show an Arthurian court “bestorné,” one that needs to be corrected in order to realize its potential as standardbearer. Arthur’s shortcomings as leader may stem from a poor education. This becomes clear in the scene where the Lady of Quintefuelle’s messenger arrives at court and hands a letter to Arthur, who in turn

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gives it to a chaplain to read out loud. The author contrasts Arthur’s ignorance with the learnedness of the female messenger. In an age when men were more likely to receive an education than women, the messenger is able to speak Arthur’s language as well as her own (15951), whereas Arthur appears to be unilingual. The former paragon of Arthurian values may in fact not even know how to read. This is suggested by Arthur’s words when he hands the letter to the chaplain to read aloud: “Clers, or vos convient lire, / Si sarons que cis briés veut dire”(35-36 of the Quintefuelle episode). When taken in context with other criticism of Arthur, this statement, although ambiguous, does hint that he lacks proper reading skills. It could even be interpreted to mean that Arthur would be at a loss to deal with the contents of the letter even if he could read it. This innuendo reinforces the allusion to Arthur’s dependence on his counselors suggested at the beginning of the work. Arthur’s portrait as an ignorant boor in the third part of Rigomer contributes to an implicit argument in favor of a well-educated ruler. The positive qualities required of a king become clear by means of Arthur’s presentation as negative example. When the Rigomer poet contrasts the accomplished linguist Willeris with the ill-mannered and bumbling King Arthur and his inarticulate and ignoble champion Lancelot, he doubtless casts a playful nod at John of Salisbury. John’s Policraticus, the model medieval text for the mirror for princes genre, popularized the dictum, “An uneducated king is nothing more than a crowned ass.” This saying was one of the favorites of King Louis IX, king for a forty-four year period (1226-70) that encompasses grosso modo the likely time of composition of Rigomer (1250-75). The multilingual parrot has Pentecostal overtones that highlight the seriousness of Arthur’s loss of his exemplary function. Willeris, the bird blessed with the gift of tongues, is symbolic of the great potential of language, and of the Old French vernacular in particular, to express truth. Rigomer’s implicit criticism of Arthurian rhetoric in verse romance paves the way for the Perlesvaus’ association of prose and truthfulness. Rigomer is a romance whose entertainment value is clear–it is certainly meant to be funny–but which invites a moral reading. Readers interested in a purely secular reading could remain on the surface level of Rigomer, just as they could in reading all the others in the collection, and have a good laugh. No one has yet done justice to

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the infinite variety of Ch’s comedy. Rigomer, the first work in the collection, is a very strange romance that evokes a complex network of responses–as irony, yes, but also as slapstick, as sophisticated literary parody, even as satire. The romance invites reflection on its own processes. The Rigomer poet’s emphasis on the abuse of rhetoric orients the reader to a proper ethical reading of the romance by means of the author’s eloquent presentation of his characters and themes. Characters’ responses are meant to guide the reader. A case in point is Gauvain’s mixed reaction to the sight of Lancelot’s degeneration. The scene in Rigomer’s kitchens occurs, significantly, at the high point of Gauvain’s prestige in the romance. Since the authority of his judgment has not yet been undermined, we are primed to concur with his point of view. Gauvain’s first reaction is to laugh at the spectacle of the former flower of all chivalry reduced to an inarticulate scullion grown fat and sloppy from snacking on kitchen scraps. Gauvain’s second impulse is to be reduced to tears. What does this convey to the reader? After many good laughs, we may be led to reflect on the higher meaning of the scene. The romance is capable of communicating a moral lesson to those who care to look beyond its obvious value as entertainment. Rigomer, found only in Ch where it is the lead work, provides a key to reading all the texts in the collection to follow. The basically negative reading of Arthur’s Round Table in Rigomer and the other verse romances in Ch prepares the new recasting of Arthurian themes in the prose Perlesvaus that begins with an affirmation of Christian doctrine and biblical authority. Here Pickens’ comments on Chrétien’s “seminal word” and “translation,” a medieval notion with a much wider meaning than its present sense, are particularly appropriate. “Translation” is part-and-parcel of a Christian reading, which has tropological and anagogical implications.27 Pickens’ insightful analysis of the relationship between Chrétien’s Perceval and the anonymous Perlesvaus receives confirmation in my reading of Ch. The seemingly anomalous Perlesvaus develops Perceval’s Christian message in a more doctrinal way than had 27 For an overview of the notion of translation, see my “Christine de Pizan as Translator and Voice of the Body Politic,” in Christine de Pizan: A Casebook, ed. Barbara K. Altmann and Deborah McGrady (New York: Routledge, 2003), pp. 25-41.

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Chrétien.28 Through his ordering and editing of the eleven texts in Ch, the compiler allies the verse romances–all either by Chrétien or clearly marked by his influence–with the moralistic and sermonizing Perlesvaus. In his long prologue, the Perlesvaus author casts Arthur first as a positive example, then as a negative one. For ten years following his father’s death, Arthur had lived a virtuous and prosperous life, setting a high standard for all. Then, for no apparent reason, his will began to fail. Forsaking his former generosity, Arthur came to reign over an ailing community whose knights began to desert it in large numbers. Arthur’s court, and the vernacular tradition that has transmitted the image of that court, find themselves at a serious juncture. Ch’s compiler responds to this cry for the renewal of Arthurian values by following in the wake of the Perlesvaus author’s proposed redirection of romance along more doctrinally Christian lines. By placing Rigomer at the head of his collection, the compiler points the way to the higher level of meaning encoded in verse romance by means of Rigomer’s critical view of the tradition epitomized by Chrétien. In the Perlesvaus, as in prose romance generally, Chrétien disappears as named author. The Ch compiler implies that in order for Chrétien to remain true to his name, a name that defines his identity as representative Christian writer, he had to die in verse romance and be resurrected in a reconfigured form in prose. The Ch compiler appropriates for himself the Christian authority of the Perlesvaus narrator, which is coterminous with the disembodied and anonymous voice of the “conte.” He thus tries to improve on Chrétien’s message by using his texts to channel romance into more doctrinally Christian avenues. The compiler appropriates Chrétien’s voice for himself as compiler of the “whole book” in order to realize didactic ends more consistent with prose than with verse romance. Ch’s compiler encourages his audience to read romance as though it were sacred scripture. To paraphrase Augustine’s suggestion that the 28

The compiler seems to have wanted to have the “full picture” of Chrétien, akin to those given in manuscript compilations like Paris, BnF, fr. 1450 and Paris, BnF, fr. 794, which contain all five of his extant romances. This is suggested by the inclusion of Rigomer which, significantly, has an episode set in a dangerous cemetery (see discussion below) that concerns Cligés, the hero of one of the two Chrétien romances not present in Ch.

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wisdom of pagan texts could be applied to Christian truths, the reader is implicitly enjoined “to take the gold out of Egypt,” to mine Arthurian romance for its intimations of divine truth. In the hands of Ch’s compiler, romance becomes the potential vehicle of tropological and typological readings, ones that give the reader the opportunity to change his or her own life. In staging this revision of Arthurian romance in Ch, the compiler himself becomes a participant in the prototypical Christian incarnational drama in which the dynamics of sin and redemption are part-and-parcel of the workings of the divine Verbum. Set forth ever so eloquently in the opening words of John’s gospel is the idea that the universe is nothing more, nor nothing less, than a divine word game. (We can ask if it is mere coincidence that Ch opens on the name “Jehan.”) Rather than detracting from the compilation’s serious message, its comic tone reinforces it. Much like Dante a half-century later, the Ch’s compiler takes his place in a Christian effort to transform the tragedy of the Fall into a “divine comedy” through the effect that the reading of the works in the compilation will have on its audience. If I have earlier described Ch as a “Gauvain cycle,” I now even more see it as a “tombeau de Gauvain,” Gauvain’s final resting place in verse romance. My comparison builds upon one of the compilation’s commanding metaphors, that of the perilous cemetery. The episode ultimately harks back to Lancelot’s “cemetery of the future,” in which Lancelot views Gauvain’s tomb as well as Yvain’s and his own. L’Atre périlleux (“The Dangerous Cemetery”) is the title of the second work in Ch, a romance in which Gauvain arguably attains the status of a true hero. The author devotes the entire romance to Gauvain, and precisely to his attempts to redeem the marred reputation he had acquired in late verse romance. As sole protagonist, Gauvain attains a status denied to him by Chrétien. However, his redemption in the Atre, as in all the verse romances in Ch, remains fundamentally ambiguous.29 A similar judgment is discernable in the truncated version of Perlesvaus in Ch. Gauvain’s encounter with Marin le Jaloux suggests that although Gauvain has purged himself of 29 Lori J. Walters, “Resurrecting Gauvain in L’Atre périlleux and the Middle Dutch Walewein,” in “Por le soie amisté”: Essays in Honor of Norris J. Lacy, ed. Keith Busby and Catherine M. Jones (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000), pp. 509-37.

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the sin of luxure, he cannot totally escape his prior reputation. In preserving a major portion of Arthurian lore concerning Gauvain, Ch inevitably portrays this character as a combination of good and bad qualities. Gauvain’s characterization in Ch nonetheless proves more positive than Arthur’s or Lancelot’s. The Rigomer author subjects Lancelot to further undermining after his rescue by Gauvain. When Miraudiaus tries to force Dionise to marry him, Arthur appoints a knight named Midomidas to champion her cause. When Midomidas awaits Miraudiaus, the more renowned Lancelot arrives on the scene, dressed up (appropriately, given his earlier treatment) as an idiot. When Miraudiaus sees a scar on the hand of his new opponent that identifies him as Lancelot, he declares himself defeated, on the strength of the other’s reputation. This detail is deeply ironic, since the scar on the hand is a reference to the mark of the beast in Revelations 13:11. Rather than being rehabilitated after his release from the kitchens of Rigomer, Lancelot symbolically becomes the harbinger of the Apocalypse. In Ch, Lancelot’s sins of treason and adultery far outweigh Gauvain’s transgressions. Rigomer is a fitting introduction to Ch, which in its entirety is a tribute to the figure of Gauvain in Old French romance. True to Rigomer’s opening statement, Gauvain’s political astuteness tempers Arthur’s boorish behavior and ignorance. Arthur’s counselor, like any and all Arthurian knights, may have moral failings, but he does offer the King some good advice over the course of the romance. Gauvain’s mercurial but magnetic figure remains the focus of interest throughout the compilation. He is the human knot that ties together its many textual members in one complex but unified corpus. Although denied the status of successful Grail quester in Perlesvaus, Gauvain nonetheless prefigures Perceval/Perlesvaus, who will accomplish the Grail quest in the prose romance tradition. Gauvain’s depiction in Ch is similar to his portrayal in the Lancelot-Graal, where his failure is the failure of one of the very best earthly knights.30 Gauvain is the major model for the reader’s own path to moral improvement in Ch. The compiler uses Gauvain to fix the reader’s interest and engage his sympathies. Ch’s anonymous compiler proves 30

My thanks to Elspeth Kennedy for this insight.

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to be an astute psychologist and preacher. He understands that his flawed and all-too-human character Gauvain is a more effective means of realizing his didactic ends than the Vulgate’s perfect–and perfectly boring–Galaad. The compiler uses contrastive positive and negative exempla with the aim of turning his summa-like treasury of Arthurian lore into a body of wisdom to guide not only the individual reader, but the entire corporate civic body. The dual figures of Gauvain and the compiler bring to mind Augustine.31 As a result of his transformation from a man deluded by lust into a committed seeker after truth–all thanks to adventures in reading–Augustine produced a body of writing that became a major source of political theory in the Middle Ages. Perhaps inspired by Augustine’s commanding example as preacher and as writer who in his Retractions lists ninety-seven works to his credit–works he cannot resist correcting one final time before posterity passes judgment upon them!–Ch’s compiler enlists Chrétien’s worldly knight Gauvain in an ongoing attempt to transform the corporate civic body into a more authentic reflection of Augustine’s utopian vision of a truly just human society. Gauvain is above all an indicator of the fundamental ambiguity of the nascent Old French vernacular. Since the spoken, living language can potentially be used for good or for ill, a lesson as old as the serpent’s seduction of Adam and Eve in paradise, writers and orators in the vernacular had to guard against the perversion of rhetoric that had marked the archetypical human sin. As mentioned previously, Ch was undoubtedly produced during or shortly after the reign of Louis IX. Characterizing him as “un roi parlant français,” Jacques Le Goff details how Louis increased the prestige of the king’s spoken word.32 Louis IX expanded the use of the vernacular for spoken and written communication in order to unify the populace under his Capetian monarchy. Louis took special care to commit issues of importance to permanent memory. He commissioned the compiling of the vernacular prose Grandes Chroniques de France and composed Enseignements, short vernacular collections of advice, for his son and daughter in his very 31

The Augustine website maintained by J. J. O’Donnell contains many of the Church Father’s works in the original and in translation into several modern languages: http://www.georgetown.edu/faculty/jod. 32 Saint Louis (Paris: Gallimard, 1996), p. 515.

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own hand (Le Goff 595-641). Louis went to great lengths to make himself into a living and speaking example of an educated ruler. His image as ideal Christian monarch was given permanent validation when he was canonized in 1297, only twenty-seven years after his death. My analysis suggests that Ch can be seen as yet another reflection of Saint Louis’ desire to increase the truth value of the vernacular by associating it with prose and with the image of the rex christianissimus promoted by the monarchy. Finally and perhaps most importantly, Ch’s emphasis on Gauvain’s verbal abilities at the service of Arthurian exemplarity provides reflection on the compiler’s own role as advisor to kings, counselors, and their subjects in mid-thirteenth-century France. He does his part to reorient the direction of an evolving vernacular poetics towards its proper function as tool in the establishment of the City of God on earth. In editing and re-ordering Ch’s eleven texts, the compiler accomplishes an act of re-creation that looks forward to the restoration of the time of peace and harmony that had existed in Eden before the Fall. Carruthers (Craft of Thought) compellingly refers to this as “remembering heaven or remembering the future.” This is the process of re-creating through images, whether verbal or visual, a vision of a just human society that approaches the perfect human community forever present in the eternal mind of God. For just as the created universe sprang up from God’s ingenious Verbum, so too are human communities founded on fertile ideas conceived in the minds of his human agents and communicated to others through eloquent use of the spoken and written word. In placing Rigomer at the head of his collection, the compiler allies himself with an ongoing process of vernacularization aimed at improving the individual and society through language, the skill that above all others distinguishes human beings from beasts.

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Marie de France and the Ancients1 he three extant narrative texts of the twelfth-century AngloNorman poet, Marie de France, are marked with references that reveal a literary technique steeped in the tradition of classical rhetoric. As Douglas Kelly has pointed out in The Art of Medieval French Romance, classical influence on medieval poets came through their training in the arts of poetry and prose: “The medieval arts of poetry and prose draw on learned and scholastic traditions of ancient, and especially Roman, origin. These traditions linked poetics to one or more of the Liberal Arts, especially grammar and rhetoric.”2 Given the apparently important role that training in the arts of poetry and prose played in the development of twelfth- and thirteenth-century vernacular literature, an understanding of such instruction sheds light on the poetics of medieval authors who learned to write through their study of the “ancients” as appropriated by medieval grammarians, rhetoricians, and glossators. Moreover, such a study makes it possible to identify which parts of the grammatical or rhetorical paradigm a particular poet may have privileged over others, and the ways in which that aspect may have become essential to her or his own literary program. In the case of Marie de France, for example, certain textual references, especially throughout her prologues, suggest a propensity for the arts of memoria (memory) and descriptio (description). The rhetoric of antiquity was available to medieval students through a broad selection of sources, but the surviving manuscripts from the period point to a privileged status for certain authorities such as the works of Cicero, the Rhetorica ad Herennium, and Priscian, to name but a few. If authors of literature in the Middle Ages were interested in keeping a textual tradition alive by assuring the transfer of material 1

I presented a preliminary version of this study as a paper in 2001 at the 58th Annual Convention of the South Central Modern Language Association in Tulsa, Oklahoma. My interest in Marie de France and rhetoric grew from independent studies with Rupert T. Pickens who advised me during my MA program at the University of Kentucky from 1989-92. I am honored to publish the article in this collection dedicated to my mentor, dear friend, and “plus que père.” 2 Douglas Kelly, The Art of Medieval French Romance (Madison: Univ. of Wisconsin Press, 1992), p. 32.

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from a prior time to their own period, medieval compilers of the arts of poetry and prose were concerned with developing an instruction based on the classical divisions of rhetoric, while at the same time adapting it to fit the literary needs of their own students. What medieval authors gleaned from this instruction steeped in Roman tradition was an ability to gather material from pre-existing sources, shape that material in their imaginations, combine it with other previously collected material in the storehouse of memory, and mesh the disparate parts into a new work that was suitable for their audience. This process of medieval inventio may have found its fullest expression in the romances of Chrétien de Troyes and specifically through the technique of conjointure, his own word for the art of combining source material in a way that reveals the ingenium of the author. This poetic craft is present from the beginning of his literary career in his first work, Erec et Enide. But in this area, he must share the stage with his contemporary, Marie de France, as she exhibits the same talent, though within the textual boundaries of a significantly shorter genre, the lai. While a detailed analysis of the artes poeticae as they existed in Antiquity and throughout the Middle Ages is beyond the scope and limits of this article,3 a brief summary of the development of classical rhetoric and grammar and its eventual transmission into the treatises that codified the stages of medieval topical invention will nonetheless sketch the tradition from which Marie developed a unique mnemonic system of narrative. As the first woman to write in the French language, insofar as we know from the surviving evidence, she received training in the arts of poetry and prose rivaling that of her male counterparts, and commanded a marked apprehension of the use of elaborately constructed descriptions to ensure the memory of both textual and cultural artifacts.

3 For a detailed study on the development of rhetoric from Greece to Rome, to medieval Europe, and to the Renaissance see James Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1974). Edmond Faral offers a thorough investigation of the arts of poetry and prose in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Les arts poétiques du XIIe et du XIIIe siècle: recherches et documents sur la technique littéraire du moyen âge (Paris: Champion, 1924). For the most detailed analysis of the development of medieval French literary invention, stemming from the arts of poetry and prose as learned and implemented by medieval authors, see Kelly, The Art of Medieval French Romance.

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Ciceronian rhetoric of Antiquity embodied five basic parts as outlined in the author’s De inventione: invention (inventio), arrangement (dispositio), style (elocutio), memory (memoria), and delivery (pronuntiatio).4 All of these divisions are included a few years later in the Rhetorica ad Herennium,5 which James Murphy calls “one of the most influential books on speaking and writing ever produced in the Western world,” adding that it can be regarded as “a complete textbook of rhetoric” (pp. 18-19). The ad Herennium also contains material not found in the De inventione such as the complete listing of “figures” (exornationes) of speech and thought,6 and, as Murphy notes that “the section on memoria is the oldest extant treatment of the subject” (p. 19). Memoria, though not first in the series of faculties listed, merits particular attention since without it the speaker would not be capable of pronuntiatio of the other faculties.7 Indeed, the author stresses the significance of memory to the entire rhetorical process, suggesting that all other parts of composition fall into its domain.8 This emphasis on 4

See H. M. Hubbell, trans., De inventione. De optimo genere oratorum. Topica, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1949). “Quare materia quidem nobis rhetoricae videtur artis ea quam Aristoteli visam esse diximus; partes autem eae quas plerique dixerunt, inventio, dispositio, elocutio, memoria, pronunciatio. Inventio est excogitatio rerum verarum aut veri similium quae causam probabilem reddant; dispositio est rerum inventarum in ordinem distributio; elocutio est indoneorum verborum ad inventionem accommodatio; memoria est firma animi rerum ac verborum perceptio; pronunciatio est ex rerum et verborum dignitate vocis et corporis moderatio” (I.vii.9; my emphasis here and throughout). 5 See Harry Caplan, trans., [Cicero] Ad C. Herennium de ratione dicendi, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1954). “Oportet igitur esse in oratore inventionem, dispositionem, elocutionem, memoriam, pronuntiationem. Inventio est excogitatio rerum verarum aut veri similium quae causam probabilem reddant. Dispositio est ordo et distributio rerum, quae demonstrat quid quibus locis sit conlocandum. Elocutio est idoneorum verborum et sententiarum ad inventionem adcommodatio. Memoria est firma animi rerum et verborum et dispositionis perceptio. Pronuntiatio est vocis, vultus, gestus moderatio cum venustate” (I.ii.3). See also James Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1974) p. 19. He has pointed out that, “the discussion of inventio [in the Ad Herennium] is essentially the same as Cicero’s, a fact that may account for the widespread medieval belief that Cicero was the author.” 6 For a useful chart listing these figures and tropes see Murphy, p. 21. 7 Ad Herennium, “memoria est firma animi rerum ac verborum perceptio” (I.ii.3). 8 Ad Herennium, “Nunc ad thesaurum inventorum atque ad omnium partium rhetoricae custodem, memoriam, transeamus” (III.xvi.28).

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memory may help to explain the importance allocated to it during the thirteenth century as treatises on the subject began to appear in significant numbers. In the ad Herennium, memory is divided into two facets, natural and artificial.9 Natural memory is that with which we are born, while artificial memory is that which we create through the use of figures and backgrounds. These backgrounds are mental grids in which images are arranged as though placing them within the rooms of an imaginary building. The author explains that the two systems work together, natural memory being used to call forth from the storehouse of artificial memory the images or figures that have been created and placed there, and artificial memory, in its turn, sharpening the innate ability of the person to remember material through training and discipline in the invention and placement of such images. The image functions as a marker of the object we wish to remember and must be placed in a background that will facilitate its recall.10 In light of this type of mnemonic exercise that is extolled in one of the best known works of ancient rhetoric that came down to the Middle Ages, it is not surprising that medieval authors should be concerned with creating narratives that exploit the association of images, often in the nature of the merveille, with ideas or lessons that they wished their audiences to remember. The popularity of the Rhetorica ad Herennium and the De inventione during the twelfth century makes it likely that an educated author like Marie de France, who was evidently well versed in the arts of poetry, as her works bear witness, had knowledge of them.11 Her implementation of the technique is apparent on many occasions throughout her narratives, such as in the case of the androgynous hind that utters a prophetic discourse to the wounded knight in the lai of Guigemar. In fact, this entire lai is an assembly of different stories that all revolve around the 9 Ad Herennium, “Sunt igitur duae memoriae: una naturalis, altera artificiosa. Naturalis est ea quae nostris animis insita est et simul cum cogitatione nata; artificiosa est ea quam confirmat inductio quaedam et ratio praeceptionis” (III.xvi.28). 10 Ad Herennium, “Imagines sunt formae quaedam et notae et simulacra eius rei quam meminisse volumus; quod genus equi, leonis, aquilae memoriam si volemus habere, imagines eorum locis certis conlocare oportebit” (III, xvi, 29). 11 See Murphy, p. 109. He records their appearance in medieval library catalogues during the twelfth century: thirteen times for the Rhetorica ad Herennium and thirtytwo times for Cicero’s De inventione.

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lovesick condition of the hero: the hunt for the stag, the episode where he discovers the lady enclosed in the castle by her jealous husband, and his separation from and eventual reuniting with his new love. Reading between the couplets, as it were, one can imagine that these episodes may have existed somewhere in past works before they were discovered by Marie, tucked away into her memory, and later brought forth and adapted to satisfy the preferences of her courtly public. Much in the same way that Chrétien ties together different episodes of his romances into a symmetrical whole, she meshes the segments of her tale into a congruous textual unit. By all accounts of its structure and themes, the lai of Guigemar wants to be a romance; it is, for all intents and purposes, a romance waiting to happen, in need only of amplificatio to free it from the aesthetic confines of its genre. Grammar, another division of the Liberal Arts that was ultimately important to the development of vernacular literature in the Middle Ages, appears first in the list of the Trivium, with rhetoric often appearing in second place. Just as memory was vital to the discipline of rhetoric, it played a crucial role in the instruction of grammar. Martin Irvine has signaled a common preface to grammatical commentaries in which memory was indeed listed as one of the keys of wisdom.12 He notes the significance of grammatica to the preservation of a written tradition from Antiquity through the medieval period: “Rather than one discipline among many, grammatica had an essentially constitutive function, making a certain kind of literacy and literary culture possible per se. Both the textual objects defined or constructed through grammatical discourse and the social relations enacted and replicated through the institutional practice of the discipline are inscribed everywhere in medieval culture.”13 In its classical and then later medieval context grammar is not solely the study of language, as in the university classroom of our day; rather, as Murphy suggests, “it is first of all the science of speaking and writing

12

Martin Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture: ‘Grammatica’ and Literary Theory, 350-1100 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1994), p. 461. “Quot sunt claves sapientie? .V. Que? Assiduitas legendi, memoria retinendi, sedulitas interrogandi, contemptus diviciarum, honor magistri.” 13 Irvine, p. xiv. For the development and divisions of grammatica, ca.350-ca.1150, see the chart in Irvine, p. 6.

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correctly (recte loquendi),14 and then the art of interpreting the poets (enarratio poetarum).”15 During the transitional period between Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, the study of grammar began to enjoy privileged expression as a tradition of its own, separate from that of rhetoric, beginning with the Ars poetica of Horace between 23 and 13 B.C., and then with the Barbarismus of Donatus around A.D. 350.16 This tradition reached its apogee in the sixth century with Priscian’s Institutionum grammaticae, of which there are over one thousand extant manuscripts. Murphy underscores the importance of this movement in relation to the epoch in which Marie composed her narratives by pointing out that “Donatus, Priscian, and their imitators, copyists, and commentators dominate grammatical instruction during the period up to A.D. 1200” (p. 139). It is no coincidence then that Marie de France mentions Priscian by name in her prologue: “Custume fu as anciëns, / ceo testimoine Preciëns” (Pr 9-10).17 The debt that medieval theories of grammar and rhetoric owe to the classical tradition is significant. The preceding account demonstrates the manner in which certain precepts within these first two branches of the Trivium made their way into the medieval practice of vernacular literary composition. Classical artes poeticae in general were adapted by, and found expression through, medieval grammarians and rhetoricians to accommodate the needs and usage of their contemporary literary practitioners, and certain aspects of classical grammar and rhetoric eventually became codified mutatis mutandis as medieval literary theory. The resulting Ciceronian-based theory as 14

Murphy uses the term loquendi to refer to both reading and writing because Quintilian explains that the two are connected: “Nam et scribendi ratio coniuncta cum loquendo est […]” (I.iv.3). 15 Murphy, pp. 24-25. See H. E. Butler, trans., The Institutio Oratio of Quintilian, Loeb Classical Library, 4 vols. (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1920-22). Quintilian’s Institutio oratoria makes this distinction in A.D. 92: “Haec igitur professio, cum brevissime in duas partes dividatur, recte loquendi scientiam et poetarum enarrationem” (I.iv.2). See also Murphy, pp. 22-26 for a thorough discussion of Quintilian as he relates to the art of grammar. 16 See Murphy, pp. 42-88. He discusses in detail the transition of rhetoric and grammar from their classical expressions to their medieval manifestations. 17 Unless otherwise noted, all references to the Lais are from the edition of Jean Rychner, Les Lais de Marie de France (Paris: Champion, 1983). I adopt his abbreviation for the title of the General Prologue: Pr.

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expounded in various treatises was the foundation of instruction for poets in the twelfth century, such as Marie de France, who not only perfected its implementation in toto, but also advanced certain elements of composition over others, developing a personal style of inventio that would be imitated in the following centuries. Though the medieval rhetorical and grammatical paradigm of literary composition that developed from the epideictic art of the “ancients” represents a rather complex and somewhat diverse body of writing, the art of literary topical invention (inventio) as it was expressed in the Middle Ages can best be summed up by what Kelly has recognized as three primary stages: “First, the author has an idea or mental conception of a subject. Second, material is sought and identified through which the initial conception may find appropriate statement and elaboration. Third, the mental conception and the materia are meshed as the subject matter of the work” (p. 38). As previously mentioned, memoria was an integral part of inventio as it was understood and practiced in the Middle Ages since the second stage of this process, the search for subject matter, depended heavily on the author’s storehouse of memory. When quoting Alcuin’s dialogue with Charlemagne, Mary Carruthers notes: “Memoria is a storehouse, custodian of invention and cogitation, of ‘things’ and ‘words,’ and without it, even the most eminent of the speaker’s other talents will come to nothing.”18 This sentiment reflects that of the author of the ad Herennium.19 Within the context of the preceding remarks, it comes as no surprise that the General Prologue to Marie’s Lais begins with an encomium of the act of literary composition. Like her reference to Priscian a few lines farther in the same prologue, these opening remarks justify her own poetic endeavor and place her squarely in the company of those who share the gift of eloquent composition: Ki Deus ad duné escïence E de parler bone eloquence Ne s’en deit taisir ne celer, Ainz se deit voluntiers mustrer.

18 The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1990), p. 144. 19 See note 8.

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Quant uns granz biens est mult oïz, Dunc a primes est il fluriz, E quant loëz est de plusurs, Dunc ad espandues ses flurs. (Pr 1-8)

Her own awareness of the arts of medieval poetry is evidenced by the juxtaposing of two of the most fundamental qualities of medieval literary invention as outlined earlier: the acquisition of material from acquired knowledge (“escïence” in the Old French), and the capacity to organize it and communicate it to an audience in “true eloquence” (“de parler bone eloquence”). The significance of verses 1-2 from the prologue of the Lais, most likely the earliest extant work composed by Marie de France,20 cannot be overemphasized as it relates to the entire corpus of the poet. Not only do these verses recall the process of literary invention in general, but they also invoke two of the most salient aspects of her own poetics: memory and description. The reference to “escïence,” or knowledge, points to memoria, for Marie clearly and consistently demonstrates that it is through her storehouse of memory that she has gained the knowledge necessary to create her own version of the tales that she assembles. One example is her constant reference to the stories that she remembers from the Bretons, and which she in turn draws upon as sources to compose her Lais, short narrative texts that reveal a concern for creating images that will be easily retained in the imagination of her audience. Likewise, the expression “de parler bone eloquence,” or “to speak eloquently,” refers not only to the technique of literary inventio as a whole, but in Marie’s case it alludes especially to the art of descriptio, the rhetorical device that will permeate her narratives to follow. In essence, memory and description, two elements of medieval topical invention inherited from classical rhetoric by means of medieval training in the arts of poetry, are the hallmark of her style. Certainly, though, Marie was not the only medieval poet of the twelfth century to make use of narrative description. The technique is 20

Although it has not been possible to date with certainty the three extant works of Marie de France–Lais, Fables, and Espurgatoire Saint Patrice–it is commonly accepted scholarly opinion that they were all composed during the last half of the twelfth century in that order.

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fairly common in the romans d’antiquité, one example being the lengthy description of Carthage in the Roman d’Eneas, a twelfthcentury French translatio of Virgil’s Aeneid.21 Furthermore, descriptions are ubiquitous in Chrétien’s romances. His descriptive talents are evidenced in several ways: by the descriptions of persons such as the beauty of Cligés, or the ugliness of the hideous peasant in Yvain; by the descriptions of events like that of the knights’ appearance in the “gaste forest” at the beginning of Perceval; and by the descriptions of objects such as Erec’s coronation robe at the end of Erec et Enide.22 However, the striking feature of description in Marie’s narratives that distinguishes her from her predecessors such as the authors of the romans d’antiquité, and from her contemporaries like Chrétien, is the amount of textual space allocated to its use in proportion to the rest of the narrative. Though she wrote in two of the shortest genres of the twelfth century, the lai and the fable, she nonetheless devoted significant segments of her texts to detailed descriptions. These textual embellishments are not mere aesthetic adornments, but rather become a crucial part of Marie’s poetic design, as she deliberately uses the art of descriptio to construct a narrative architecture of memory that will facilitate the future recollection of important moral and didactic lessons posited in her texts. Just as the works of the sixth-century grammarian Priscian bear witness to the literary “customs of the Ancients,” Marie’s corpus bears the transparent markings of a classical rhetoric inherited through training in the medieval arts of poetry and prose. Her own art of inventio intricately links descriptio and memoria through welldeveloped descriptions that are strategically intended to give substance to her thoughts, to create a visual representation no less significant than that of the written word. Her narrative art preserves the literary

21 See verses 407-548 in J.-J. Salverda De Grave, ed., Le Roman d’Eneas (Paris: Champion, 1925-29). 22 Claude Luttrell and Stewart Gregory, eds., Cligès (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1993), beginning at 2741. Wendelin Foerster, ed., Yvain. Le chevalier au lion (Manchester: Manchester Univ. Press, 1942; rpt. 1967), 288-326. Keith Busby, ed., Le Roman de Perceval ou Le Conte du Graal (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1993), beginning at 69. Wendelin Foerster, ed., Erec et Enide (Halle: Niemeyer, 1934), beginning at 6713.

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aesthetics of an ancient cultural tradition, while at the same time it fashions a new poetic voice for posterity.

LENORA D. WOLFGANG

The Manuscripts of the Chevalier de la Charrette (Lancelot) of Chrétien de Troyes. Preliminary remarks to a new edition: The case of ms. E. Part II n 19981 I discussed approximately half of the lacunae in ms. E of the Chevalier de la Charrette.2 It was my intention in that article to analyze a manuscript that Alexandre Micha called “franchement détestable.”3 I now wish to discuss the rest of the lacunae in manuscript E.4 As I said in Part I of this discussion, the scribe seemed intent on “eliminating details that he deemed repetitious or unnecessary, particularly in dialogues and descriptions. The effect is to prosify a poetic text, render dialogue more blunt and direct, and to get on, at times, rather gracelessly with the story.”5 The scribe of E seems to see repetition in the text only as a redundancy rather than as a poetic device. In order to test the authenticity of the lines eliminated by the scribe of E, I will study them in terms of some of the poetic devices associated with Chrétien’s style. I will particularly examine the rhetorical devices of adnominatio and chiasmus, which are part of an editorial grid developed by the late Alfred Foulet and Karl D. Uitti.6 1

Lenora D. Wolfgang, “The Manuscripts of the Chevalier de la Charrette (Lancelot) of Chrétien de Troyes. Preliminary Remarks to a new edition: The case of ms. E., in, Miscellanea Mediaevalia,” Tome II, Mélanges offerts à Philippe Ménard, ed. J. Claude Faucon, Alain Labbé et Danielle Quéruel (Paris: Champion, 1998), pp. 1477-88. 2 Escorial M.iii 21 (E), vv 1-5763. The other manuscripts preserving the Lancelot are BnF, fr. 794 (C) , vv 1-7112; 12560 (T), vv 1-7134; 1450 (F), vv 5652-7134; Chantilly 472 (A), vv 31-5873; Vatican 1725 (V), vv 861-7134; Princeton, UL, Garrett 125 (G), vv 1-290, 951-1282, 1461-1628, 2306-445, 2628-962, 3624-690; Institut de France 6138 (I), vv 3615-654, 3735-74, 4741-899. 3 Alexandre Micha, La Tradition manuscrite des romans de Chrétien de Troyes (Genève: Droz, 1939; repr. 1966), pp. 278, 382. 4 For a list of the lacunae in ms. E, see Micha, Tradition, pp. 60, 379-82. 5 Wolfgang, “Preliminary Remarks,” pp. 1478-79. 6 Foulet and Uitti constructed what they called an “editorial grid” (grille éditoriale), listing characteristics of Chrétien’s style. See Alfred Foulet and Karl D. Uitti, eds,

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Adnominatio is a play on words using variations on a word, often in the rhyme scheme. Chiasmus is a play on words using the same word or phrase, usually repeated in reverse order, in the same line or in different lines. These figures are often used together in Chrétien, and, with other figures of enrichment, such as alliteration, sonority, and rich rhyme, they are part of Chrétien’s ars poetica. As I did in Part I, I will compare the “worst” manuscript E to the “best” manuscript C in terms of lacunae in order to see how ms. E lives up to Micha’s characterization as “franchement détestable.”7 Citations of verses use the line numbering in Foerster’s edition.8

Chrétien de Troyes. Le Chevalier de la Charrette (Lancelot) (Paris: Bordas, l989), p. xxxviii; Alfred Foulet, “On Editing Chrétien de Troyes,” in The Romances of Chrétien de Troyes: A Symposium, ed. Douglas Kelly (Lexington, KY: French Forum Publishers, 1985), pp. 287-304; Karl D. Uitti, “Preface”; Alfred Foulet, “On GridEditing Chrétien de Troyes,” L’Esprit créateur, 27 (1987), 5-14, 15-23; and Alfred Foulet and Mary Blakely Speer, On Editing Old French Texts (Lawrence, KS: The Regents Press of Kansas, 1979). 7 Ibid., p. 1478. See also, Lenora D. Wolfgang, “Chrétien’s Lancelot: Love and Philology,” Reading Medieval Studies, 17 (1991), 3-17, where I discuss how some passages are best preserved in some of the worst manuscripts. 8 The edition used for citations is Alfred Foulet and Karl D. Uitti, eds., Chrétien de Troyes. Le Chevalier de la Charrette (Lancelot). I also consulted Wendelin Foerster, ed., Christian von Troyes, Sämtliche erhaltene Werke, nach allen bekannten Handscriften, vol. 4, Der Karrenritter (Lancelot) (Halle: Niemeyer, 1899 [Repr. Rodopi, 1965]); Mario Roques, ed., Les Romans de Chrétien de Troyes, vol. 3, Le Chevalier de la Charrete (Paris: Champion, 1958); William W. Kibler, ed., Chrétien de Troyes. Lancelot, or, The Knight of the Cart (Le Chevalier de la Charrete) (New York: Garland, 1981); Daniel Poirion, ed., Chrétien de Troyes, Oeuvres complètes (Paris: Gallimard, 1994); Charles Méla, Chrétien de Troyes, Romans (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1994). Citations from manuscript E are my own; I have also consulted “The Charrette Project,” directed by Karl D. Uitti at Princeton University, for electronic transcriptions of the manuscript. Also consulted for ms G are Leonard James Rahilly, ed., “The Garrett manuscript no. 125 of Chrétien’s Chevalier de la Charrete and Chevalier au Lion: a Critical Study, with Transcription” (unpub. Dissertation, Princeton University, 1971); and for ms. I, see Lenora D. Wolfgang, “Chrétien’s Lancelot: the Fragments in Manuscript 6138 of the Institut de France,” in, Conjunctures: Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, ed. Keith Busby and Norris J. Lacy (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), pp. 559-74.

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6509 Gawain and Lancelot are seeking the kidnapped Guenevere. They question a demoiselle they meet at a crossroads about where the queen has been taken. The demoiselle tells them that Meleagant has taken her to his father’s kingdom of Gorre: “Dameisele, ou est cele terre? / Ou porrons nos la voie querre?” (649-50). The scribe of E omits 650, leaving 649 without a rhyme. The scribe of E may have wished to eliminate what he saw as a restatement rather than a refinement of 649, but his leaving 649 without a line to complete the couplet is sheer negligence. 991-92 The demoiselle tells Gawain and Lancelot about the two roads that lead to Gorre. Gawain chooses the road to the Pont Sous l’Eau and Lancelot chooses the road to the Pont de l’Epée. Lancelot is offered hospitality for the night by a demoiselle who leads him to her castle. Lines 991-92 and 993-94 explain that they find the hall, which is covered with tiles, open, and they enter through the open entrance. The scribe of E abridges the description, eliminating 991-92 overte-coverte and retaining 993-94 overt-covert. This wordplay (adnominatio), characteristic of Chrétien, was apparently not appreciated by the scribe of E. The scribe of E remodels this passage, omitting 991-92: “Passent le pont si ont trové / L’us de la sale tout ouvert. / Entrent ainz et voient couvert […].” The omission of 991-92 is most likely due to the repetitions. However, the scribe may have wished to omit the description of the hall in 992: “Qui de tiules estoit coverte.” Micha says of this passage: “992 et 993: il a voulu éviter la repetition de trové et de overt à 991 et 993” (p. 379).

9

Micha, Tradition, does not list the omission of this line, the first by the scribe of ms. E.

LENORA D. WOLFGANG

732 2043-4

Lancelot encounters a vavasor who will lodge him for the night. The scribe of E omits two lines at the end of the vavasor’s greeting. The omission results in a mistake: Lancelot replies that he also will be happy to accept [lodging] (2045), but line 2044, where the vavasor says he will be happy if Lancelot accepts, is omitted. In this instance the repetition of liez (a chiasmus) in lines 2044 and 2045 may have led to the abridgment. The scribe of E remodels the passage so that the vavasor says only: “‘Et g’ei une moie maisson / Chi prés, la ou je vos mesrai, / Ou mout bien vos herbergerai’”(2040-42). But he retains Lancelot’s reply in 2045: “Et g’en resui mout liez,” fait il. 205410 The vavasor sends his son ahead to make the lodging ready, a task he accomplishes willingly and quickly. Line 2053 is altered in E so that the verb is plural (vont) rather than singular (vet). The text of E now says that Lancelot and the vavasor go on quickly, rather than the vavasor’s son. Having made this mistake, the scribe of E must now eliminate 2054, that says cil (Lancelot and the vavasor), who do not want to hurry, go on their way, and line 2053 is left without a rhyme. 2677-8 Lancelot prepares to fight the arrogant knight who has insulted him for riding in the cart. The youths of the household where he is staying run to arm him. The passage describing how Lancelot looks as he is armed to fight is complex: Et sachiez, ne resanbloit pas, Si com il s’an aloit le pas, Armez de trestotes ses armes, Et tint l’escu par les enarmes Et fu sor son cheval montez,

10

2676

I do not see that Micha, Tradition, mentions this lacuna.

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733

Qu’il deüst ester mescontez N’antre les biax n’antre les buens.

The scribe of E rewrites the passage, including lines 2677-78, and adds two lines: Et sachiez qu’il nel sembloit pas, La ou il s’an aloit le pas, Kant fu sor son ceval, (-2) Qui bons et trestouz loial, (-1) Qu’il deüst estre mesco[nt]ez, Ne por nule afaire oublïez, Aprés armés de toutes ses armes, (+1) Et tint l’escu par les ennarmes, N’entre les beaux n’entre les buens.

2674a b c d 2675 2676 2679

The main clause states: “And know that, he ought not not to be counted among the fair and the good.” These lines are 2673, 2678-79 in C, and 2673, 2674c, 2679, in E. It may be that the scribe went astray when he put 2674a after 2674. He then wrote a line to rhyme with cheval. He returned to the main clause with 2674c and again had to invent a line to rhyme with mescontez. Both lines added by the scribe of E are chevilles. 2703-05 The arrogant knight and Lancelot exchange blows in the heat of battle. The scribe of E rewrites 2703 (2702a), which he rhymes with 2706, thus eliminating 2704-05. It may be that the idea of blows being repaid like the settlement of a debt seemed like unnecessary verbiage to the scribe. In E the passage reads: As espees les escus dolent Et les aunes et les haubers; Trenchent li fus, et tout li fe[r]s Mout s’entremplaient durement; Et les espees mout souvent […].

2700

2702a 2706

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2725-6 As the fight progresses between Lancelot and the arrogant knight, everyone came out of the vavasor’s house to watch. The scribe of E trims two lines from the description, leaving two lines, 2724 and 2727: “Tuit furent issu de l’ostal: / Et li privez et li estrainge.” The scribe of E probably omitted the lines as redundant. However, they are part of Chrétien’s style: a crowd of lines depicts a crowd of spectators! 2733-36 As the fight goes on, Lancelot blames himself for not yet having beaten his adversary. The scribe of E removes four lines that say that Lancelot trembled with anger when he saw that his host and all the others were watching him. The scribe may have considered the lines a redundancy, since the text had already said everyone was watching him. However, the repetition shows Lancelot’s character. Lancelot trembles with anger when he realizes that his host is watching. He gains strength and determination from the spectators—as he will when Guenevere watches him fight—and he is acutely aware of what is expected of him when he does battle. The verbs of seeing and looking in this passage (which are examples of adnominatio, chiasmus and rich rhyme) thus underscore Lancelot’s desire to maintain his reputation. 2763-64 The arrogant knight is vanquished and begs Lancelot for mercy. The scribe of E considerably reduces this passage. He omits 2763-64 and remodels 2765-6 to read: “Merchi li demande et requiert, / Et cil nel touche puis ne fiert.” He removes 2767-72, and reduces the exchange to, “‘Veüz tu,” fait il, “avoir merchi?” (2766a) / –“Oïl,” fait cil […]” (b). The bluntness produced by this latter reduction (see Ménard, p.1481-82), which removes the wordplay and arrogant tone of the vanquished knight, diminishes the text of this important passage. The scribe three times removes the word “merci” and twice a verb for request (“requerre” and “demander”), words which emphasize the

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meaning of the text: the vanquished knight is begging over and over for mercy, and Lancelot will grant it only under one condition. 2775-76 The vanquished knight will have mercy only if he rides in a cart. The scribe of E simplifies Lancelot’s words, removing lines 2775-76 and rewriting 2773-74, where Lancelot tells him it is useless to protest: “Et ge te di Se tu la veuz vers moi trouver, En carete t’estuet monter; Por cheu que tant fole boche as K[e] villainement la me reprochas.”

2767b 2773 2777

Micha lists this lacuna under category (b) as 2768-76,11 and says: “l’ironie de 2768 n’a pas été saisie, d’où réfection du passage”; and 2774-6, “disent le dépit de Lancelot, bien décidé faire monter son adversaire sur la charrette” (p. 380). Whether the scribe of E appreciated the irony or not, his primary motive seems to simplify the text. The verb “montoies” of 2776 and “monter” of 2773 are an example of adnominatio, and these verbs underscore the message of the text: mount if you wish to have mercy. 2781-82 The vanquished knight protests Lancelot’s sentence to ride in the cart. The scribe of E removes two lines from the exchange where Lancelot says to him that he will kill him if he does not mount the cart, and the vanquished knight replies that he would rather be killed. The lines removed by E seem to present an ethical question. The vanquished knight has asked for mercy, and now Lancelot is threatening to kill him if he doesn’t mount a cart as punishment: “‘— Non? fait cil, et vos i morroiz. / —Sire, bien feire le porroiz.” This exchange is interrupted by the arrival of the disheveled pucelle riding on a mule, who will ask for the vanquished knight’s head. 11

I separate this lacuna into two parts: 2767-72 is discussed in Wolfgang, “Preliminary Remarks,” pp. 1481-82; and 2775-76 is discussed here.

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2787-92 The scribe of E now removes six lines where the vanquished knight repeats his protest that he would accept any other sentence, including death, rather than mount the cart. He thus removes all reference to killing and dying. The conquered knight ends his protest against mounting the cart with the remodeled line 2785a, “Ke por riens ge n’i monteroire.” The elimination by the scribe of E of lines referring to Lancelot’s threatening to kill the knight (2781), and the knight’s saying kill me rather than make me ride in the cart (2782), and 2788, “Mialz voldroie estre cent foiz morz,” raise an ethical issue. Does Lancelot have the right to threaten a knight with death once he has begged for mercy? Does this not go against the rules of courtoisie? Has the scribe of E recognized this and thus “corrected” the dialogue? Is this abridgement or censorship? Micha says of this lacuna, “le vaincu préfère la mort à la charrette : un seul et unique vers résume cette idée, sèchement, selon les habitudes de notre ms” (p. 380). 2809-10 The disheveled maiden on the mule arrives and greets Lancelot, who greets her in turn.12 The scribe of E shortens Lancelot’s greeting to one line, 2808 and omits 2809-10. The effect is to make the greeting more abrupt and less gracious. 2841-42 The pucelle immediately asks Lancelot to cut off the head of the vanquished knight, whom she accuses of being a disloyal traitor. The vanquished knight protests, and the scribe of E removes the pious ending to his plea, 2835-37, where he invokes God the Father and Son, his Daughter and Mother. The damsel tells Lancelot not to listen to the 12

See Wolfgang, “Preliminary Remarks,” pp. 1481-83, where I discuss the other lacunae in this episode. Micha does not list lacuna 2809-10.

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traitor. But again, the laws of courtesy are called into question. Can such a plea for mercy not be granted? The answer by the scribe of E is to remove the pious words of the plea altogether, taking them out of the mouth of the traitor. 2847-48 Lancelot ponders his dilemma. The scribe of E reduces the statement of his problem from four lines to two by eliminating 284748, where allusion is made to cutting off his head or granting charity to the knight. The two lines eliminated that refer to tranchier (2847) and to avra celui tant chier (248) seem to evoke the ethical issue in a way that, as with lines 2781-82, may have disturbed the scribe. Most likely, however, the scribe of E was more concerned with eliminating what he deemed to be a repetition. The lines removed by the scribe of E make the statement of Lancelot’s dilemma less vivid, and reduce it to its essentials: “Savoir si li donra la teste (2846) / Ou s’il avra pitié de lui.” The repetitions, however, underline Lancelot’s dilemma, which he ponders over and over. 2861-62 Lancelot struggles with Pitié and Largesse. The scribe of E eliminates the line that says that both sentiments anguish and torment him (2861) and a line that repeats what the demoiselle wants, “La teste vialt que il li doint” (2862). Lancelot’s debate is in a long passage, lines 2852 to 2879. He finally decides to resolve the dilemma by resuming the fight, and gives the vanquished knight a second chance and an advantage over him. The scribe of E, however, removes from his text lines 2892-99,13 where Lancelot says he will not move from the spot, which is the advantage he is giving to his adversary. The scribe of E may have wanted to remove a repetition of “la teste” in line 2862, but in so doing he removes one of three uses of the word in this passage. Since the head of the knight is the subject of 13

Ibid., p. 1483, for a discussion of this lacuna.

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Lancelot’s dilemma, it should remain in the text even though it will be removed from the knight! 2913-16 Lancelot defeats the knight a second time, and the pucelle again exhorts Lancelot to cut off his head, and she promises to reward him one day. These lines repeat what she said in 2907-08. However, in removing “rangignera” in 2914, a restatement of “angignera” in 2907, the scribe removes the sense of urgency and desperation that the pucelle is expressing as she repeats her request. Repetition is style and content: Lancelot agonizes over and over, the vanquished knight begs over and over, and the pucelle pleads over and over. 2921-22 Lancelot drags the knight to him by the helmet. The scribe of E eliminates two lines that say that Lancelot cuts off the laces, ventail and headpiece, all of which drop to the ground one by one. The scribe of E could have eliminated these two lines by mistake, since they would have come at the top of 17b, and the elimination of lines at the bottom or top of columns or folios is a common mistake. More likely, however, the scribe of E wanted to abridge the description of the helmet’s being knocked to the ground. Chrétien, however, drew out the image. The helmet is cut off piece by piece, which prepares the final cut, that of the head! Having twice conquered the knight, Lancelot has no further qualms that the consequences of the judicial duel are justified. 3001-02 Lancelot takes leave of the vavasor and sets out for the Sword Bridge with his two young companions. The scribe of E condenses the three lines of leave-taking into one (3000), rendering it less gracious: Ker de lor oste congié prennent. Chrétien, however, enjoyed the language of greetings and leavetakings, and the use of the rime divisée “congié” and “cont gié” removed by the scribe must surely be authentic.

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3079-80 Lancelot and his companions reach the Sword Bridge. The two young chevaliers point out how evil-looking the water is and how difficult it would be to cross.14 On the other side of the bridge are two chained lions that the young chevaliers fear would kill Lancelot, suck his blood, and eat his veins if he crossed the bridge and faced them. The scribe of E eliminates part of this description in 3079 by remodeling 3078. He then combines 3080 and 3081. The passage in E reads: Ne devez penser ne quidier Ke cil dui lyon forsené, Qui de la sont enchaenné, Qu’il ne vos ochient et suschent Le sanc et les vainnes mainuschent. Mout sont hardis quant gé esgart. Si pernez de vos regart (-1).

3076

3081

The scribe most likely eliminates as redundancies the idea that the lions would eat his flesh and gnaw his bones. Chrétien seems to enjoy drawing out the description of what the lions could do to Lancelot if he crossed the bridge and they pounced on him. The gorier the description, the greater is Lancelot’s bravura when he laughs at their fears. 3083-84 The scribe of E trims another passage in the admonition of the young chevaliers to Lancelot not to cross the Sword Bridge. He eliminates 3083-84, and remodels 3085, that say that the lions would kill him, eat and dismember him. In abridging the passage, the scribe of E substitutes mangié for the more vivid verbs in C, ronpuz and arachiez. As I said for the previous lacuna, the vivid imaginings of what could happen to Lancelot are part of the depiction of character, 14

Ibid., p. 1483, for the other lines omitted from this episode, 3025-26, 3069-72 and 3129-30.

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LENORA D. WOLFGANG

and Chrétien seems to enjoy elaborating the description of what could happen to Lancelot if the lions caught him. The young chevaliers are truly upset for Lancelot and with youthful exuberance draw a frightening picture that will elicit Lancelot’s triumphant laugh of disdain. 3103-04 Lancelot replies to the young knights’ fears, “en riant” (3092); he has faith that God will protect him. He will cross the bridge and would rather die than turn back. The scribe of E makes an important change in this passage. He removes reference to God in line 3099. In ms. E, Lancelot says he has such faith and belief that he does not fear the bridge, but he does not say that it is faith and belief that God will protect him. The scribe of E then eliminates the final two lines of Lancelot’s speech, where he says (3104) that he would rather die than turn back. This seems to be another instance where the scribe does not let a character say he would rather die. Nor does he let him say that he believes God will protect him. He could ask for God’s help and protection (“M’aït Dex”), but he cannot say he believes he will get it. The scribe of E seems to be very cautious about references to God and to death. 3259-60 Lancelot crosses the Sword Bridge watched by King Baudemagu and his son Meleagant, who is spoiling for a fight. The father tries to reason with the son to hand over Guenevere peaceably, but Meleagant will have none of it. Baudemagu says that Lancelot would rather win her in battle because that would increase his reputation. This idea is repeated several times. The scribe of E removes the lines where Baudemagu states that Lancelot does not expect that she will just be handed over: “Mien esciant il n’an quiert point / Por ce que l’an an pes la doint.” The scribe of E may see these lines as repeating what has already been said in the preceding three lines. However, by restating 3256-57, Baudemagu reinforces his argument: don’t give Lancelot what he wants, a fight! Give him what he does not expect, peace and courtesy.

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Rather than repetitions, Baudemagu’s statements are restatements that work on trying to erode Meleagant’s stubbornness. Baudemagu’s is a lost cause. It is almost impossible to reason a fighter out of fighting, especially if you end by saying you don’t care if he is defeated if he won’t listen to reason, and that you will now offer hospitality and comfort to his adversary! Baudemagu loses his temper, and one sees that Meleagant does not come by his bad temper entirely by chance. 3301-04 Meleagant refuses to give in to his father. In this passage, eliminated by the scribe of E, Meleagant says that he doesn’t care if his father offers Lancelot peace and truce. Line 3301 is disputed, however, among the editors of the text. Meleagant comes to the end of their arguing by saying either that he will not quarrel with his father if he makes peace with Lancelot, or he will not consent to it if his father makes peace with Lancelot,15 and, in any case, he doesn’t care (“moi que chaut?”). The scribe of E may have eliminated these lines because Meleagant had already said he doesn’t care (3291). The emphasis on stubbornness, on both sides, however, is in the repetitions. 3407-08 Baudemagu goes out to greet Lancelot and to offer him aid. Lancelot is quick to accept, but he is impatient to get the queen back. He is grateful for Baudemagu’s protection of her, but his reply is short and sweet, made even shorter by the scribe of E. Lancelot says: “Mais ge gast le tens et pert chi” (E 3406). The scribe of E omits 3407-08 that repeat that he is wasting time and is not in pain: “Que perdre ne gaster ne veul. / De nule chose ne me duel,” since E 3409 says: “Ge n’ai plaie qui me nuisse.” In this instance the scribe of E seems to wish to avoid repetition, but the chiasmus of gast and gaster in 3407-08 is characteristic of Chrétien’s style, and underlines Lancelot’s urgency to get the queen 15 At issue is the verb correceromes in ATUV and consantiromes in C. Kibler (3285) and Méla (3285) preserve C; Foulet/Uitti (3301) and Poirion (3291) opt for ATUV.

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back. Again, what is redundancy to the scribe of E is poetic style to the author. 3417-18 Baudemagu tries to delay Lancelot by saying that he should wait two or three weeks for his wounds to heal (3415-16). He then restates this request in 3417-18, “Car boens vos seroit li sejorz / Tot au moins jusqu’a .xv. jorz.” The scribe of E sees here only a repetition of 3415-16, and so removes the lines. As with the previous omission, the scribe of E sees only the redundancy and not the stylistic device of repetition. Baudemagu urgently wishes to delay the fight and Lancelot urgently wishes to proceed with it. 3425-26 Baudemagu adds to his plea for delay that he would not have Lancelot fight with such arms as he has. Lancelot promptly retorts that he would have no other arms (3424): Ja autres armes n’i eüst,

The scribe of E omits lines 3425-26: Que volantiers a ces feïsse La bataille, ne ne queïsse […]

and remodels 3427: Qu’il i eüst, ne pas ne ore,

as: Ne ne querrisse pais ne hore,

and retains 3428: Respit ne terme ne demore.

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The scribe of E omits 3425-26 as repetition. Yet again, the author’s repetitions underline the urgency of the two characters, the one who wants to go forward and fight immediately and the other who wants to delay and temporize. In this instance, Baudemagu does win a day’s delay, and Lancelot shows himself able to listen to reason, unlike Meleagant. 3480-84; 3486 Baudemagu returns to his son after his conversation with Lancelot. He repeats his plea that his son return the queen to Lancelot and not fight, and Meleagant reiterates his refusal. Baudemagu finishes by saying that Meleagant is “pursuing madness” (3476), and that tomorrow he will try his strength against Lancelot, “quant tu le viax” (3479). The scribe of E misreads 3479, saying, “certes ge le voil.” He then omits five lines (3480-84) from Meleagant’s speech, rejoining the text at 3485, with the rhyme, “ge ne suil.” He then omits 3486, since he already has a rhyme for 3485 with 3479. The scribe may have omitted this passage because of the mistake he made with 3479. He then could have decided that the intervening text was expendable, since Meleagant explains at length how miserable he is until he fights, beginning with line 3485, and he still conveys these feelings without the six omitted lines. The lines, however, are integral to the text. The omissions include two instances of the use of “demain” in Meleagant’s reply to his father’s “Demain” in 3478 (examples of adnominatio and chiasmus). The wrangling between father and son is expressed and emphasized by the rhetorical figures that are integral to Chrétien’s poetic style. 3511-12 The spectators gather to witness the battle between Lancelot and Meleagant. The lines omitted by the scribe of E say that foreigners (“li estrange”) as well as the people of the country came riding hard. The scribe of E may have thought that lines 3405-10 had already said enough about the gathering of the spectators, but the repetitions tot, tuit, tote; alliterations with tor and torner; alliterations of puceles, païs,

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privé, presse, poïst and pié create a density of words that mirror the density of the crowd. 3559-60 The combatants enter the field. Meleagant is described first (355661). The scribe of E ascribes line 3556 to both combatants, then adds 3556a to bring the passage back to Meleagant. He then omits two lines of description (3559-60). This is an instance where the scribe loses his concentration since 3556a is the bottom of a column (20c) and 3557 is at the top of column (20d). The resulting passage has three lines with the same rhyme, piez, tailliez and lachiez (3556a, 3557, 3558). 3593-94 After one last attempt to delay the battle between Meleagant and Lancelot, Baudemagu leaves the field and fetches the queen to watch the battle from the tower. In describing the spectators, the scribe of E eliminates two lines that refer to the captive maidens (“cheitives”) who were earnestly praying. He may have done so because line 3596 refers to prisons and prisonnieres and he wants to eliminate a repetition. The scribe of E inverts 3595 and 3596 so that his text reads that, with Baudemagu and the queen were chevaliers, dames and maidens, as well as prisoners in prayer for their seigneur. 3597-3600 The passage 3593-99 describes the praying of the captives. The scribe of E condenses the passage by removing the following lines: “Trestuit por lor seignor proient, / Qu’an Deu et an lui se fioient / De secors et de delivrance.” The scribe of E does not hear or see the poetry of the passage. These lines, which are integral to the poetry, express the praying of the captives. The lines from 3593 to 3599 echo with the sonority of oi: avoit, estoient, proieres, prioient, fioient; and o: molt, molt, orisons, prison, prisonieres, por lor, seignor, secors. The rhetorical devices of chiasmus, adnominatio, sonority and alliteration all make of these lines

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745

an echoing hymn, as if the praying is in a great cathedral, recalling Chrétien’s earlier passage: Le chevalier estrange mande Li rois molt tost, et l’an li mainne An la place qui estoit plainne Des genz del rëaume de Logres; Ausi con por oïr les ogres Vont au mostier a feste anel, A Pantecoste ou a Nöel, Les genz acostumeemant,

3532

3536

Tot autresi comunemant Estoient la tuit aüné.

And now we hear the sounds, like those of an organ, of their praying. 3753-54 Lancelot’s strength is renewed in the battle now that he knows that Guenevere is watching him from the tower. He pursues Meleagant with a fury that causes Meleagant to retreat. At this point the scribe of E removes two lines: “Se li ganchist et se reüse, / Que ses cos het et ses refuse.” It may be that line 3752 was sufficient to the scribe of E to convey Meleagant’s actions: “Volantiers loing de lui se tret.” The lines removed, however, do not just repeat Meleagant’s retreat, but further define it. His retreat is not a single action, but a series of repeated ones, mirrored by the repetitions of se, se, ses, ses in these two omitted lines. 3758-63 Lancelot keeps Meleagant between himself and the tower where Guenevere is watching, so that he can see her as he fights. The scribe of E omits the passage that begins with a troublesome line. Micha says of this line, “un passage, et en particulier le vers 3758,

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est corrompu, loiée étant inexplicable” (p. 380), “Sovant l’a servie et loiee.”16 Lines 3759-63 say that Lancelot drives Meleagant toward the tower, one step shy of losing sight of the queen. The loss of this image is very regrettable. It obviously recalls Lancelot’s small steps of hesitation before he mounted the cart and symbolizes the delicate balance of their relationship. Lines 3766-67 say that during the fighting Lancelot would briefly stop before the queen as he was driving Meleagant back and forth on the field. The scribe of E could have seen 3758 as meaning the same thing and so omitted it. The repetitions in this passage, however, framed by sovant 3758 and 3763, exhibit examples of adnominatio, chiasmus, alliteration and sonority: loiee, menoit, remenoir, covenoit; pas, pas; tot, come, Lanceloz, molt sovant; sovant, tant, alast, avant, pas; and the sound of l at least once in every line; and link the passage inextricably into a whole. Its absence, for any reason, is an inexcusable loss. 3773-74 Lancelot pursues Meleagant relentlessly, always keeping Guenevere in view. The scribe of E removes a simile in 3774 that says that Meleagant chased by Lancelot is: “Come avugle et come eschacier.” The scribe of E may have removed this couplet because of the repetition mener in 3773 and mainne in 3775, but he also loses a vivid simile and rhyme. By alliteration, sonority, adnominatio and chiasmus, the couplet is inextricably linked to the text. 3863-4 Baudemagu implores the queen to ask Lancelot not to slay his vanquished son. She grants his request. Both adversaries hear these words. Lancelot immediately stopped fighting, but Meleagant did not, and Baudemagu had to call his men to restrain him.

16

See discussion of this line in Foulet/Uitti, Charrette, p. 213; Méla, Romans, p. 608, note to 3741; Kibler, Lancelot, p. 306, note to line 3740.

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747

The lines removed by E refine the idea that it was not difficult to hold Lancelot back: “For Meleagant could have done him great harm before he would have touched him.”17 These lines illustrate Lancelot’s perfect courtoisie. At the risk of harm or death, he does the queen’s bidding. In seeing only a restatement of the idea of 3862-63, the scribe of E loses an expression of Lancelot’s fine amor. With its vivid enjambment, this couplet could stand alone as a proverb of courtoisie. 4112-15 Lancelot and Kay discuss the latter’s treatment by Baudemagu and Guenevere’s rebuff of Lancelot after his battle with Meleagant. Lancelot accepts that this is her will and resigns himself. He announces that he will now go in search of Gawain at the Pont Sous l’Eau. The king grants his wish to go, and Lancelot announces that those who want to go with him may go, and those who want to stay may stay with the queen. The scribe of E eliminates the lines (4113-5) that say: “Avoec lui vont tuit cil qui voelent, / Lié et joiant plus qu’il ne suelent. / Avoec la reïne remainnent […].” The whole passage from 4108 to 4120 is playful with verbs of wanting to come and go, to stay and leave: vandront, voldront, venir, tenir, taignent, vaingnent, vont, voelent, remainnent, demainnent, maint, remaint, retorner, sejorner. This feast of verbs points to the freedom of the former captives: they can stay, come, go, whatever they want! 4471-2 Lancelot was captured as he set out to seek Gawain and brought back to Baudemagu’s court. The king is angry that it was his own men who captured Lancelot. The scribe of E removes the last two lines from the end of Baudemagu’s wrathful speech to his men: “‘Mes ja ne vos en gaberoiz, / Quant vos de moi eschaperoiz!’” Baudemagu shows anger and righteous indignation. He berates his men, saying that he, not they, has been covered with shame because of 17

This is Kibler’s translation.

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their actions. The scribe of E removes the final two lines, which add a threat to Baudemagu’s speech: “You will never brag about what you have done when you leave here!” There are several reasons why the scribe of E might have removed these lines: That the implied threat is inconsistent with a king’s demeanor? That the tone of anger is too strong? Poirion says of this passage, “Une des rares occasions où ce roi cherche à se faire craindre” (Pléiade, 1285, p. 617, n. 7). Lancelot immediately intervenes to make peace. We do not hear his words, but the text assures us that Lancelot does all he can to make peace, and he does, and so Lancelot becomes a better peacemaker than Baudemagu! This increases Lancelot’s reputation at the expense of Baudemagu. Without Baudemagu’s threat, Lancelot’s peace-making could still take place, but Baudemagu’s angry threat calls Lancelot into action and creates a clear contrast with the king. But the anger is consistent with Baudemagu’s character. He twice lost his temper with his son after trying to reason with him not to fight Lancelot, and he lost it again when he felt he was being nagged to go in search of Lancelot. He is, after all, his son’s father! 4887-8 The morning after Lancelot and Guenevere’s love tryst, Meleagant accuses Kay of lying with the queen after seeing blood on the bedclothes of both beds. He brings his father to the bedchamber to see the evidence. Kay protests his innocence: Et ja mes Dex santé graignor Que j’ai or androit ne me doint, Einz me praigne morz an cest point, Se je onques le me pansai.

4888

The scribe of E removes reference to God in 4886, and to his being struck dead by God (or being taken by death) in 4888.18 18 Foulet/Uitti translate 4888 as: “Qu’au contraire il me prive de vie tout de suite,” where “il” refers to God in line 4886; Kibler translates as: “But may death take me at once” (4868); Poirion translates: “mais qu’il me prenne la vie à cet instant même (4868) (il = God, line 4876); Méla translates: “que la mort à l’instant me saisisse au contraire,” (line 4868).

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749

Is this yet another instance of the scribe of E not wanting God’s name to be taken in vain? To ask God not to heal or to strike one dead seems blasphemous. The scribe of E may have removed these lines since Kay had already said (4883-85): “Certes, mialz voldroie estre morz / Que tex leidure ne tiex torz / Fust par moi quis vers mon seignor;” so that repetition could be the only reason the scribe of E dropped the lines. But, there is a big difference between saying “May God not give me better health or strike me dead,” and, “May I never have better health than I now have.” The scribe of E removes and remodels the lines that would ask God to do harm or to cause death. 4901-04 Meleagant disregards Kay’s protestations. He accuses him of being driven by devils and demons, and he says that his wounds reopened due to his ardor during his night with the queen. The scribe of E removes four lines that restate the situation (4901-04): It is useless for Kay to invent excuses; the presence of blood on the two beds proves the truth; it is self-evident and obvious [what happened]; it is right that the crime should be punished. The scribe of E also rewrites 4905 from, “Qui si est provez et repris” to: “Malvessement vos enn est pris.” In so doing, he removes a second reference to the idea that Kay’s guilt is proven (4902, “Li sans d’anbedeus parz le prueve”). In fact, there is no use of the idea of proof left in the text of E. For the scribe of E, the idea that the case is proven does not seem to sit well. Since it is Meleagant who is talking, the fact that he is wrong should not bother the scribe who is writing the wrongdoer’s protestations. But he may have missed the irony of Meleagant’s words, and so “corrected” the text. Would it be giving the scribe too much credit to say that he removed the idea of “proof” from the text because judgment had not yet been made? This is, of course, an issue so important in Tristan et Iseut. 4957-58 Kay would fight to defend his honor, but Baudemagu will not allow it, and the queen surreptitiously sends for Lancelot during the scene.

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Lancelot arrives and says he will defend Kay as long as he has an ounce of strength. The scribe of E removes the last two lines of Lancelot’s speech, that restate that he will defend him to the best of his ability, and that he will undertake the battle for him in his place. In this instance the scribe of E may see in these two lines unnecessary repetitions of bataille, desfandrai, anprandrai (see lines 4947, 48, 49, 54, 56). The repetitions, however, assure that Lancelot has made himself perfectly clear: the queen asked him to do battle to defend Kay, and Lancelot will do battle to defend him. The lines have the tone of a formal request that receives a formal reply that is, in fact, an oath. 5025-26 Lancelot and Meleagant fight over the accusations against Kay and the queen. The scribe of E removes two lines that describe their naked crossed swords which, like the combatants, go back and forth: “As espees que nues tienent / Que si com eles vont et vienent,” and remodels 5027 as, “Fenelessement s’entrefierent.” The scribe of E may have dropped this couplet because it repeats the espees nues of 5021.19 The repeated words, however, report repeated actions. 5089-90 The battle is stopped once again by Baudemagu who again begs the queen to let it resume a year later, as had previously been agreed upon, and she assents. Lancelot now goes in search of Gawain. He and his companions encounter a dwarf who asks for Lancelot, and he identifies himself. The scribe of E eliminates 5089-90: “Lanceloz li respont por lui / Et dit il meïsmes: “le sui” / [Cil que tu demandes et quiers.]” and condenses the reply into line 5091: “‘Ge sui, fait il, cil que tu quiers.’” Micha says that these lines were “probablement supprimés pour éviter por lui” (p. 381). Or the scribe wanted to simplify the text. Lancelot speaks up for himself, that is, he is not pointed out by 19

See the translations of these lines in Foulet/Uitti; Kibler (lines 5005-06); Poirion (5015-16); and Méla (5005-06); that show variations in interpretation.

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751

another. By identifying himself, he shows franchise in the situation. The complex syntax of the eliminated couplet, however, emphasizes Lancelot’s openness: lui separated from meïsmes in the following line, and the rhyme lui: sui, accentuate his franchise. Identifying oneself immediately and unhesitatingly, when asked to do so, is a rule of courtoisie. 5107-12 Lancelot goes with the dwarf, who promises to take him to a “boen leu,” and his escorts remain behind, as requested by the dwarf. The scribe of E omits six lines that describe how his escorts react: They do not know what to do when he doesn’t return; they all say that the dwarf has betrayed them; and finally, they begin, sadly, to look for him. The scribe of E probably saw redundancy in these lines (cf. 5106 and 5113-14), but he may have had a problem with the fact that the men start to look for Lancelot (5112) and then they quickly abandon the search to seek Gawain instead. Stylistically, the contradictory lines in the passage mirror the contradictory actions of the confused men. The scribe of E saw only the repetitions and contradictions of the words, and so omitted them. 5197-98 Lancelot’s men find Gawain and rescue him. Gawain asks if they should now seek Lancelot. The discussion, lines 5190-98, results in their all returning to Baudemagu, so that he could take charge of the rescue. The scribe of E eliminates two lines from this discussion that say that the king, if he knew what had happened, would force his son to free Lancelot. The lines eliminated follow a discussion that is also altered by the scribe of E: Ker il quident, et voirs estoit, Ker caï et forfait l’avoit Meleogrant, qui mout le het. Et sis peres pas ne le set.

5192a b

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LENORA D. WOLFGANG

The scribe of E eliminates the words traïson and prison from 5193 and 94, preferring to say only that the men believe that Lancelot was captured and that Baudemagu does not know what has happened. The scribe of E seems somewhat literal-minded, whereas Chrétien is writing as the omniscient author: Car il cuident qu’an traïson L’ait fet ses filz mettre an prison, Meleaganz, qui molt le het. Ja en leu, se li rois le set, Ne sera qu’il nel face randre; De seür s’i pueent atandre.

5196

5241-42 Returned to court, Gawain, the queen and Kay urge Baudemagu to seek Lancelot. The scribe of E omits the end of Baudemagu’s speech, where he says that he will carry out the search and that they do not need to urge him further. The scribe of E seems to see redundancy here, rather than a playful repetition that increases urgency. Nor does the scribe of E appreciate the adnominatio and chiasmus of the passage (5231-42): semont, prie, querre, prit, semoingne, proiere, requeste, anqueste.20 They repeat their request, and he in turn repeats his request that they stop repeating theirs! 5249-50 Messengers were sent out by Baudemagu to seek news about Lancelot, but they return without learning anything. The scribe of E reduces from four lines to two the information that they find nothing, and rewrites 5251-52: “Mais omques assen rien trouverent, / Adomques si s’en retornerent.” The scribe of E may have dropped lines 5249-50, since 5249 restates 5248 and 5250 restates 5251. As in other such cases, the repetitions

20 I would prefer to keep preiez in line 5240, which would fit the style of the passage. See notes to this line in Foulet/Uitti and Poirion, note to line 5230. The word in E is prest, and the line is –1, perhaps another reason to keep the preiez of C.

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753

underline the futility of the search: they ask for news (novele, novele) and find nothing (n’en ont nule voire aprise; n’an troverent point). 5295-96 Gawain and Kay say that they will now seek Lancelot. As they are preparing to leave, a letter arrives purporting to be from Lancelot, saying that he is with Arthur, and that the queen should return to court with Kay and Gawain. They happily decide to return the next day at dawn. The scribe of E condenses from four lines (5295-98) to two (5297-8) the statements about when they got ready to leave. Line 5296 seems to restate 5294 so that the scribe dropped the couplet. However, the text with the couplet states that they decided to depart the next day at dawn, and when dawn came, they got ready and did so. Alliteration and adnominatio in the passage and the two omitted lines reflect the resolve and purposeful action of these captives ready and eager to leave for home: joiant, joie, jorz, ajorner, torner, atornent, tornent. 5317-18 Baudemagu accompanies the queen, Kay and Gawain, and the rest of the captives, outside of Gorre and bids them farewell (5299-319). The scribe of E removes two lines from the end of the leave-taking: “Si les comande a Deu li rois; / Toz les autres aprés ces trios,” and rewrites 5316 and 5319: “Li rois a la voie se met / A lor congié, si s’en retorne.” The king has taken leave of the queen and then of Gawain and Kay (5304-19). Lines 5317-18 are summary lines: as they leave, Baudemagu bids the three of them adieu; and then he salutes all the others, after those three, and turns to go. The scribe of E may have thought that the leave-taking was sufficiently reported without these two lines. What he loses is the lyric repetition of farewells, the pleasure of repeating happy good-byes over and over.