Imbas
The National University of Ireland,
Galway Interdisciplinary Postgraduate
Medieval Conference
Select Publication of Conference Papers from
November 7-9th 2008
1
Table of Contents
Edina Eszenyi, Centre for Medieval and Early Modern Studies, Kent
3-8
Sau-Fong Ho, University of Edinburgh
9-16
Francesca Bezzone, National University of Ireland, Galway
17-23
Emma Wells, University of York
24-44
Jean Price, Headland Archaeology Ltd, Cork
45-61
Helen Neat, University of Nottingham
62-69
Duncan Berryman, Queens University
70-76
Mary Leenane, National University of Ireland, Maynooth
77-85
Marina Ansaldo, National University of Ireland, Galway
86-96
Huw R Grange, Saint John’s College, Cambridge
97-108
Sarah Corrigan, National University of Ireland, Galway
109-116
Valentin Blass, Universidade do Porto
117-127
2
Angelic vs. demonic powers
in Vincenzo Cicogna’s Angelorvm et daemonvm nomina et attribvta…
Edina Eszenyi, Centre for Medieval and Early Modern Studies, Kent.
The Getty Museum and Research Institute in Los Angeles1 holds a manuscript bearing
the elaborate title Angelorvm et daemonvm nomina et attribvta passim in divinis
scriptvris contenta ad patrvm sententiam explicata ad illvstris et reverendiss ivlivm
antonium sanctorivm cardinalem sanctae severinae amplissimvm et de ecclesiastica
hierarchia (MS 86-A866). The manuscript is the extensive work of the Venetian
ecclesiastical scholar Vincenzo Cicogna, in which he interprets particular and possible
metaphorical references to angels and demons, mostly limiting himself to the
Scriptures, and also characterizes these spirits on the basis of their names and
attributes. Beside this work, only a commentary of the Psalms is known by the
author,2 who, nevertheless, demonstrates familiarity with the classical and Christian
tradition, using both Christian and classical authors as points of reference, often
giving the angel and demon names also in Hebrew form, and even commenting on the
Hebrew meanings.
The manuscript is extensive, comprising altogether 170 folios. The structure of the
work is the following:
fols. 1r -2v: foreword and a dedication
fols. 3r-7v: a general introduction to angels
fol. 8r: index of angel names
fols. 8v-92v: De Angeliis section: 100 angel entries
fols. 93r-93v: index of demon names
fols. 94r-158v: De Demoniis3 section: 123 demon entries
fols. 159r-164v: Appendix: a list of further demon names
fols. 165r-170r: closing treatise
The manuscript practically works like a contemporary lexicon or encyclopedia of
angels and demons, where almost each lexicon entry begins on a top of a new page.
The closing treatise establishes a parallel between the heavenly and the ecclesiastical
hierarchies, which is all the more interesting as the piece was dedicated to Cardinal
Giulio Antonio Santori, Prefect of the Supreme Council of the Roman and Universal
Inquisition, who participated in such heresy processes as those against Giordano
Bruno and King Henry IV of France, and was personal consultant of seven popes.4
The manuscript is dated to between 1585 and 1600 on the basis of the references in
the foreword to pope Sixtus V, whose papacy began in 1585 ( -1590) and to cardinal
Santorio, who died in 1602.5
The dedication of the codex might owe much to the fact that the notion of power is
present in multiple levels in the manuscript. Let me begin with the fact that in the list
1
I hereby express my gratitude to the Getty Research Institute for making me possible to start
conducting research on the manuscript with the help of the Getty Library Research Grant.
2
Source: the Getty Research Institute Library Catalog.
3
I follow the word choice of the author, denoting the session as De Demoniis instead of ‘demonibus’.
4
Saverio Ricci, Il Sommo Inquisitore. Giulio Antonio Santori tra autobiografia e storia (1532-1602)
(Rome: Salerno, 2002).
5
Source: the Getty Research Institute Library Catalog.
3
of Scriptural references for angels Cicogna lists the names Potestates, Dominationes,
Dominus, and Domini, referring to Ephesians 1:18-21. The origins of the name of
Potestates6 Cicogna traces back to the Hebrew name Gabiroth, which he translates as
“those who exert authority and power” (“eos significat, qui auctoritate et facultate
polleant”). The Hebrew root “Gab” makes an interesting point of comparison with the
name of the angel Gabriel. Although in the entry on Gabriel7 Cicogna points out the
same root in the angel’s name, he does not translate the name ‘Gabriel’ as ‘Power of
God’, but limits his interpretation to Man, Prince, Strength or Force of God (“Vir”,
“Princeps”, “Fortitudo” and “Robur Dei”). Gabriel’s name Cicogna interprets
simply as meaning a very strong and big man (“virum fortem robustum, et gigantem
significat”), that are all the angels of God when they take on human forms at the
appearances, as he points out. Yet, Cicogna adds, the angels leave behind men in
knowledge and nothing is impossible for them through the strength of God. At the
characterization of Gabriel, Cicogna uses this argument to explain the Immaculate
Conception. The angel here is a mere transmitter of divine strength and virtues, with
which, however, the angel is able to do anything, so practically omnipotent.
Omnipotence, however, is a characteristic of God only, and Cicogna uses collective
angel names with reference to powers to elaborate on the difference between divine
and angelic omnipotence. In the entry Potestates, Cicogna once more says that angels
have maximal power and authority by God, and have therefore absolute powers
(“potestatem et auctoritatem a Deo habeant maximam”), especially those angels who
execute divine commands among the people. He refers Gregory the Great in saying
that among all the angelic orders, the Potestates are the most powerful, and interprets
their name as a reference to the control they exercise over every creature, first of all
hostile powers, i.e. demons. Finally, Cicogna notes that extraordinary and insuperable
humans can also be called Powers, but they should be called ‘Potestas’, and not
Potestates like the angels.
Cicogna does not reserve the name Potestates for angels, however. Among his angel
and demon entries there are quite a few which appear in both sections, denoting, in
Cicogna’s opinion, occasionally angels and occasionally demons. I suspect that one of
the reason for emphasizing common angel and demon names and references might
have been the Inquisition’s interest in the discernment of spirits, not uncommon in
heresy and witch trials of the period. The De Demoniis section of the manuscript
contains an entry on demons called “Principes et potestates”,8 and this confrontation
of the different origin and nature of power must have been of special significance in
the period when the conception of angels and demons has already started to mingle
with magic and witchcraft.
Another common group name, which, however, does not occur in the De Demoniis
but only in the De Angelis section of the work, is Dominationes.9 To this order of the
angelic hierarchy, is handed over chief rule over everything in Cicogna’s
interpretation. Cicogna adds at this point, that not only pre-eminence but also
unalterable firmness is required from the angels, which they are able to transfer to
everyone and everything in the creation. This unchangeable character of angels is not
so evident as it might seem at first sight, taken into consideration the handling of
fallen angels in the manuscript. The denomination Angelus is again one of the entries
6
Fol. 77r.
Fol. 47v – 48r.
8
Fols. 150v-151r.
9
Fol. 35v.
7
4
listed both in the De Angelis and in the De Demoniis section,10 meaning that
depending on the context, it might refer either to angels or to demons. The entry
Angelus in the De Demoniis secion, similarly to the denomination Demon, suggests
that since demons themselves used to be angels, they cannot have the rule over
everything that characterizes the angels denoted Dominationes, as fallen angels failed
to fulfil the requirement of unalterable firmness. To the Dominationes, however, again
by God is granted firm and stable domination over all creatures, including the
demons.
A further condition of the Dominationes in Cicogna’s view is to rule not only without
alteration but also without admiration of the self, a notion that is emphasized also in
his entry on archangel Michael. Cicogna follows the medieval view that Michael’
name, Quis sicut Deus in Latin, takes its origins back to the Fall of Angels, when
Michael cried the these words out as an answer to Lucifer’s desires to become like
God. Lucifer, as a fallen angel, is listed both in the De Angelis and in the De
Demoniis sections in the manuscript, and Cicogna uses Michael, the highest angel’s
name to highlight the humility of the good angels. They are the most powerful and
most eminent among all creatures, themselves the closest to God, yet do not take the
freedom to forget that they are inferior to him. They are not similar to God, because
their substance is dependent but God’s essence is independent and the only one really
existing, and the angels’ strength is not similar to his, who is unfailing in all
strengths.”11
Cicogna puts emphasis on the difference between angelic and divine power in two
more entries, namely those on the denominations Dominus12 and Domini13. In
Cicogna’s interpretation, these are similar to the denomination Dominationes in the
sense that they might refer not only to God but also to angels, but never to the devil.
In the entry Domini, Cicogna calls in mind the story of Abraham and the three angels,
and the story of Moses talking with the Angel of the Lord at the burning bush in
Exodus 3. In the latter, the angel himself says to Moses: “Go and bring together the
elders of Israel, and say to them: Jehovah, God, our father has appeared to me.”14 In
Cicogna’s understanding the Hebrew name ‘Jehovah’ translates to Latin as
‘Dominus’, so the Angel, who appeared to Moses in the burning bush and who is the
same angel from whom Moses accepted the law, states here that he himself is
Jehovah. Cicogna’s explanation is the following: When the God calls him(self) Angel,
he uses this denomination not with reference to essence but with reference to service.
Accordingly, the angel is the direct servant of God, in whom God’s nature and
essence can be recognized, similarly to the way Christ can be recognized in the
Apostles. Therefore Abraham was right, he continues, when he addressed the angels
both in the plural form ‘Domini’ and also in the singular form ‘Dominus’, because
even with the plural form he denoted one God. Finally, coming back to the point on
humility that was already mentioned in the entry on Michael and the Dominationes,
Cicogna notes that such is the humility of the angels, that although they could and
should occasionally be called ‘Domini’, still themselves regard themselves as fellowservants to men (“conserui”) - he elaborates on this further in the entry Conserui.
10
The De Angeliis section contains the interpretation of the term in the general introduction mentioned
above (fols. 3r – 7v), and the De Demoniis section uses the entry Angelus malus (fols. 97r-97v).
11
Fols. 56v – 57r.
12
Fol. 34v – 35r.
13
Fol. 34r.
14
On the Angelus Domini debate see Heinrich Vogel’s article The Angel of the Lord:
http://www.wlsessays.net/files/VogelAngel.pdf.
5
This detailed elaboration on the question of power both at the characterization of
individual angels and among the references used for choirs of angels might have been
inspired by the dedication of the codex to cardinal Santiorio. The distribution of
powers is a key issue on a third level of the text, in the closing treatise establishing
parallel between the angelic and the ecclesiastical hierarchies.15
Cicogna explains in what sense should the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy follow the
example of the Heavenly Hierarchy of angels. Cicogna states that he follows the
system of angelic hierarchy from Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, but Cicogna
actually does not follow the order established by Pseudo-Dionysius and followed by
Thomas Aquinas. He changes the places of two choirs, and lowers the Virtues to the
3rd order, at the same time raising the Principalities to the 2nd one, following more the
systems of Saint Ambrose and Gregory the Great.
Gregory the
Dionysius
St. Ambrose
Cicogna
Great
Seraphs
Seraphs
Seraphs
Cherubs
1st Order Cherubs
Cherubs
Cherubs
Seraphs
Thrones
Dominations
Thrones
Thrones
Dominations Dominations Thrones
Dominations
2nd Order Virtues
Principalities
Principalities Principalities
Potestates
Potestates
Potestates
Potestates
Virtues
Virtues
Principalities Virtues
3rd Order Archangels
Angels
Archangels
Archangels
Angels
Archangels
Angels
Angels
Thus Cicogna’s first Order in the Heavenly Hierarchy, containing Cherubs, Seraphs,
and Thrones, corresponds in his Ecclesiastical Hierarchy to the College of Cardinals,
containing the Cardinals of the orders of Bishops, Priests and Deacons. His 2nd
Heavenly Hierarchy embraces the Dominationes, Potestates, and Principalities,
corresponding with the orders of Patriarchs, Archbishops and Bishops in the
Ecclesiastical Hierarchy. Finally, the 3rd Hierarchy contains the Priests, Deacons and
Clerics and corresponds to the Hierarchy of Virtues, Archangels and Angels.
Heavenly Hierarchy Ecclesiastical Hierarchy
Cherubs
Cardinals of the Orders of Bishops
1st Order
Seraphs
Cardinals of the Orders of Priests
Thrones
Cardinals of the Orders of Deacons
Dominations
Patriarchs
2nd Order
Principalities
Archbishops
Potestates
Bishops
Virtues
Priests
3rd Order
Archangels
Deacons
Angels
Clerics
God is in charge of both the Heavenly and Ecclesiastical hierarchies, present in the
letter through the pope, says Cicogna. Therefore, while the Ecclesiastical Monarch
should imitate his own Supreme Model, members of the ecclesiastical orders should
15
Fols. 165r – 170r.
6
imitate the angels of their own corresponding orders. Elaborating on the details of this
imitation, Cicogna denotes the most space to the duties of Cardinals.
Just as the Cherubs first accept messages of the divine intellect from God and
communicate them to the other lower orders, so should cardinals be provided with
divine intelligence, so that others “could drink from them like from the fountain of
life”.16 Cherubs have the face of young boys, and the cardinals should also be similar
to children, “not proud and proudly erect: but humble, kindly affable and easy should
they be”.17 As Cherubs are ordained to guard the tree of life, so should cardinals
protect the Church and its Sacraments. At the same time, it is proper for the Cardinals
to be burning by the love of God, and inflaming all others with that, like the seraphs,
whose name means burning and inflaming.18 The Cardinals should also be similar to
the Thrones in the sense that God should be seen as settling in them. They should
study a lot, and have wisdom and faith in the holy spirit, so that they could take the
place of Apostles, Prophets and Doctors in the Church.19
A possible reason for the detailed description of what is expected from a proper
cardinal might have been the strong criticism of the Church, in subtle or less subtle
ways continually present throughout the Cicogna’s treatise. A quote I personally
consider one of the brightest in that respect, is the follwoing: ”Though in the heavenly
Hierarchy many are concerned with their places, few keep it. But in the Ecclesiastical
Hierarchy by far the opposite is happening: although many keep their places, still
many cease to be concerned with it.”20 Cicogna calls cardinals the eyes, ears and
mouth of the Pope, and in the lexicon section of the manuscript, he similarly
composes entries stating the biblical expressions ‘eyes’, ‘ears’ and ‘mouth’ of God
might be interpreted as metaphoric references to angels. Cicogna says that if these
parts are corrupted it is necessary for the whole body to deteriorate. Similarly, when
Lucifer fell he fell more deeply because he originally belonged to the first Order of
angels, to the choir of Cherubs –the entry Cherub is therefore again one of those
which Cicogna lists both in the De Angelis and in the De Demoniis section.
Consequently, Cicogna says, fallen Cardinals will be extremely harshly tortured in
hell, together with the rebel Angels.21
The reason is the high responsibility the cardinals carry in the Church. Just as from
God and Christ the divine intentions and duties are distributed to the Dominations,
Principalities and Powers of the second angelic order through the Cherubs and
Seraphs of the first, likewise ecclesiastical duties are diverted to inferior orders
through the cardinals. Hence the names of the Dominationes, Principalities and
Potestates: they accept and communicate messages to the inferior orders. To the
Dominationes, the Patriarchs are similar, because they should command the provinces
of the Church. Bishops are similar to the Potestates, because although they are
subjected either to patriarchs or to archbishops, they still have liberty in the
administration of their own bishoprics, and even exercise power over the inferior
orders of the third hierarchy. Finally, Cicogna closes the treatise with listing the
immediate tasks and duties of the further orders of the ecclesiastical hierarchy.
The notion of power being present and eleborated in detail in at least three levels in
the angelology and demonology of Vincenzo Cicogna, a key concern of further
16
Fol. 166r.
Fol. 166v.
18
Fol. 166v.
19
Fol. 169v.
20
Fol. 168v.
21
Fol. 167r.
17
7
research on the manuscript should be his supposed connection with cardinal Santorio.
At present I have no information whether the treatise ever reached the cardinal and if
it did, is the Los Angeles copy the version he held and whether it is an autograph by
Vincenzo Cicogna. The close-up examination of the text reveals at least two different
hands working on the text, one task of the second one obviously being to give the
exact Scriptural and other source references in the margins, which it did not, however,
do always precisely. A further direction of research should obviously be the long list
of Cicogna’s sources, and I hope that my upcoming visit to the Vatican will prove to
be of help in that.
8
Representations of the Last Judgement and Seven Deadly Sins in the fifteenth-century
France
Sau-Fong Ho, University of Edinburgh
The representation of the Last Judgement was popular in medieval France. This theme emerged
on tympana as early as the twelfth century1 and swiftly became an important theme in major
artistic works such as stained glass, retables, altarpieces, wall paintings and books of hours. Rich
presence of the images of the Last Judgement, alongside other macabre images,2 suggests that
fifteenth-century France was a period that was responsive to the presence of death. Art historians
such as Émile Mâle, Yves Christe and Jérôme Baschet have contributed a good deal of studies on
the subject of Last Judgement, especially the development of iconography. However, as far as I
am aware, no attempt has yet been made to examine the image of the Seven Deadly Sins in
conjunction with the Last Judgement. It is not my intention to trace the history and development
of this iconography: enough studies have been devoted to this. My interest is in how this late
medieval imagery can deepen our understanding of the function to which it is attached.
Image of the Seven Deadly Sins do not work in isolation. It is important to take into account the
purpose for which they were painted and the placement of this representation. Therefore, this
paper seeks to set the imagery of the Seven Deadly Sins and the Last Judgement in the context of
the society that produced it, by surveying medieval sources, such as mystery plays and
ecclesiastical texts, alongside contemporary social attitudes, particularly concerning the
awareness of sinfulness and judgement. In order to form a backdrop to the study of this subject, I
have chosen three contemporary references to illustrate the close interrelation between the
representations of the Seven Deadly Sins and the Last Judgement.
Representations of the Last Judgement in the fifteenth century are varied. The most common and
widespread iconography is the representation of the Last Judgement that emphasises the act of
Judgement alone. Prominent examples of this type include Ennezat, the Beaune altarpiece and
Chateau de Châteaudun. The addition of insertion of purgatory into the Last Judgement scene
constitutes a second type. This type of iconography is mainly found in central and southwest
France,3 for instance, churches in Mont d’Astarac, Pervillac, and Castéra-Loubix. The last type is
the imagery of the Last Judgement that includes the Seven Deadly Sins, which is my focus here.
Cathedral of Sainte Cécile, Albi
One of the remarkable fifteenth-century portrayals of the Last Judgement and the Seven Deadly
Sins is painted on the interior west facade of Cathedral of Sainte Cécile in Albi. It was possibly
painted between 1474 and 15034, and commissioned by Louis d’Amboise, Bishop of Albi.5 The
1
Le Vieux Saint Vincent de Mâcon
These include the images of Dance of Death, Ars Moriendi, etc …
3
Jacques le Goff, La naissance du Purgatoire, Gallimand, Paris, 1981; Michelle Fournié, Le ciel peut-il attendre? :
le culte du purgatoire dans le Midi de la France (v. 1320-v. 1520), Cerf, Paris, 1997 ; Anca Bratu, “Fin des temps et
temps du purgatoire dans quelques jugements derniers de la fin du Moyen Age”, Fin des temps et temps de la fin
dans l'univers médiéval, pp. 69 – 92 ; A. M. Vaurillon-Cervoni, L’iconographie du Purgatoire au Moyen Âge dans
le sud-ouest, le centre de la France et en Espagne, thesis, Université de Toulouse, Toulouse, 1978
4
The dating of this painting has caused a great dispute. See Marcel Durliat, “Le Jugement dernier de la cathédrale
d’Albi,” Congrès Archéologique de France, 1982, pp. 92-101
2
9
representation of the Last Judgement in Albi was neatly planned. The presence of Christ and
Saint Michael, which would have occupied the central part, is now replaced by an organ, which
was installed in the eighteenth century. The judgement scene is divided into four tiers. The
upper-most is occupied by a group of angels attending the judgement. Unconventionally, in the
second tier the twelve disciples are placed to the left together with the saints, instead of
surrounding Christ, and its counterpart is a scroll flying over the clouds. The third tier constitutes
the Blessed and the Damned, and the Resurrected are scattered below them. Several angels are
gathered between the Blessed and the Damned, and presumably they are aiding Saint Michael in
weighing souls. The lowest tier is the most eye-catching scene. There is neither a conventional
hell mouth to represent hell nor Lucifer sitting on the throne as a chief governor of torments.
Furthermore, Heaven is not depicted, which is, in any case, unusual. Instead, a set of images of
punishments of the Seven Deadly Sins has replaced the standard depiction. Each classification of
sin is labelled. It begins with Pride, followed by Envy, Anger, Miserly, Glutton and Lust. Most
likely Laziness was painted in the centre part that was destroyed. The image of the punishments
of sins is introduced by an inscription which reads ‘Here are the sentences of the damned
according to the seven deadly sins painted below’6.
These images of the punishments of sins in Albi share similar features with the late fifteenth
century text The Art of Good Dying (L’Art de bien vivre et de bien mourir) printed by Antoine
Vérard in Paris in 1492.7 For the punishment of Pride, according to the text, Lazarus saw ‘some
wheels in hell at the height of mountains located like mills continually turning with great
impetuousness: which had iron clamps where the proud (men and women) were hung and tied’.8
Although similar features are found on the wall of Albi, the devils in Albi are more terrifying and
forceful. Damned souls are trapped inside and tied around the wheels while the devils spin it. A
message below explains ‘the punishment of the Proud are hung and tied on some wheels placed
on a mountain, which are like mills continually turning in great fury’.9
The representation of the Last Judgement in Albi provides three implications in portraying
contemporaneous events. Firstly, the composition of the Last Judgment is not arbitrary. There
may have been some degree of certainty in the mind of the person planning it. The placement of
each iconographical element and incorporation of scriptures into the composition suggests that
the arrangement of the Last Judgement in Albi is responsive to ecclesiastic sensibilities. By
reading the painting vertically, all celestial members are depicted to the right hand of Christ.
Traditionally, the blessed souls are always placed to the right hand of Christ and the damned
souls to the left. Therefore, it is sensible that the position of the twelve disciples is at our left,
though this is not the standard iconography. Given that no damned souls could complement the
celestial members, a group of dark clouds is painted to counterweight the composition. The
flying scroll, which reads ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into everlasting fire which was prepared
5
Marcel Durliat ; Jean Larry, La Cathédrale d’Albi, Paris, 1972, p. 87; Clément Compayré, Etudes historiques et
documents inédits sur l’Albigeois, le Castrais et l’ancien diocèse de Lavaur, M. Papaihiau, Albi, 1841, pp. 90 – 91
6
Ensuyvent les peines des damnes selon les sept peches mortels ci-dessus painctes
7
Emile Mâle, La Cathédrale d’Albi, Zodiaque, Paris, 1974, p. 35
8
Guiot Marchant, Compost et kalendrier des bergiers, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département Réserve des
livres rares, Paris, 1496 http://catalogue.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb33276909m/description
9
Durliat, Op. cit., p. 97 ‘la peine des orguilleus et orguilleuses/les orguilleus et orguilleuses sont pendus et
ataches/sus des roues situees en une montaigne en mainere de molins/continuelement en grande impetuosité
tornans.’
10
for the devil and his angels,’10 (Matt 25:41) most likely stems from where Christ originally was.
Consultation of scripture reinforced the authority of the message of the Last Day.
Another inscription, which is stretched out horizontally through the entire composition, divides
the celestial members and the Resurrected souls. Below it, each of the Blessed and the Damned
souls is carrying a book on their chest and waiting to give their own account to God. The
inscription reads ‘And I saw the dead, great and small, standing in the presence of the throne, and
the books were opened; and another book was opened, which is the book of life; and the dead
were judged by those things which were written in the books, according to their works.’
(Apocalypse 20: 12) Inter-referencing between the visual and the text took on a greater
importance in enhancing the apocalyptic moment. This painstaking composition suggests that the
representation of the Last Judgement in Albi is not an arbitrary portrayal.
Secondly, the representation of the Last Judgement in Albi does not function as a plea of
salvation to its contemporaries, but as a provocative instrument. The plague, Black Death, that
struck Europe in the middle of the fourteenth century marked the beginning of a constant
awareness of death. Towards the turn of the fifteenth century, the concept of death became
intensified. Endless wars with the English, constant harassment by pestilence and famine,
political and social revolts, and active heretical movements were all interpreted as signs of the
approach of the Last Day.11 Although preaching about Judgement Day was not a new subject, it
was intensified by the great Dominican, Vincent Ferrier12 in the beginning of the fifteenth
century and undertaken by other preachers such as Jean Raulin and Jean Tisserand.
Towards the end of the fifteenth century, the expected day was not fulfilled, and therefore people
were inclined to believe that the sermons on the Last Judgement were just a tool for preachers to
terrify sinners into repentance.13 Guillaume Pépin, a Franciscan, mentions that “many do not
really believe in what is to come... those who mock preachers who speak of these things, and say
that those who preach about the Last Judgement not because it is true, but rather to terrify us, and
call us to penitence.” He also states that there were people who “make fun of preachers who talk
about the pains of the inferno, [and] the severity of the Last Judgement.”14 In Albi, the absence
of heaven and hell proposes that the judgement is absolute rather than terrifying. Neither there
are angels awaiting the Blessed souls to enter the gate of heaven, nor there are devils bringing the
Damned souls to eternal hell. The representation of the Last Judgement in Albi shows no
assurance of salvation for evildoers; their sins are rewarded with eternal punishments. One’s fate
in the next world remains unknown and this lack of certainty may lead one to a constant state of
awareness of their deeds.
Thirdly, the position of the Last Judgement in Albi is potent. The unique architectural setting of
Sainte Cecile may have invited believers to gaze upon the painting while they were walking into
the church. The placement of the Last Judgement in Albi is practical in nature and its size is
immense. From a distance the spectators may be confronted with a general judgement scene. As
10
Douay-Rheims Bible translation. ‘Ite maledicti in ignem aeternum qui paratus est dyabolo et angelus eius’
John Aberth, From the Brink of the Apocalypse: Confronting Famine, War, Plague, and Death in the Later
Middle Ages, Routledge, London, 2002
12
Fages, Histoire de saint Vincent Ferrier, vol. 2, Maison de la Bonne presse, Paris, 1894 ; Quoted in Fages,
Histoire de Saint Vincent Ferrier, vol.1, p 339
13
Quoted in Taylor, Soldier of Christ, p 97
14
Quoted in Taylor, Soldier of Christ, p 98
11
11
they walk closer towards the painting they may be provoked by the punishments of their own
deeds. The series of punishments for each sin implies that believers were familiar with concept
of the seven deadly sins. As there is no depiction of the cause of each punishment, it may well
have served as a teaching aid for preachers. Each deadly sin is carefully categorised and
accompanied by a textual explanation below, which is exactly at the eye level of the spectator.
These texts are written in French instead of Latin. Apparently, this image was not intended just
for the uneducated but for the learned as well.15 This may have reinforced the price they would
pay for their sins and the place that the sinners were destined for as they viewed the tortures.
The variation of the representation of the Last Judgement in Albi from the traditional
composition may have been due to the scepticism that arose within society in the late fifteenth
century, and may also reflect how the authorities dealt with it. The composition and subject
matter seem to focus one’s attention on the realm of self vigilance.
Notre-Dame-du-Bourg
Another form of portrayal of the Last Judgement is where Judgement is coupled with the Seven
Personified Sins. This iconography was widespread in France and it was painted on many of the
parish churches in alpine regions of the Hautes-Alpes, Savoie and Piedmont, particularly towards
the end of the fifteenth century.16
One rare example is the representation of the Last Judgement in Notre-Dame-du-Bourg (HauteProvence). The theme of the Last Judgement and the Seven Personified Sins is placed on the
south wall of the church which is on the right of church entrance. The painting is datable to the
1480s.17 The representation of the Last Judgement in Notre-Dame-du-Bourg is divided into five
parts. To the top left is a depiction of Heavenly Jerusalem and it is also the place where God’s
Judgement is proceeding. Outside the gate of heaven, Saint Peter is welcoming the Blessed who
approach directly from their resurrection. Although some parts of the painting are washed out,
judging from the remaining paintings on the wall where another inscription and an angel with a
sword are, the Damned may have been painted on the right. The inscription at the right shares the
same inscription with that of Albi. Below this scene is the image of hell where Satan and his
companions are torturing the Damned in various ways. Interestingly, there are two imprisoned
souls guarded by a devil and locked in a dungeon. While witnessing the horrors of hell, they
seem terrified.
To the right, there are three registers. It begins with seven virtues on the top register, followed by
seven sins in the second, and seven infernal punishments occupied the last register. The
composition of the representation of the Last Judgement in Notre-Dame-du-Bourg is rather
15
Paul Saenger, “Silent Reading: Its impact on Late Medieval Script and Society”, Viator, 13, 1983, pp 367 – 414
(398)
16
Marguerite Roques, Les Peintures murales du sud-est de la France: XIIe au XVIe siècle, A. et J. Picard, Paris,
1961 ; Chantal Desvignes-Mallet, Peintures murales des Hautes-Alpes XVe – XVIe, Paris, 1987 ; Enrico
Castelnuovo, Les Alpes, Carrefour et Lieu de Rencontre des tendances artistiques au XVe siècle," Etudes de Lettres,
10, 1967, pp. 13-26 ; Paul Roque, Les Peintres Primitifs niçois : Guide Illustré: retables, peintures murales,
itinéraires de visite, Serre Éditeur, Nice, 2001; Germaine-Pierre Leclerc, Chapelles peintes du pays niçois, Edisud,
Aix-en-Provence, 2003
17
Marguerite Roques, Les Peintures murales du sud-est de la France: XIIe au XVIe siècle, A. et J. Picard, Paris,
1961, pp. 156 – 159; Emile Ollivier, "Digne et ses environs," Annales des Basses-Alpes, I, 1881, pp. 38 - 48, 76 - 96
and 131 - 144
12
sensible. Each sin associates with its virtue and its punishment. Although part of the original
painting has disappeared, it is possible to recognise each sin and the particular animal with which
it is associated.18 For example, Luxury or Lust is represented by a lady riding on a sow and
carrying a mirror; and Anger is personified by a young man riding on a leopard while stabbing
himself with a sword. The association of sins and their animals conforms to that of its
contemporaries except Lust. Traditionally, Lust is always paired with goat.19
There is a certain visual connection between this iconography and the medieval mystery plays,
particularly with respect to the personified vices. Here, I would like to introduce two interesting
fifteenth-century Provencal plays. Firstly, Lo Jugtamen General (ms. fr. nouv. acq 6252) 20 is a
play that is solely focused on the Judgement scene and punishments of the Seven Personified
sins. The second is L’histoire de Saint Antoine,21 in which part of the text deals with the
personified vices and their associated animals. In this paper, I have to confine myself to the text
of Lo Jutgamen General. This unusual play can be divided into three parts. Firstly, God
commands the Judgment and angels sound the trumpets to summon the dead. Different
representative groups of individuals follow. Secondly, Virgin Mary intercedes for the damned
souls and then Christ pronounces the final verdicts. Lastly, the seven vices move towards the
Hell to be tortured by Hell’s chief executor. Each vice is called to answer for their deeds on earth
and, eventually, they are chained and punished accordingly. In one of the narratives of the text,
we read:
… We prepare then the well and the wheel, and when everything will have been
prepared, we shall bring from Hell Anger, Envy and Sloth decked out with heavy chains
around the neck, by dragging them through the trestle. Having dragged them for a while,
we put them at the edge of the well and we torture them.22
[Narrative before stanza 2280]
There are some resemblances between the text of Lo Jutgamen General and the Judgement scene
in Notre-Dame-du-Bourg. The play emphasises the interrogation and judgement of the Damned
according to their sins. Hell and punishments of sins in Notre-Dame-du-Bourg is placed at the
same level; whereas seven vices and virtues are arranged on the level where the judgement is
taking place. Visually, it seems to suggest that the Seven Personified Sins are marching toward
the Damned and will be judged. Personified vices were eventually chained and punished
accordingly. Scholars such as Moshé Lazar and Nadine Henrard associate these works with
sermons that were preached by Vincent Ferrier, the important Dominican Catalan who was
18
Mâle, Religious art in France, pp. 329 – 332
Morton W. Bloomfield, The seven deadly sins : an introduction to the history of a religious concept, with special
reference to medieval English literature, Michigan State College Press, Ann Arbor, 1952, pp. 245 – 249
20
Moshé Lazar, Le jugement dernier. (Lo jutgamen general). Drame provençal du XVe siècle, Klincksieck, Paris,
1971, p. 13
21
Paul Guillaume, Le mystère de Sant Anthoni de Viennès : publié d'après une copie de l'an 1506, Gap, Paris, 1884;
Jacques Chocheyras, Le Théâtre Religieux en Dauphiné du Moyen Age au XVIIIe siècle (Domaine français et
provençal), Librairie Droz, Genève, 197, pp. 78 – 87; Nadine Henrard, Le Théâtre religieux médiéval en langue
d'oc, Librairie Droz, Genève, 1998, pp. 233 – 263
22
Lazar, Op. cit., p. 194 – 195 “…On prépare ensuite le puits et la roue, et lorsque tout aura été préparé, on amènera
de l’Enfer Colère, Envie et Paresse affublées de lourdes chaînes au cou, en les traînant à travers le trétau. Après les
avoir traînés un temps, on les installe au bord du puits et on les torture.”
19
13
famed for preaching throughout France and beyond.23 In his Treaty of Spiritual Life and his
sermons Vincent carefully listed the Vices and Virtues and associates them with penitence and
the Judgement.24
Close contemporary examples to Notre-Dame-du-Bourg are the churches of La-Tour-sur-Tinée
(Lorgues), Puy-l’Eveque (Martignac) and Bastia Mondovi (Piedmont).25 As these churches were
far from the major cities where prominent preachers preached, perhaps the images of these
churches are more than just church decoration. Why were there so many Last Judgement
paintings painted in these small and remote churches?
From the twelfth century southern France struggled with witchcraft, magic, satanic cults and
heresy, particularly the resistance of the Waldensians who promoted puritanical and pacifist
gospels.26 In the fifteenth century the situation worsened: numbers of Inquisitors, who were
appointed to Alpine cities such as Embrun, Briancon and Dauphiné, were constantly attacked
and assaulted; persecution against heresy was reinforced; and, revolt arose between different
classes of society. Jean Ruysbroeck, a late fourteenth-century Brabant mystic who gained fame
as man of God, commented that ‘hell is on a specific location where the crime was.’27 Southern
France in the fifteenth century was viewed as a horrific place by its contemporaries. For
example, during a sermon Michel Menot asks “Have you gone to the mountains of Savoy, in the
Vau-Pute,28 which is very near to the suburbs of hell? It is said that there are many sorceresses
there.”29 Social disorder, violence and the Alpines heretics in southern France forced villagers to
appeal to Louis XI, king of France, to intervene.30
Heretical activities were threatening the Church’s authority and became a major concern of
resistance of heretic movements. Therefore, heretic associations in sermons were common.
Preachers such as Jean Clérée associated heretics with contemporary misfortunes,31 and Louis
Peresi associates natural disasters with the corruption caused by the sins of man.32 He says “Sin
corrupts the elements, in fact, air, land and water are corrupted because of the sins of men,
23
Nadine Henrard, Le Théâtre Religieux Médiéval en Langue d’Oc, p. 201 ; Pierre Servet, Le Mystère de la Sainte
Résurrection, p. ?; Emile Roy, Le mystère de la Passion en France du XIVe au XVIe siècle, Slatkine Reprints,
Genève, 1974 p. 427 n. ; Lazar, Op. cit., pp. 19 and 21
24
Philippe Niederlender, Les miracles chez Saint Vincent Ferrier, Doctorat Thesis, University of Strasbourg, 1986,
pp. 93 and 127; Fages, “sermo in festo sancto Thome Aquinatis,” in Œuvres de Saint Vincent Ferrier, p. 397; Henri
Gheon, Saint Vincent Ferrier, Éditions du Lévrier, Paris, 1940, p. 69
25
Mesuret, Op.cit.; Peintures murales des Hautes-Alpes : XVe-XVIe siècles, Société d'études des Hautes-Alpes, Aixen-Provence, 1987
26
Euan Cameron, The Reformation of the Heretics : The Waldenses of the Alps, 1480 – 1580, Clarendon Press,
Oxford, 1984
27
Quoted in Margarite Roques. ‘Tout ce que je puis dire, c’est que l’enfer porte sur l’endroit précis où a porté le
crime’.
28
Vau-Pute also known as Vau-Loise, Jean d’Auton, Chroniques de Jean d’Auton, publiées pour la première fois en
entier, d'après les manuscrits de la Bibliothèque du roi, avec une notice et des notes, Silvestre, Paris, 1834 – 5, pp.
257 – 258
29
Quoted in Taylor, Soldier of Christ, p 96
30
Euan Cameron, pp. 25 – 34
31
Martin Hervé, Le métier de prédicateur en France septentrionale à la fin du Moyen-Âge : 1350 - 1520, Cerf,
Paris, pp. 367 – 368
32
Quoted in Ibid., p. 371 “Le péché corrompt les éléments, en effet l’air, la terre et l’eau sont corrompus à cause des
péchés des hommes, en fonction d’un juste jugement de Dieu”
14
according to fair judgement of God”. Another preacher believed that Lust was provoked by
witches.33 The popularity of the subject of the Last Judgement and the seven deadly sins in
churches may have been encouraged by the impact of such sermons. Judging from the social
condition in southern France, it is reasonable to find vast numbers of depictions of the
punishment of the Seven Personified Sins painted with the Last Judgement in parish churches.
Saint-Pierre-aux-Liens
One other contemporary example that is worth mentioning here is the representation of the Last
Judgement in Saint-Pierre-aux-Liens, a small parish church in Martignac (Midi Pyrenees).34 The
painting is datable to the end of the fifteenth century and the beginning of the sixteenth century.35
The Last Judgement is painted on the north wall of the church and Saint Peter in front of the gate
of heaven is painted on the south wall, where the church’s entrance is.
Although part of the Deësis group was damaged by later architectural work, it is still possible to
identify its fundamental composition. Christ is seated on the rainbow, and he is flanked by
Virgin Mary and John the Baptist. Heaven is depicted next to the Virgin Mary. Below the Deësis
members, the Blessed souls are shown in praying posture and the Resurrected are underneath
them. To the left of Christ are the Damned souls painted in peculiar postures. Some of them are
being absorbed towards the left by a force and some are being thrown by devils. The seven
personified sins are painted below the judgement court. They are chained and walking in the
direction of the devils. A hell mouth may have been placed on the west wall, where the devils
are.
The imagery of the Seven Personified Sins here is varied from that of Notre-Dame-du-Bourg.
Not only is each of the sins mounted on its specified animal, but they are accompanied by
designated devils. Both the sins and its devils are named accordingly. For example, Goula is the
name for Gluttony. It is represented by a well-dressed corpulent man riding on a boar. He is
holding a glass of wine in his right hand and a food-like object in his left. A devil behind him is
forcing him to consume his drink. Ira is Anger that is personified by a man riding on a dog while
its devil is pressing a sword into his chest. Notably, the association of each sin and their animal is
different from that of Notre-Dame-du-Bourg.
There is a phenomenon which is significant: the twelve disciples are often omitted from the
Judgement court in the presence of the Seven Personified Sins. Certain iconographical elements
in the Judgement court have been simplified while the corruption of sins is intensified. This is
not just the case in Martignac, but it is a collective tendency. Similar visual depictions are found
in churches such as Notre-Dame-du-Bourg, La-Tour-sur-Tinée, Champniers and Pervillac.
Moreover, the Seven Personified Sins always painted on a highly visible place, particularly, on
the wall of the nave of a church or the wall close to the entrance of a church. As mentioned
above, the placement of a theme may have reinforced medieval attitude to sins. A comparable
textual portrayal is found in the play of Lo Jutgamen General where there is no mention of the
twelve disciples. Almost half of the play is engaged with the interrogation of Christ to the seven
33
Quoted in Ibid., p. 367
Michelle Fournié, “Deux Représentations Méridionales du Purgatoire: Flavin en Rouergue et Martignac en
Quercy,” Annales du Midi, vol. 98, 1986, pp. 363 – 385
35
Robert Mesuret, Les peintures murales du Sud-ouest de la France, du XIe au XVIe siècle, A. et J. Picard et Cie,
Paris, 1967, p. 273; Francis Salet, “Les fresques de Martignac (Lot),” Bulletin Monumentale, vol. 32, 1944, pp. 147
– 148 Fournié, Le Ciel peut-il attendre ?, p. 65
34
15
personified sins and their fate in hell. Whether it is a play or a painting, the spectators would be
able to grasp the significance not so much of the process of judgement, but the consequence of
sins.
This paper has examined three representations of the Last Judgement in France in the fifteenthcentury. Through these examples, I argued that the understanding of social anxiety was largely
moulded by the way paintings portrayed contemporaneous events. The primary concern
governing these representations was didactic: it served as religious instruction for heathens.
More often than not, the placement of the Judgement scene is always within the eye-level of the
spectators. Its didactic importance can be judged by the placement of this theme in churches. It is
either immensely depicted on a wall of large cathedrals; or, it is painted and occupied a few walls
of small churches. One could hardly overlook the image of the Last Judgement as they enter or
leave the church.
Subsequent to the popularity of religious literatures and mystery plays, these texts became key
iconographic sources in representing the Last Judgement. Pairing of the representations of the
Last Judgement and the Seven Deadly Sins emphasised eternal damnation and terrors of Hell.
These images were the reflection of medieval thought towards the mentality of final judgement
and punishments both in attitude and emotion of the French society. The dramatic imagery of the
Last Judgement is reflected in the words of Saint Jerome ‘that day will come when our deeds
will be visible as in a painted picture.’36
36
Jacabus de Voragine, The Golden Legend: Readings on the Saints (translated by William Granger
Ryan), Princeton University Press, New Jersey, 1993, p. 12
16
Color and Salvation in the Dante Alighieri’s Vita Nova
Francesca Bezzone, National University of Ireland.
In this paper, I will reflect on a peculiar angle of Dante’s Vita Nova, that is the
representation, in chosen passages of the text, of the concept of Salvation and its
relationship with the symbolism of the colors red and white. The precise imagery chosen
by the Dante to represent Salvation, and the representation of Beatrice in the V.N. have
radical visual characteristics, which are particularly evident in certain passages of the
text, namely the three encounters with and related visions of Beatrice. This episodes are
the central, literary raw material in which the discourse on Salvation in the Vita Nova is
rooted, and also represent the best example of colour symbolism in the text itself. Hence,
they will be considered both from a philosophical and an aesthetic point of view so as to
provide a clear picture of the ideal of Salvation Dante had embraced as a Christian and as
an artist: while the philosophical indications extrapolated from the text will delineate
Dante’s theological ideas, the study of the copious examples of color symbolism will
offer the substratum on which to establish how, and to what extent, Dante’s style may
have been touched and influenced by visual arts.
Indeed, the people of the Middle Ages relished colours in their lives: medieval frescos and
portraits on canvas impress chiefly for the richness and the depth of the nuances chosen
by the artists, and also works as an historical and anthropological compendium of the
costumes of the time. The majority of the shades used in painting garments was found in
real fabrics and mirrored the fashion of the time: the dark, yet intense blue typically used
to paint the mantel of the virgin Mary, for instance, was much appreciated by the nobility
of the time, as were rich reds and golds, all of them among the most sought after dyeing
pigments.
To satisfy their thirst of knowledge on how to produce new, more striking shades, the
people of the Middle Ages relied heavily on what had been inherited from the Romans
and the Greeks who, in turn, had acquired a great expertise from the Egyptians. In the
17
Naturalis Historia, Pliny the Elder had exposed various methods of retrieving and
producing pigments, which had been successfully improved throughout the Middle Ages:
the most important treatise on colours of the time was written by Cennino D’Andrea
Cennini during the 15th century, a work which faithfully described the color-producing
processes of the time.
If the medieval love of colours mirrors a trend that continued throughout the centuries and
reached modern times, its perception was certainly different to what it is today: the
emphasis was predominantly placed on brightness, rather than hue. It was the light a
colour managed to visually communicate which made it beautiful, not the actual depth of
the nuance itself: colours were valued according to their brilliance rather than to their
tone, as two medieval words referring to colours reveal: the perse included in its
definition shades of blue-black, red and a particular tint of blue, where the pandius
summoned under its name fiery red, ice blue and olive yellow. These words did not
categorize colours in a modern perspective, but rather embodied them as they were
envisaged and perceived by people in the Middle Ages. Perse identified shades of
medium brightness, whereas pandium was linked to extremely vivid ones. If read in such
a manner, the obsession many artists of medieval times had for including gold in their
works – paintings, frescos, clothing- is yet another attestation of the superior relevance of
light respect to hue. Gold was used as an alternative to yellow, orange and even red, but
was at times preferred because of its capability to reflect light and to shine. A direct
consequence in the Middle Ages of this aesthetic of polychromy and light was the
increasing association, already in place in ancient times, of colours with symbolic
meanings that linked single shades to precise concepts: for the development of my
argument the symbolism of the colour red and white are of particular relevance: red,
especially from a Christian perspective, epitomized the sacrificial blood of the martyrs
and, above all, of Christ; white reflected the purity of the Lamb, the saints, and the total
absence of sin.
It was, indeed, a language of colours, through which the artist could attribute to
his work both a visual and symbolic meaning: it would be wrong to think that literature
had not been influenced by such a widespread practice. I believe, on the contrary, that the
18
literature of the Middle Ages, just like visual arts, made colour and light symbolism one
of its primary characteristics, proof of which can be found also in the Vita Nova : for this
reason I decided to explore the presence of colour symbolism in chosen passages of
Dante’s early work on Beatrice, and to analyse his use of colours to accentuate and give
pictorial power to the theological concepts expressed in it. Beatrice embodies those very
concepts, she is not an image of Salvation to Dante, but the Grace bringing Salvation
itself. In spite of being an actual woman, only after her death does she, entirely and
unconditionally, become the fulcrum of Dante’s life, when the spiritualized image the
poet has imposed over her living person becomes her only existing self, she is ethereal
while she still possesses a body, an ideal while still being human. In Vita Nova 1,9 Dante
writes how certo di lei si potea dire quella parola del poeta Homero: “Ella non parea
figliuola d’uomo mortale,ma di Dio”1, which confirms how his view of Beatrice was very
much rooted into the idea of her supernatural origin. Dante describes Beatrice on many
occasions in the Vita Nova and the Divina Commedia, chiefly portrayed by the emotions
she evokes in the poet: hence she does not need to be associated with any particular
physical feature. The connection of the poet’s beloved to an angelic being is typical of the
Dolce Still Novo, but Beatrice is more to Dante than an idealized object of love in part, it
may be argued, as a result of her early death and the lack of actual intimacy between the
two, which undoubtedly has emotionally marked the poet, and triggered a process of
idealization of Beatrice.
White and red symbolism appears powerfully in Dante, in strict relation to the figure of
Beatrice: the use of the two colours is closely related to the first encounter of Dante and
his beloved, described in V.N. 1,4 and to two of the poet’s visions, in chapters 1,14-19 and
28,1 respectively. Dante meets Beatrice for the first time when he is nine and she only few
months younger:
apparve vestita di nobilissimo colore umile e onesto sanguigno, cinta e ornate alla guisa
che alla sua giovanissima etade si convenia ( V.N 1,4-pp 8-9: “ she appeared dressed in
the most noble of colours, humble and honest blood red, her waist cinched, in the
fashion appropriate to her young age”).
1
Alighieri, Dante Vita Nova 1,9, p.12 “Surely, the words of the poet Homer could be spoken of her, that
she was not the child of a mortal man, but of God”.
19
Rossi, the editor of the V.N. edition I used (cite edition at the beginning of the speech),
points out in his footnotes to the text how the symbolism of the colour red in this passage,
commonly known as the “passage of the epiphany”, has great historical relevance, as the
colour Dante describes as “sanguigno” ( literally, “of blood”) was worn, in 13th century
Florence, by unmarried girls. This shade was apparently very deep and rivalled black in
darkness, quite obviously bringing to mind the richness and depth of the colour of blood.
Dante’s choice of adjectives is not at all casual, as he links the very same attribute to the
figure of Beatrice in the first of the visions of the V.N. where he dreams of a figura d’uno
signore di pauroso aspecto (The figure of a man of frightening appearance). He
materializes in Dante’s bedroom in una nebula di colore di fuoco (a fire-coloured mist),
holding in his arms a sleeping woman, naked and draped in a white cloth sanguigno
leggieramente (lightly stained with blood). Dante recognizes Beatrice and, while
contemplating her, notices that the fearsome yet admirable man who holds her, clutches a
red, bloodied object in one of his hands: it is the poet’s heart ( Vide cor tuum! The man
exclaims). Then he proceeds to wake Beatrice and forces her to eat the heart. Following
this gruesome act, Dante is overcome by an increasing sense of anguish and pain, which
eventually wakes him and makes him cry. The array of symbolism at work in this passage
is too vast to attempt a full interpretation in this talk, hence I shall focus on what colours
suggest about its meaning, and on their striking visual power. Dante’s dream begins with
the appearance of a man, not in a cloud of fire, but of a fire-like colour (“di colore di
fuoco”): such a description could refer to any hue ranging from deep red, to oranges
yellows and gold, all colours used commonly for depicting fire. This image is so intensely
evocative that the reader could easily think of it in visual rather than semantic terms. This
suggests Dante had a certain level of familiarity with colours and their use, possibly not
only as descriptive literary terms, but also as actual pigments: a “fire-like” colour involves
the use of pigments all commonly used and easily mixed by painters, and constitutes one
of the most frequent selection in the painter’s palette. Moreover, red orange and yellow,
could all derive from the same type of ochre, simply heated up at different temperatures,
although in Dante’s time, yellow was often made with arsenic (orpiment yellow) or
Persian berries, and red with vermillion, minium and cochineal. Dante’s knowledge of
pictorial procedures for the production of colours is in fact very possible: the cultural
20
atmosphere of 13th and 14th century Florence, and indeed Dante’s relevant position in the
city’s cultural panorama may have provided the proper background for the poet to get in
touch with painters and pigment dealers, who were both involved in the production and
use of colours. Dante was, in fact, a keen painter himself, who took pleasure in solace in
the practice of visual arts. He states so clearly in V.N. 23,1, where he describes how he
draws, on the day of the first anniversary of Beatrice’s death, as a form of comfort from
the pain brought by this sad recurrence: In quello giorno nel quale si compiea l’anno che
questa donna era facta delli cittadini di vita eternal, io mi sedea in parte nella
quale,ricordandomi di lei, disegnava un angelo su certe tavolette (…) ( in the day when
one year had passed since this lady had been made a citizen of Eternity I was sitting,
drawing an angel on some little canvas, thinking of her..).
Moreover, Italy was, at the time of Dante, already artistically and culturally moving
quickly towards the Renaissance, and Humanism, that is the discovering by intellectual
and artists alike of the centrality of Man in life and art, was in full development. The
journey from the Middle Ages to early Humanism had already artistically begun, and the
figure of the all-round, renaissance artist symbolized by Leonardo and Michelangelo had
already started to become reality.
The artists of Dante’s time were most likely acquainted with more than one artistic
practice, although they may have excelled only in one. To remain in the field of literature,
Boccaccio was not only a poet and writer, but also a scribe and talented miniaturist.
All these colours are, to some extent, associated with light, power and obviously, fire
which is itself charged with symbolic meaning. Classical cultures considered fire as a
means of contact with the divine and it was common to use fire to honour the Gods.
Christians adopted the association of fire and light to the divine, as it is shown by the
flame symbolizing the Holy Ghost and the fiery halo of Christ. The fire coloured mist of
the vision, thus becomes quite significant, as it seems to underscore the divine nature of
the signore appearing in it. Such interpretation acquires even more relevance when Dante,
towards the end of the V.N. comes to terms with the possibility that the figura d’uno
signore who appeared to him was not Love, as he had initially believed, but God. The first
21
words spoken by the man to Dante Ego Dominus tuus, clearly evoke the First
Commandment Ego sum Dominus Deus tuus, (…) non habebis deos alienos coram me,
and support the idea that Dante’s otherworldly vision represents God.
In spite of the significance the signore has in the vision, Beatrice is its central character:
literally held in the arms of God, she is lifted away from death and sin and gains her
position, at least in Dante’s eyes, of saving and beatifying agent. As I described, her body
is clothed in pure white, but blood stains taint her garment. Again, Dante opts for the
adjective sanguigno, which directly points to the imagery and colour of blood. The bloody
stains on Beatrice drape appear to represent a striking correlation with the Christian image
of the Lamb of God, Jesus, and His saving power, especially considering that Dante
himself proposed the idea, largely followed by dantesque critics, of the divine nature of
Beatrice. In V. N. 29 he explains it semantically as the name Beatrice as the same root as
beatitudine (blessedness) and beato ( blessed), and literally the word Beatrice means “ she
who brings beatitude” or blessedness; being beato in Italian has the same value as being
salvato, saved. hence Beatrice is, at least according to the semantic value of her name, a
savior, just like Christ. The white cloth covering her sleeping body may symbolize her
purity, as the white fleece of the Lamb stands for Christ’s absence of sin. The blood
staining it corresponds to that shed by Christ to save Humankind, but in her case, her
blood is shed to save Dante. The parallel between Christ and Beatrice is one of the most
suggestive concepts in the V.N. and it will be broadened by the poet in the Divina
Commedia where the full theological power of the figure of Beatrice emerges in all its
creative and philosophical splendour.
In V.N. 28,1 Dante has another ymaginatione of Beatrice. Contrary to that of V.N. 1, 1419, this particular vision happens after the death of Beatrice, while the poet is still
grieving for her. Beatrice appears to him dressed in the same vestimenta sanguigne she
wore during their first encounter. From a literary point of view, this vision completes the
evolution of the figure of Beatrice from actual person to embodiment and representation
of Divine Salvation, the role she will finally assume in the Divina Commedia. Strikingly,
Dante chooses to associate blood red with the figure of Beatrice three times, once
physically- in V.N. 1,4-, once symbolically- in the vision of V.N. 1, 14-19- and once in
22
the chapter where the reader witnesses her final elevation to divine being. As the colour
red is used in all three examples in reference to the person and soul of Beatrice- a holy
woman first and then a divine creature- it emerges that Dante’s conception of the colour
red, and its association with blood must still be that inherited from the Classics, who
linked the colour red to blood and blood to the life-giving powers of the Gods.
In fact, the conception of red as the colour of the Devil only entered popular imagery
around the 13th century, and it is more likely that Dante embraced the classical idea of
blood as symbol of divine on one hand, and the Medieval of Christian Salvation on the
other (the blood shed by Christ symbol of Salvation for Humanity). Red was, in Dante’s
time, idealized with the image of divine power and sacrifice, and was as a consequence
powerfully connected to God, Christ and His sacrifice on the Cross. The fact that Dante
freely applied the adjective sanguigno to Beatrice, a symbol of Salvation, makes it all
more probable.
23
Stained Glass in York Minster: Perceptions and Representations of Space
Emma Wells, University of York
INTRODUCTION
This paper is concerned with the relationship between representations of architectural
space and the experience of physical urban space in fifteenth-century England. It
investigates the use and meaning of architecture in order to explore the experience and
perceptions of space in two stained glass windows residing in the Lady Chapel and choir
of York Minster.
The focus will be upon the use of architectural space in the St William and Great East
window of York Minster and the relationship of this use to how built space was
understood in the later medieval period and thus, how buildings were structured
according to the social and religious discourses that transpired within and around them.
This will be achieved by highlighting just how the church was conditioned for and by its
inhabitants and therefore how ‘the medieval townscape [including the church] had the
capacity to project an image of a person’s ‘place’ in medieval urban society’.1 As Kate
Giles has identified; ‘…the city is a repository of memory, and buildings may take on a
series of meanings and collective myths related to their social use and inhabitation over
time’.2
The principal aim of this paper is to illustrate the power that the images of architectural
space in the glass possessed in order to inflict meaning on their viewers. What is of
utmost interest is just how such images came to carry a variety of meanings by various
cues and signs embodied within them which were, as will elucidated, largely controlled
and influenced by the Church. This in turn forced the viewer to perceive and thus
experience the images in relation to their own social status, position and understanding.
1
K D Lilley, Urban Life in the Middle Ages 1000-1450 (Hampshire; New York: Palgrave,
2002), p. 213.
2
K Giles, An archaeology of social identity: Guildhalls in York, c. 1350-1630. BAR British
series; 315 (Oxford: J. and E. Hedges, 2000), p. 57.
24
How this process was manipulated and achieved will form the basis of this paper under
the sub-question ‘How do we come to experience an image?’
The premises of the paper are firstly, to outline the history of these two windows.
Secondly, to perform a brief historiography of architectural motifs in glass and finally an
attempt to place this all back within the wider context of the theme of the conference by
discussing representations of city, interior and devotional space.
Before continuing I feel I should note that the representations of architectural space
depicted in the two windows project different types of power: both positive and negative.
Perhaps you may think the word ‘power’ is a little strong for the impact that such images
had, but as will be illustrated, what cannot be underestimated is the control that they
evoked. In turn, I believe, that this type of control could not be enforced without
possessing a form of power, but I will leave this open for you to ponder throughout the
paper.
HISTORY OF THE WINDOWS
The glazing scheme for the St William window was completed in c.1414/15 (Fig. 1). The
glass is one of the largest pictorial life cycles of a saint with one hundred panels of the
life and posthumous miracles of St. William, kings and bishops in the tracery and five
donor panels residing at the base.3 As has been recently confirmed by the conservation of
the window by York Glaziers Trust, the window was the work of John Thornton of
Coventry. This has been established by comparison with the equally exceptional
composition of the Great East window, which is also documented to be by Thornton.
Commissioned in 1405 in a contract between the Dean and Chapter and Thornton, the
Great East window (Fig. 2) began its three-year term completion in which Thornton had
freedom of artistic creativity and imagination in order to create a monumental window to
3
C Norton and N Teed, The St William Window: a major conservation project completed 2007
by York Glaziers Trust (York: York Minster Visitors’ Department, 2007), p. 8.
25
compliment its unusual yet significant subject.4 Comprising of nine lights, the glass
depicts the beginning and end of the world: the Apocalypse, the celestial hierarchy, Old
Testament scenes including the events of the Book of Revelation with the bottom nine
panels portraying the earthly hierarchy of the history of the See of York.5
HISTORIOGRAPHY OF ARCHITECTURAL MOTIFS IN GLASS
Detailed monographs of the order, religious and symbolic iconography and dates of the
panels of the St William and Great East window are already in existence,6 but the
interpretation of what we may call ‘architectural motifs’ may help in identifying why they
were used, what they added to the scene and fundamentally how they were experienced.
As James Bugslag has argued, the functions of architectural elements in glass are still
rather ambiguous, but they often acted as markers of spatial setting, status or perhaps
most commonly mnemonic biblical cues.7 He terms this use of architectural space
‘pictorial vocabulary’, open to multiple interpretations and perceptions from those who
viewed them. Architecture could therefore be used by the glazier to suggest numerous
interpretations and to promote different receptions of the imagery, examples of which
will be shown throughout this analysis.
The most common form of architectural space found in biblical and narrative
iconographic genres of glass is the ‘short-hand’ representations used to denote interior
and exterior spaces, including cities.8 These ‘spaces’ fundamentally related the inside of
the church (the glass panels) to the outside (the church and city) as they began to mediate
between the imagery and the building itself through the recognition and interpretation of
the viewer.9 In this way, architectural spaces in the glass were not representations of
4
S Brown, Stained Glass at York Minster (London: Scala Publishers Ltd, 1999), p. 66.
G Rickers, ‘Glazier and Illuminator: The Apocalypse Cycle in the East Window of York
Minster’, Journal of Stained Glass, XIX (3) (1994-95), 260-79 (p. 265).
6
Brown; T French, York Minster: The St. William Window (Oxford; New York: Published for the
British Academy by Oxford University Press, 1999); Rickers; J Smith, ‘The Saint
William Window: The Problem with Authorship’, Journal of Stained Glass, (1999), (5-15).
7
J Bugslag, ‘The Early Development of Canopywork as an Iconic Framing Device in
Medieval Stained Glass’, Journal of Stained Glass, XXIV (2000), 10-28 (p. 11).
8
Ibid., p. 11.
9
Bugslag, p. 11; 24.
5
26
physically existing structures intended to be viewed as such, but held meanings intended
to be deciphered heuristically.
SYMBOLIC AND THEORETICAL ANALYSIS OF THE GLASS:
The Space of Regular Communication – the city
If we are to analyse the architectural space in glass we cannot forget that these stone
structures determined, and were determined by its inhabitants.10 There are many
identifiable structures represented in both windows which clearly carried significant
meanings to the people of the city; however these and other images of architectural space
invite consideration of the wider issues of influence, experience and a connection to the
liturgy, that I raised earlier. How and why did representation of architectural space affect
the viewer? How did they come to possess such an immense power?
Using the biblical texts as basic references, compositions could be altered to look like
familiar places or standard cities with features identifiable to the viewer. To elucidate my
point I wish to draw on panel 7b of the Great East window which depicts the slaying of
the two witnesses, an image from the Book of Revelation (11: 7-10) (Fig. 3). Cities and
the churches themselves were often described and represented as earthy embodiments of
the Heavenly city of Jerusalem. In the medieval period geometry was used in
architectural and urban space to symbolise divine order.11 Towns and cathedrals were
planned to please God and so the two-dimensional architectural space of town streets
were made three-dimensional via elevation, such as spires or towers. This resulted in
shared design principles in cathedrals and urban landscapes, essentially as this type of
architecture was to be seen as a physical manifestation of the Holy City.12 Thus
10
C Frugoni, A distant city: images of urban experience in the medieval world: translated by
William McCuaig (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991).
11
K D Lilley, p. 64.
12
D O’ Connor, ‘York and the Heavenly Jerusalem: Symbolism in the East Window of York
Minster’, paper given at University of York, Medieval Archaeology in Europe
Conference (Art and Symbolism), 21st-24th September 1992, p. 71.
27
architectural and urban forms had symbolic, cosmological and practical roles and
designed to convey similar experiences in order to evoke the same kinds of meanings.13
Looking to panel 2h, The New Jerusalem (Fig. 4), the walled residents of the city fill the
space between the inner sacred city and the outer walls. As Christian belief dominated
medieval civic society and its values, ecclesiastical spaces could be used most
successfully to embody these principles which then reflected and manipulated a person’s
sense of being and in turn could structure wider social relations. What we are seeing here
is glass being used as a ‘cue’ in order to structure society, not only in relation to space,
but to promote status and hierarchy, as will be further explained next.
The Holy City’s meaning as the fundamental civic structure and idealised notion of an
inhabited place provided the viewer with important visual cues about the space of the real
city that the glass resided in: York. This could then be transferred to the space he/she was
currently located in (the church) which could then be used to recognise his/her place in
wider society. This shows that space was organised according to the ordering of the
relationships between the people within it.14 The ‘cues’ in the representation of the
Heavenly Jerusalem would be the space between the outer walls and the Holy City, the
only area in which people reside, interestingly separated from the important religious
figures. This would then be seen a representation of the earthly Church, if we indeed take
it to be a manifestation of the sacred city. A viewer could therefore recognise their place
in the glass image of the medieval city which reflected their place in actual society.15 The
spatial division which divides the medieval-like cities in the iconography of the Great
East window into compartmentalised areas for certain people and behaviour would then
be related to the overall building, the Minster, via the initial perception of this space and
then the following experience of the viewer. This was enhanced by other features such as
the repetitive nature of such images, and more intimate architectural spaces used in other
panels which will be examined later.
13
Lilley, p. 166.
B Hillier and J Hanson, The Social Logic of Space (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1984), p. 2.
15
Lilley, p. 242.
14
28
However the type of space depicted throughout these panels is public, an area which can
be used by all even if imaginary or physical boundaries exist. This is a space of regular
communication, architecturally explicit in the geometric layout of the streets, more
noticeably clear in panel 5g of the Great East window (Fig. 5).16 The church building and
surrounding area was designed to bring together individuals and groups of various
identities. Still, partitioning of the most sacred area; the internal space of the church,
acted as a contradiction as its open nature produced an impression of a diverse and
communal area. Yet the very fact that the interior was divided into exclusive zones
structured social identity, enforced power over its worshippers and ultimately tailored
their experience in a discursive manner. Potentially conflicting groups could enter into a
communal discourse, except this was under the church’s direction. The glass, perhaps the
most important heuristic tool in the entire building, was equally used to structure and
negotiate identity, perception and interpretations. Piotrowski explains ‘buildings do not
make arguments, they structure experiences in order to imply thoughts on others’.17 The
idea of the church using religious ideology and its own building to structure social
relations is not confined to the glass. It was a propaganda tool used continually
throughout the medieval period; the glass just happened to provide a significant and
sophisticated visual output for this discourse. It is clear from this analysis that all aspects
of medieval society, from the city to the glass of the church, were determined by the
power of religious belief and its underlying messages. The use of its practices to structure
identity appears integral to the architectural space of the church.
The Space of Daily Experience – the interior
Moving on, I believe that the architectural space of stained glass creates an even more
personal experience to the viewer when the interiors of buildings are depicted (Fig. 6).
16
H Kleinschmidt, Understanding the Middle Ages. The Transformation of Ideas and Attitudes
in the Medieval World (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2000), p. 39; 49.
17
B A Hanawalt and M Kobialka, ‘Introduction’ in B A Hanawalt and M Kobialka (eds), Medieval
Practices of Space, ix-xviii (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 2000), p. xiii.
29
On inspection these scenes allow the houses of others to be brought into the space of the
viewer. By using realistic representations the viewer can interact with the figures as
images of their own house are compared with those of the glass. We cannot doubt this
process as without familiar contemporary elements, the short-hand type interiors would
be unrecognisable.18 Space within a house was organised as a hierarchical structure
through its rooms and so the smaller, more interior rooms were the most private.19 The
way this domestic space is organised and conveyed in the glass acts as a ‘microcosm of
the socially constructed world’ as Pearson and Richards explain. This is emphasised by
the fact that in both windows the interiors, demarcated according to use and the objects
within, share the scene only with important biblical characters or important religious
figures of England and York (i.e. The Pope, the Archbishop and St. William) in this
window. The absence of lower status figures in the most grand architectural space
featured in the glass would be noticeable to the viewer. The perception created by such a
tool would, whilst increasing the stature of the key figures, create a boundary between the
viewer’s experience and the glass panel as they are forbidden from entering the space. By
dividing up and delineating space the glass could consequently classify and control
relationships.20
Once again interior space in the glass is projected into the viewer’s space via their own
personal experiences and can subsequently recognise their own social status and position.
Trachtenburg defines this experience ‘somatic’ as the perspective of these images
incorporates the viewer into its paradigm21 even if it serves to forbid it, as seen here. This
perspectival experience is almost dominant in that by the cues and signs embedded within
the content of these images the viewer is forced to interpret them and experience the
messages projected. How an interior was experienced would be the most telling if we
hold it to be true that the home or most private space was an ‘archetypal symbol of
18
P Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987),
p. 99.
19
M P Pearson and C Richards, ‘Ordering the World: Perceptions of architecture, space and time’, in
M P Pearson and C Richards eds. Architecture and Order: Approaches to Social Space (London;
New York: Routledge, 1999), pp. 1-37 (p. 8).
20
Ibid., p. 24.
21
M Trachtenburg, Dominion of the eye: urbanism, art, and power in early modern Florence
(Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 254.
30
self’.22 It is not surprising that this type of architecture has been termed by Nietzche as
‘an oratory of power by means of forms’.23
In panels 7d (St. William) (Fig. 7) and 8j (Great East) (Fig. 8) the two concepts of space
are representational strategies that deal with ‘mutable space’ or as Dox explains how
‘Christian order and hierarchy are represented in space’.24 In the St William panel, the
very possible inclusion of a chantry chapel in the early fifteenth century illustrates the
growing gulf between the rich and the poor. The increasing segregation produced by such
chapels confirmed by Eamon Duffy25 and Simon Roffey’s26 work illustrates a distinct
attempt at a social division between the clergy and elite from the lay congregation, or
perhaps the profane from the holy,27 also achieved through the exclusivity of the eastern
arm of the church itself. Hence as we saw earlier a social as well as physical control is
produced through the separation of the areas in the church28 and consequently this creates
hierarchies between space, people and the practices they perform.29 As a result social
meanings are attached to these areas and in turn ‘people recognise their own status
relative to others’ and are accordingly controlled by these underlying social discourses.30
Representations of these sacred and private spaces would also convey these feelings to
the viewer and then structure their experience; the basic principles worked through
various mediums.
The Space of Communal Experience – the shrine
22
Pearson and Richards, p. 5.
Trachtenburg, p. 256.
24
D Dox, ‘Theatrical Space, Mutable Space, and the Space of Imagination: Three Readings of
the Croxton Play of the Sacrament’, in B A Hanawalt and M Kobialka (eds), Medieval
Practices of Space (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 2000), pp. 167-198 (p. 168).
25
E Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England c. 1400 – c. 1580 (New
Haven; London: Yale University Press, 1992).
26
S Roffey, The Medieval Chantry Chapel: An Archaeology (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2007).
27
N J G Pounds, A History of the English Parish (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004),
p. 448.
28
C P Graves, The form and fabric of belief: an archaeology of the lay experience of religion in
medieval Norfolk and Devon. BAR British series; 311 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2000), p.
57.
29
C P Graves, ‘Social space in the English medieval parish church’, Economy and society, 18
(1989), 297-322 (p. 299).
30
Ibid., 299.
23
31
As we have seen, control was established over iconography by complex uses of space
through its elite patrons. One only has to look at the numerous depictions of St. William’s
shrine in the window to understand the impact that such patronage could have on its
viewer (Fig. 9). I believe that both the repetitious nature of such a significant image, and
its variability ‘functioned as a social language...’.31 Perspectives of the shrine are not
accurate or particularly similar to the existing structure, yet what is important is that all
related representations in the glass are architectural. William’s shrine was a private image
of worship, and would have been so for the viewer, and so it is the dominant feature in
the window appearing in or next to scenes relating to York. This then signifies the
overall, civic repeated message of the window; that William is laid in the shrine close by,
in York. This would unite the worshippers of York Minster by their devotion to him and
his city. Interestingly, once again the entire message of the glass as a tribute or promotion
of the city and its cult is conveyed by powerful architectural means.
CONCLUSION
In conclusion, as this paper has demonstrated, the different uses of architecture and space
can reveal ways in which people used buildings to structure identities and consequently a
viewer’s experience. The power embodied in such images produced social identities and
structured relations simply by using architectural space to convey information. As I have
shown, ‘types’ of architectural space were often depicted in similar ways which, through
their repetition and ability to be recognised and interpreted by the viewer, meant that the
experience of these images could be reproduced in relation to physical architecture and
space and vice versa. This allowed allegorical and symbolic ideas to be given objective
expression in architecture. Spatial codes and cues have thus been shown to be integral in
the form of the Gothic church. An appreciation of the use of visuality in medieval
architecture is, as a result, fundamental to a full understanding of it.
31
M Camille, ‘The Language of Images in medieval England, 1200-1400’, in J Alexander and P
Binski, eds. Age of Chivalry: Art in Plantagenet England 1200-1400 ( London: Weidenfeld and
Nicholson, 1987), pp. 33-40 (p. 33).
32
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This article has been developed from my Master’s thesis, submitted to the University of
York in 2008. I owe the greatest thanks to my dissertation supervisor Dr. Peter
Gouldsborough and my buildings archaeology tutor Dr. Kate Giles who has also provided
comments on this article, but most importantly for her constant inspiration, her incessant
advice and encouragement throughout the duration of my degree. Dr. Tim Ayers, the
acknowledged expert on medieval stained glass, was kind enough to give me useful
feedback on my thesis. Finally, to all the York Minster Library staff, who continually
helped in locating my research and made numerous invaluable suggestions for furthering
it. Also Peter Young, library archivist, who gave me extensive access to the endless files
of stained glass images.
33
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bourdieu P, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1987).
Brown S, Stained Glass at York Minster (London: Scala Publishers Ltd, 1999).
Bugslag J, ‘The Early Development of Canopywork as an Iconic Framing Device in
Medieval Stained Glass’, Journal of Stained Glass, XXIV (2000), 10-28.
Camille M, ‘The Language of Images in medieval England, 1200-1400’, in J Alexander
and P Binski, eds. Age of Chivalry: Art in Plantagenet England 1200-1400 ( London:
Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1987), 33-40.
Dox D, ‘Theatrical Space, Mutable Space, and the Space of Imagination: Three Readings
of the Croxton Play of the Sacrament’, in B A Hanawalt and M Kobialka (eds), Medieval
Practices of Space (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 2000), 167-198.
Duffy E, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England c. 1400 – c. 1580
(New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 1992).
French T, York Minster: The St. William Window (Oxford; New York: Published for the
British Academy by Oxford University Press, 1999); Rickers; J Smith, ‘The Saint
William Window: The Problem with Authorship’, Journal of Stained Glass, (1999), (515).
Frugoni C, A distant city: images of urban experience in the medieval world: translated
by William McCuaig (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991).
Giles K, An archaeology of social identity: Guildhalls in York, c. 1350-1630. BAR
British series; 315 (Oxford: J. and E. Hedges, 2000).
Graves C P, ‘Social space in the English medieval parish church’, Economy and society,
18 (1989), 297-322.
Graves C P, The form and fabric of belief: an archaeology of the lay experience of
religion in medieval Norfolk and Devon. BAR British series; 311 (Oxford: Archaeopress,
2000).
Hanawalt B A and Kobialka M, ‘Introduction’ in B A Hanawalt and M Kobialka (eds),
Medieval Practices of Space, ix-xviii (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 2000).
Hillier B and Hanson J, The Social Logic of Space (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1984).
34
Kleinschmidt H, Understanding the Middle Ages. The Transformation of Ideas and
Attitudes in the Medieval World (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2000).
Lilley K D, Urban Life in the Middle Ages 1000-1450 (Hampshire; New York: Palgrave,
2002).
Norton C and Teed N, The St William Window: a major conservation project completed
2007 by York Glaziers Trust (York: York Minster Visitors’ Department, 2007).
O’ Connor D, ‘York and the Heavenly Jerusalem: Symbolism in the East Window of
York Minster’, paper given at University of York, Medieval Archaeology in Europe
Conference (Art and Symbolism), 21st-24th September 1992.
Pearson M P and Richards C, ‘Ordering the World: Perceptions of architecture, space and
time’, in M P Pearson and C Richards eds. Architecture and Order: Approaches to Social
Space (London; New York: Routledge, 1999), 1-37.
Pounds N J G, A History of the English Parish (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2004).
Rickers G, ‘Glazier and Illuminator: The Apocalypse Cycle in the East Window of York
Minster’, Journal of Stained Glass, XIX (3) (1994-95), 260-79.
Roffey S, The Medieval Chantry Chapel: An Archaeology (Woodbridge: Boydell Press,
2007).
Trachtenburg M, Dominion of the eye: urbanism, art, and power in early modern
Florence (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997).
ILLUSTRATIONS
35
All images courtesy of the © Corpus Vitrearum Medii Aevi (www.cvma.ac.uk), unless
otherwise stated.
Figure 1. Image of entire St. William window, choir.
36
Figure 2. Image of entire Great East window, Lady Chapel.(French 1995, i).
37
Figure 3. Panel 7b, The slaying of the two witnesses, The Great East window.
38
Figure 4. Panel 2h, The New Jerusalem, The Great East window. (York Minster Library).
39
Figure 5. Panel 5g, An angel announces the fall of Babylon, The Great East window.
40
Figure 6. Panel 14j, Jacob blesses his sons, The Great East window.
41
Figure 7. Panel 7d, William at prayer in solitude, The St. William window.
42
Figure 8. Panel 8j, St. John measures the Temple, The Great East window.
43
Figure 9. Panel 12e, Ralph prays at the tomb, The St. William window.
44
Dunbrody Abbey and the Ecclesiastical Linguistic Landscape
Jean Price, Headland Archaeology (Ireland) Ltd.
This paper aims to demonstrate some of the aspects of language and literacy within the specific
environment of two rooms at Dunbrody Abbey in Co. Wexford and the activities occurring in
them by applying three theoretical frameworks from sociolinguistics. The two rooms to be
discussed are the Chapter Room and the Book Room, both of which were excavated by Headland
Archaeology on behalf of the Department of the Environment, Heritage and Local Government
in 2007. These two rooms are directly related to literacy activities within the abbey and provide
a rare opportunity to examine the physical location within which we can be certain different
languages were spoken in different contexts, at different times, by different people. The main
theories drawn on to discuss the languages under consideration are: multilingualism, diglossia,
and orality-literacy.
A Brief History of Dunbrody Abbey
Dunbrody Abbey (Figure 1) in Co. Wexford was founded within the Anglo-Norman, continental
tradition (rather than the Irish tradition which was already wide-spread) and was established in
an area of the country that had strong Anglo-Norman ties, although Wexford had a wellestablished monastic tradition prior to this (as detailed by Breen 2006-71). It was the first
Cistercian Abbey in Ireland founded in this tradition, with twenty-two others following. The
southern half of Wexford had been settled very early and successfully in the initial Anglo-
1
Aidan Breen ‘A Portrait of Monastic Wexford’ in The Journal of the Wexford Historical Society, 21 (2006-7), pp
147-170.
45
Norman conquest period, requiring little fortification to maintain Anglo-Norman power.2
Another Cistercian monastery, Tintern Abbey, was established in close proximity and in the
same tradition as Dunbrody; this was an unusual variation in the Cistercian monastic pattern.3
Monasteries were usually established with great distances between them because of the
Cistercian requirement for isolation and the need for large tracts of arable land. Despite this,
Dunbrody and Tintern were separated by just a few miles.
Lands were granted to Hervey de Montmorency by Dermot MacMurrough, a portion of
which were lands in southern Wexford, including the baronies of Bargy and Shelbourne. These
areas were confirmed by Richard de Clare (Strongbow). In approximately 1172 (there is some
debate over the exact date due to the existence of two non-concurring extant charters), de
Montmorency granted the land to the monks of Buildwas Abbey in Shropshire for the foundation
of a Cistercian abbey. This was also in part intended to pacify the area.4 The land to the south of
this was granted to the Templars,5 with whom the monks of Dunbrody would come to have
several land disputes.
Prior to any attempts to establish a community at Dunbrody, a lay-brother was sent from
Buildwas to inspect the lands. This inspection resulted in an unfavourable account of the area
and no further attempts were made by the Buildwas community to develop the lands at
Dunbrody.6 The lands lay unused and no settlement took place from England to establish a
Cistercian house in the area.
2
Colfer, ‘ Anglo-Norman Settlement in Co. Wexford’, p. 83.
Stalley, The Cistercian Monasteries of Ireland, p. 15.
4
Doyle, ‘The Founation of the Cistercian Abbey of Dunbrody’, p. 85.
5
G. H. Orpen, Ireland Under the Normans (Dublin, 2005), p. 121; Doyle, ‘The Founation of the Cistercian Abbey
of Dunbrody’, p. 82.
6
Colfer, ‘ Anglo-Norman Settlement in Co. Wexford’, pp 86-87; idem, The Hook Peninsula: County Wexford
(Cork, 2004), p. 131; A Gwynn, Medieval religious houses: Ireland (Harlow, 1970), p. 131; Stalley, The Cistercian
Monasteries of Ireland, p. 244; Orpen, Ireland Under the Normans, p. 122.
3
46
In November 1182, Leonard, the Abbot of St. Mary’s in Dublin, met with Abbot Ranulph
of Buildwas to discuss the possibility of founding an Abbey at Dunbrody7. The result was an
agreement between the two abbeys which gave St Mary’s complete jurisdiction over Dunbrody8.
Construction began on Dunbrody the same year9 and it was consecrated by Herlewyn, Bishop of
Leighlin in 1201.10 Dunbrody remained affiliated with St. Mary’s Abbey in Dublin until 1342,
when disputes arose between the two houses.11
Dunbrody became a very powerful and influential abbey during its functional years. It
was one of the largest Cistercian communities in Ireland and held both wealth and political
power. The lands at Dunbrody appear to have been equally split between arable and pasture with
smaller parcels of woodland and moor. Wool, from sheep raised by the abbey, was exported in
substantial quantities during the 13th century demonstrating its ties to continental Europe. At its
dissolution in 1536, Dunbrody’s monastic estates consisted of 40 carucates or ploughlands which
equates to about 13,000 acres12.
At the time of the dissolution on May 6, 153613, ownership of the lands and abbey passed
to the Crown and were subsequently granted to Sir Osborn Etchingham.14 Immediately after the
dissolution of Dunbrody, raiding by the Irish laid waste to some of the lands surrounding the
abbey.15 From the 1630s, the Abbey lay derelict. Some reports do state that Cistercian monks
remained in the Abbey and Titular Abbots of Dunbrody Abbey continued to be named until
7
Gwynn, Medieval Religious Houses. p. 131.
Colfer, ‘ Anglo-Norman Settlement in Co. Wexford’, pp 86-87.
9
Orpen, Ireland Under the Normans, p. 122.
10
Colfer, ‘ Anglo-Norman Settlement in Co. Wexford’, pp 86-87; Colfer, The Hook Peninsula, p. 43.
11
Colfer, The Hook Peninsula, p. 47.
12
Ibid., p. 43-44.
13
C. Ó Conbhuidhe, Studies in Irish Cistercian history, (Dublin, 1998). p. 52; Colfer, The Hook Peninsula, p. 82.
14
Colfer, The Hook Peninsula, p. 68.
15
Ibid.
8
47
1673.16 Despite these reports, monks were unlikely to be resident in the Abbey as the
Etchingham family was possibly residing there. In 1642, Dunbrody was handed over to the
Etchingham family who continued to hold the buildings and lands for several generations. The
management of Dunbrody Abbey itself was handed over to the Office of Public Works by the
Chichester family on 14th January 1895.17
Excavations in the Abbey
In 1911, the Office of Public Works conducted an excavation that revealed the foundations of the
lavabo within the cloister garth. Excavations in 2007 by Headland Archaeology Ltd on behalf of
the Department of the Environment, Heritage and Local Government under the direction of Colm
Moloney (ministerial direction E3686; consent number C111) re-established the location of the
lavabo foundations.18 The purpose of the excavations were to reduce areas of the abbey to the
medieval layer, determine the extent of the lavabo and to establish various technical aspects of
the cloisters to aid in restoration work. Excavations to determine the nature and depth of the
medieval layer within the cloister and eastern claustral range which included the book room, the
chapter room and the parlour were also undertaken19. External exploratory trenches were also
excavated.20 The following discussion primarily discussed the book room and chapter room.
16
Gwynn, Medieval religious houses, pp 131-132; Ó Conbhuidhe, Studies in Irish Cistercian history, p. 239.
78th Report of the Commissioners of Public Works 1910, 16.
18
Colm Moloney, James Brigden and Jean Price Dunbrody Abbey, Co. Wexford: Preliminary Report for
Archaeological Investigations at Dunbrody Abbey (2008) Unpublished Client Report.
19
Ibid.
20
Ibid.
17
48
Medieval Literacy
During the medieval period, Latin was the dominant, but not sole, language of literacy21. This is
particularly true in Ireland with its long history of literary activity in the Irish language, as well
as the influence of Latin from an early period22. The focus on texts and literary activities within
the monastic community mean that nearly every monk living in the abbey would be literate in
Latin at the least. As it was no longer a spoken first language, the monks would have had to
learn to speak it before coming to Dunbrody or while there23. A large number of the monks
came from studying in orders abroad or from other abbeys and would have brought this
knowledge with them, although some teaching of the language and of both reading and writing
may have been occurring in the abbey.
The Cistercian religious communities were highly linked to religious and organizational
texts and the locations in which those texts were read. Cistercian life was very controlled, each
order closely adhering to the Rule of St. Benedict and to daily established schedules. The day
began with readings in the Chapter Room24. Other activities included working in the fields and
prayer. Within the very controlled architectural plans of the abbeys, Cistercians were dependent
on the texts they used to regulate their days. The Cistercians in Ireland in the Anglo-Norman
tradition followed the same schedules, texts and architectural plans as their European brethren.
The monasteries in the Anglo-Norman tradition were able to remain fairly uniform to the general
21
Amalia E. Gnanadesikan, The Writing Revolution: cuneiform to the internet (Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), pp. 256-57;
Michael W. Herren, “Latin and the Vernacual Languages” in Medieval Latin: an introduction and bibliographic
guide (Catholic University of America Press, 1996), pp. 122-129.
22
Herren, “Latin and the Vernacual Languages”, pp. 122.
23
After Suzanne Reynolds, Medieval Reading: grammar, rhetoric and the classical text (Cambridge University
Press, 1996); Anne A. Grotans, Reading in Medieval St. Gall (Cambridge University Press, 2006).
24
Terryl N. Kinder, Cistercian Europe: architecture of contemplation (Michigan, 2002); Stalley (1987), p. 162
49
Cistercian framework through the highly centralized annual Chapter meetings, although each
Irish house established quite an independent character25.
Ecclesiastical Literacy and the Linguistic Landscape of Dunbrody
The medieval ecclesiastical world was extremely literate, though frequently only in Latin which
was the dominant literary language prior to the Reformation which brought about the
suppression of the monastic way in both Britain and Ireland. Ireland had always been a rather
exceptional case as it has had an indigenous literary language that predated the advent of
Christianity in the country. Although this literacy was not extremely well-spread, it functioned
outside of the ecclesiastical setting. This meant that many of the monks joining monasteries
would already be literate in Irish and able to transfer those skills to Latin without having to learn
to read and write from the beginning.
Dunbrody was not, however, located in an area with a high native Irish speaking
population. Instead, it was located in one of the first areas of Norman settlement. This Norman
settlement had been very successfully established, so much so that when Dunbrody was founded,
it was founded in a new tradition. This gave both English and French a more dominant role in
the surrounding area, while Irish played a smaller role. Additionally, English began to gain
increasing supremacy throughout Ireland, becoming well established by 1366 as demonstrated by
the Statute of Kilkenny, while French had likely died out as a vernacular language in Ireland by
that time and was only used for legal functions26. The area just to the east of Dunbrody, in the
Barony of Forth and Bargy, became very dominantly English, but throughout the course of time
25
Stalley (1987)
Alan Bliss and Joseph Long, “Literature in Norman French and English” in A New History of Ireland II: Medieval
Ireland 1169-1534, Art Cosgrove (Ed.) (Oxford, 2008), pp. 712-13.
26
50
became increasingly isolated from the rest of the English speaking world27. The variety spoken
there evolved almost entirely independently of other varieties of English, not undergoing many
of the standard changes that occurred in the shift from Middle to Modern English which began
around 1500.
This left the area around Dunbrody after the Suppression both linguistically and
ethnically distinct from many other parts of Ireland28. This also reflects the linguistic landscape
that was in place prior to the Suppression when Dunbrody was still a functioning and important
abbey. As the abbey was part of the Continental tradition and affiliated with the Anglo-Norman
invasion, the languages of those groups, as well as the language of the Chruch, were the most
important. Stephen of Lexington arrived to Ireland in 1228 to resolve conflicts within the
Cistercian order29, and also insisted that all monks of the order have a good knowledge of both
Latin and French. This meant that Latin was the universal language of the church while French
was the language of communication within the Cistercian order.
Sociolinguistic Aspects of Language and Literacy at Dunbrody
Three sociolinguistic theories will be discussed below. These are: multilingualism, diglossia and
orality-literacy.
Each will be examined in light of the linguistic evidence available for
Dunbrody.
27
T.P. Dolan and Diarmaid Ó Muirithe, The Dialect of Forth and Bargy, Co. Wexford, Ireland (Dublin, 1996), pp.
7.
28
29
Billy Colfer, “The Ethnic Mix in Medieval Wexford”, in History Ireland, Vol. 10, No. 1, Spring 2002, pp. 19-23.
Colfer, The Hook Peninsula, pp. 47.
51
Multilingualism
Multilingualism is the use of multiple languages by individuals. The use of multiple languages
at Dunbrody would not have been uncommon during the medieval period and each language
would have had its own specific functions and specific places in which it would be used. These
languages would have been Middle English, French, Latin and to a much lesser degree or not at
all, Irish. As noted above, Stephen of Lexington insisted all monks had a working knowledge of
both French and Latin in the abbey to help with communication. Monks coming from other parts
of Europe or from other abbeys to Dunbrody would have brought their own languages with them
and would have become increasingly proficient in Latin and French the longer they lived in the
abbey.
Two different kinds of multilingual people exist. The first is a balanced bilingual: these
are people who are able to operate in any of their languages in exactly the same settings with
identical degrees of proficiency.
This type of bilingualism is extremely rare as most
multilinguals have added a language for a specific purpose and thus, although they may be fluent
in a wide range of settings and will likely possess an highly developed proficiency in one or
more areas (either social or more academic), they will have gaps in their knowledge in other
areas where they have no reason to use their added language. This second type of bilingual is a
non-balanced bilingual who has these gaps in their linguistic knowledge due to not needing to
know the language in certain situations. It is this type of bilingualism that would have been
found in Dunbrody and in many other monasteries throughout Europe due to the way in which
languages were used within the abbeys. Latin was not used for every activity, but very high
levels of proficiency would have been required, while a working knowledge of French would
have been needed for everyday activities. These different domains in which the languages were
52
used affected the development of the language for each learner, making them able to freely
converse on some topics in one language, while being not being able to discuss the same topics
with any great detail in another.
Diglossia
Diglossia is the social rank of a language within a multilingual community. This determines
which language is used when, where, by whom and for which topics. Because of Dunbrody’s
unique language history it is possible to recreate, to some degree, the social uses of the various
languages at play within the community.
Within diglossia, one language is deemed the “high” language while the other is the
“low” language.
This has nothing to do with the actual languages themselves; neither is
inherently better or worse than the other. It is the associations of the languages with certain
cultural or social events that give them the high or low status. High languages are typically
associated with formal situations, politics and religion, while low languages are often associated
with everyday life. There is some variation within this, and the domains within which each
language is used will vary from culture to culture and will vary over time, however, in linguistic
situations where multiple languages or varieties of a language are present, and when one
language or variety is associated with religious functions, diglossic situations are usual.
At Dunbrody, the languages described above: English, French, Latin and marginally
Irish, would have been in multiple diglossic situations with each other. Within the abbey, Latin
would have been the dominant high language due to its association with religious and academic
activities30. This language would have been restricted in use (resulting in the above described
30
Herren, “Latin and the Vernacular Languages”, pp. 123; Walter J. Ong, “Orality, Literacy, and Medieval
Textualization” in New Literary History, pp. 1-12.
53
non-balanced bilingualism) and the topics discussed in it would have been limited by social
constraints. It likely, however, also acted as a type of linga franca for the monks when talking to
others who spoke different languages.
As the monks would have been dealing with
exceptionally complex topics and pieces of literature in Latin, their knowledge of it, although
likely to vary widely within the community, would have been quite extensive.
Within Dunbrody, French would have become the language of everyday activities and
therefore the low language, with English, Irish and the other native languages of the monks
playing a role as well. In situations involving these languages, although not entirely diglossic
and having much in common with language selection among multilinguals, speakers would have
chosen which language to speak based on several factors including the social status of the
speakers, topic and location, the language selected would likely have been French, followed by
English, with Irish only used when speaking to people from outside the monastic community.
Native languages of the various monks would most likely only have been used when two or more
monks of the same or similar linguistic backgrounds were conversing amongst themselves.
This situation is much more complex than a simple dual diglossic environment with one
language used in formal, religious, academic and political speaking and writing, but the
additional languages and social factors dictate that many languages be carefully negotiated in
each linguistic event.
54
Orality-Literacy
Orality and literacy function in two very different ways and the societies that develop around
them differ in many aspects depending on the degree of literacy in the community31.
Communities with highly evolved literacy practices, such as ecclesiastical communities, become,
in many ways, dependent on texts. These texts influence and help to organize, but do not dictate,
the activities of the people who come into contact with them32.
At Dunbrody, the monks would have all been literate and functioning in a society that is
highly organized around and by literary activities. The days of the monks were confined to strict
timetables that dictated both their daily activities and the times that literary activities were to take
place. Each morning, the monks would gather together in the Chapter Room (Figure 2) to have a
chapter of St. Benedict’s Rule read aloud to them, as well as other pieces of religious writing.
Additionally, oral activities occurred in the Chapter Room which both differed in several ways
from the literacy activities they occurred in tandem with, and also shared several similarities with
them.
Most significantly, the oral activities were often single-time events: announcements,
confessions, sermons, etc, while the reading of the Rule occurred over and over (when the end of
the book was reached, the monks simply began again). However, the literary activity occurred
aloud, thereby adding an oral dimension to it and bringing it closer to the purely oral activities
occurring in the same place at the same time33. Both of the activities served socially constricting
and regulating functions: the reading of the Rule and other material provided religious
31
32
Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy (Routledge, 2002 edition).
Walter J. Ong, “Orality, Literacy, and Medieval Textualization”, pp. 1-12.
33
After Joyce Coleman, “Interactive Parchment: the theory and practice of medieval English aurality” in The
Yearbook of English Studies, Vol. 25, pp. 63-79; Walter J. Ong, “Orality, Literacy, and Medieval Textualization”,
pp. 1-12; James Collins, “Literacy and Literacies” in Annual Review of Anthropology, Vol. 25, 1995, pp. 75-93.
55
instruction, while the oral activities provided elements of social control through instruction and
confession. By having both oral and literary activities performing similar functions through
different but related mediums, the Chapter Room gained a significance to the monks and became
an integral part of the Cistercian worship. Within the monastic world in general, the significance
of the literary activities taking place within this space eventually lent its name to the room itself
and metaphorically extended to the practice of the leaders of each monastery meeting annually to
discuss various topics and to receive instructions they were to pass on within their individual
Chapter Rooms.
In many Cistercian monasteries, the literacy activities undertaken within them had gone
so far as to alter the very architecture of the buildings. This occurred in the form of Book Rooms
which developed to hold the various volumes the monasteries came to hold. As books became
cheaper and more widely available, coupled with the extensive time-spans over which many
monasteries functioned, their libraries expanded to the degree that they could no longer be held
on a case in a private room or under a staircase, which had previously been the storage solution
to this matter. To cope with this, the Sacristy, located between the Church and the Chapter
Room, was divided in two, with a door to the Cloisters inserted in the front portion to allow
access to the books for Chapter while the back portion retained the door to the Church for access
during Mass.
34
This is the solution the monks at Dunbrody used as well (Figure 1 shows the division;
Figure 3). Whether or not this Book Room is a reaction to the problem of too many books or an
original design feature influenced by the Continental monastic renovation is not known, however
there must have had some input from other monasteries in order to arrive at the same solution.
How many books or what they would have been is unavailable to the current author. However,
34
Terryl N. Kinder, Cistercian Europe: architecture of contemplation (Michigan, 2002)
56
one surviving book (Special Collections L.3.19) ascribed to Dunbrody is housed in the library at
University College of Cork. A copy of St. Thomas Aquinas’ Compendium absolutissimum totius
Summae theologiae D. Thomae Aquinatis, doctoris angelici : in quo universa eius doctrina
partim conclusionibus quaestionum, partim vero argumentorum solutionibus, contenta
proponitur ; accuratissime omnia quae vel in sacris paginis obscura, vel in gravissimis SS PP
monumenta dubia, vel olim, & hodie ab hereticis in controuersiam vocata, admirabili cum
breuitate & claritate explicans / auctore R.D. Ludovico Carbone a Costaciario theologiae in
gymnasio Perusino professore that belonged to Brother Everard, the last named abbot of
Dunbrody, is described as “leather-bound with blind tooled rectangular panelling”35 which
eventually found its way into the Cathedral Collection of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, Cork and
from there to the library. It is a printed volume the contents of which were held to be particularly
significant in the Church and within the Cistercian community. However, it bears little evidence
of use: there is no marginalia or glossing present and it does not appear much read. There is the
possibility that the book was never actually in Dunbrody Abbey as it had been suppressed prior
to the publishing of the book in 1638. Having belonged to the last abbot who was unlikely to
have been resident in the abbey, coupled with the lack of use wear, the book unfortunately does
not provide much evidence for what actually occurred in the abbey. Regardless, the book is still
an interesting addition to the general literary and linguistic landscape of the abbey even though it
does not provide much evidence for what actually occurred in the abbey. For that we are
dependent on the archaeological evidence recovered in the rooms directly associated with literary
activities as well as descriptions of these activities that survive from other abbeys.
35
Catalogue entry for Compendium absolutissimum at
http://library.ucc.ie/search~S0?/Xdunbrody&SORT=D/Xdunbrody&SORT=D&SUBKEY=dunbrody/1%2C5%2C5
%2CB/frameset&FF=Xdunbrody&SORT=D&4%2C4%2C
57
Conclusion
This paper has demonstrated some of the ways in which languages interacted in
Dunbrody Abbey, Co. Wexford and some of the locations in which the specifically literary
activities occurred. The combination of the monastic tradition in which the abbey was founded
and the complex linguistic environment in which the abbey was located have created a picture of
what the language and literary usage within the abbey would have looked like prior to its
dissolution. This type of study sheds light on the logistics of living in a highly multilingual
environment and allows a clearer picture of medieval language usage to be formed.
Additionally, it demonstrates some of the interesting issues in studies of orality and literacy, a
topic that is often over-simplified. By adding the archaeological/architectural element, we are
able to physically locate many of the literacy events occurring in the abbey. This is a very
unusual thing to be able to do, due to the ephemeral nature of literacy events. Examining the
workings of languages in their social and physical environments expands our understanding of
the difficulties and solutions the speakers in one particular location, and also sheds light on their
lives in general.
Acknowledgements
I would like the thank Colm Moloney of Headland Archaeology and Damian Shiels of
Headland Archaeology for their comments, expertise and editing input at different stages of this
research and James Brigden of Headland Archaeology for his assistance with the figures. I
would especially like to thank the Department of the Environment, Heritage and Local
Government and Con Manning for their part in this research.
58
Figures
Figure 1: Plan of Dunbrody
59
Figure 2: The Chapter Room after excavation
60
Figure 3: The Book Room exterior
61
Maternal Power:
Nature, Nurture and the Supernatural in the Lancelot Legend
Helen L M Neat, University of Nottingham
This paper, part of my doctoral research on mother-son relationships in Arthurian literature, will
examine the roles of maternal characters in the legend of Lancelot, and seek to demonstrate the
fundamental importance of these mother-figures within the legend, and in Lancelot’s
development into a peerless knight. Primarily, I will consider the two earliest texts in which
Lancelot’s enfance is narrated: the anonymous Old French Prose Lancelot, dated by Elspeth
Kennedy to around 1226, and Ulrich von Zatzikhoven’s Lanzelet, composed around 1200 in
Middle High German, and, according to the author, an adaptation of a French version, of which
no copy survives.1 While these two texts are highly distinctive, both thematically and
stylistically, they are nevertheless united by common elements, particularly in relation to the
childhood of the hero.
In each text, two maternal characters figure prominently: the hero’s biological mother and his
foster-mother, a supernatural woman who raises him from infancy to knighthood. In the Prose
Lancelot she is the Lady of the Lake, inhabiting an essentially normal realm, but which is
disguised under the semblance of a lake, while in Lanzelet she is a merminne, or sea fairy, whose
manifestly supernatural realm is inhabited only by women, and surrounded by the sea. This
foster-mother takes the child from his natural mother immediately following the death of his
father, and raises him in seclusion and security. She therefore replaces the hero’s mother, and to
a certain extent also his father. However, although the natural mother is therefore essentially
replaced by this second maternal character, and removed from the action of the story, she
nevertheless retains a degree of importance, while the father appears to be a more marginal, and
nominal character.
NATURE
Referring to Lancelot, Emmanuèle Baumgartner stresses the superiority of the hero’s maternal
lineage, and notes the repeated exaltation of his mother’s ancestry above his father’s.2 While
King Ban is of noble ancestry, the lineage of Lancelot’s mother is given even greater acclaim, for
Helene is ‘deschendue de la haute lignie le roi David’.3 Additionally, her own excellent character
1
Elspeth Kennedy, Lancelot and the Grail: A Study of the Prose Lancelot (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), p. 8.
Nicola McLelland suggests a date for Lanzelet of around 1200-4 in Ulrich von Zatzikhoven’s Lanzelet: Narrative
Style and Entertainment (Cambridge: Brewer, 2000), p. 27; and René Pérennec believes that a date earlier than 1200
is not improbable: Ulrich von Zatzikhoven, Lanzelet (Grenoble: ELLUG, 2004), p. 41.
2
‘Sainte(s) Hélène(s)’, in Femmes, mariages, lignages: XIIe-XIVe siècles. Mélanges offerts à Georges Duby, ed. by
Jean Dufournet and others (Brussels: De Boeck Wesmael, 1992), 43-53 (p. 50).
3
All Prose Lancelot citations are taken from the edition by Alexandre Micha, 8 vols (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 19781983), here vol VII, p. 23.
62
further contributes to a sense of maternal superiority in Lancelot’s heritage. The lineage of
Lanzelet’s parents is not narrated; however, in terms of character, there is an even greater
contrast between the father and mother: King Pant is a harsh lord, while his wife Clarîne is loved
by all. In both texts there is an emphasis on the youth and beauty of the hero’s mother, which
contrasts with the depiction of his father as an old man.
Prose Lancelot:
Li rois Bans estoit viex hom et sa feme jovene et molt estoit bele et boine dame et amee de boines
gens.4
Lanzelet:
von manigen kriegen wart er grîs [...]
vil strenge was des küniges lîp.
nuo hât er ein schœnez wîp.
staet und dêmüete.
mit wîplicher güete
verzart siu manic pîne.5
Clarîne’s integrity is demonstrably important in terms of Lanzelet’s own inherent nature, and can
be related to the statement that she breastfeeds her child herself in her own chamber. A widely
held belief in the Middle Ages, was that children inherited qualities from their mother or nurse
through her milk, and that the properties in the milk affected the child’s physical, moral and
spiritual development.6 In his commentary on child-rearing in De Proprietatibus Rerum,
Bartholomaeus Anglicus declared that ‘good milk produces good progeny, and bad milk bad
progeny’, and further, that ‘the infant raised on his mother’s milk is more praiseworthy than one
raised on the milk of another’.7 Bernardino of Sienna similarly proclaimed that ‘the child
acquires certain of the customs of the one who suckles him’.8
Thus the statement that Clarîne chooses to nurse her own child, made immediately after the
author’s glorification of her character, is evidently an important narrative detail, signifying a
strong maternal bond, and implying in particular that her child will inherit her positive
‘Descended from the noble line of King David’.
Due to the multi-disciplinary nature of the conference for which this paper was originally written, all citations in
languages other than English are translated in the footnotes. The translations are my own unless otherwise stated.
4
Micha, VII, p. 1.
‘King Ban was an old man, while his wife was young and very beautiful, a good woman who was loved by good
people’.
5
All Lanzelet citations are taken from the edition by Florian Kragl (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2006), here lines 46;
71-75.
‘His hair had turned grey from many wars. […] A harsh man indeed was this king. Now he had a beautiful wife,
steadfast and unassuming. In her womanly goodness she alleviated much suffering’. Translation from the edition by
Thomas Kerth, with additional notes by Kenneth G. T. Webster and Roger Sherman Loomis (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1951), p. 28.
6
See, for example, Doris Desclais Berkvam, Enfance et maternité dans la littérature française des XIIe et XIIIe
siècles (Paris: Champion, 1981), p. 51; Frances and Joseph Gies, Marriage and the Family in the Middle Ages
(Cambridge: Harper & Row, 1987), p. 200.
7
Michael Goodich, ‘Bartholomaeus Anglicus on Child-Rearing’, History of Childhood Quarterly, 3 (1975), 75-84
(pp. 77; 80).
8
Clarissa W. Atkinson, The Oldest Vocation: Christian Motherhood in the Middle Ages (Ithaca: Cornell University
Press, 1991), p. 60.
63
characteristics. The significance is further reinforced when taken in context with a later passage
regarding Lanzelet’s heroic nature and his particular position as Fortune’s favourite, an
underlying theme of the narrative:
iuwer muoter hât gedienet wol
an allen dingen mit tugent,
daz ir an alter und an jugent
von rehte müezet sælic sîn,
Klârîne, diu künigîn.
ez gelebete nie vrouwe baz.9
The same concept is also linked to Lancelot. In the Vulgate Merlin, it is stated that Lancelot’s
mother loved him so much that she breastfed him herself, providing the same symbolic link.10
Although the detail is not found in the Prose Lancelot itself, its presence in both the prose cycle
and the earlier German adaptation suggest it to be a significant element of tradition.
Françoise Paradis, in her examination of Helene, perceives her sole function in the narrative to
be
une mère recevable pour le héros, la future fleur de la chevalerie, parce qu’elle est une grande reine
et une sainte femme, et tous les traits qui la caractérisent sont comme des justifications a posteriori
de la nature héroïque de Lancelot.11
Her function in the narrative is not to be a good mother, but to provide the hero with an excellent
lineage, determining his inner nature. The role of raising the hero, providing him with the
necessary nurture to shape his inherent qualities, is conferred upon a second mother-figure, the
supernatural woman who provides the young hero with education and protection.
NURTURE
A major theme explored during Lancelot’s childhood, is the relative significance of nature and
nurture; for example, which is more important, noble birth or the development of noble
behaviour. The Lady of the Lake, and by extension the author, uses Lancelot’s ignorance of his
parentage as a means of heightening his moral development. His concern that he may not be of
noble birth, and therefore inherently unfit to be a knight, causes him to strive harder to become
worthy. Lineage remains a central theme in the text, however, as Elspeth Kennedy observes:
9
Lines 4720-5.
‘It is through your mother, through her virtuous conduct in all things, that you rightly deserve to be blessed by
fortune in old age and in youth: Clarîne the queen. There never lived a better lady’. Kerth, p. 82.
10
See Kerth, p. 150, note 4.
11
‘La triple mise au monde d’un héros, ou trois images d’une féminité maîtrisée dans le début du Lancelot en
prose’, in Approches du Lancelot en prose, ed. by Jean Dufournet (Paris: Champion, 1984), 157-76 ( p. 162).
‘A mother worthy of bearing the hero, the future flower of chivalry, because she is a great queen and a saintly
woman, and all of her characteristics justify, after the fact, Lancelot’s heroic nature’.
64
Lancelot, himself, however bravely he maintains that it is the effort of the individual that counts,
evidently felt that heredity was important, for a man has clearly more chance of possessing the
necessary qualities if he comes of a long line of noble and heroic ancestors. […] It would have been
quite inconceivable for Lancelot’s father to have been a peasant.12
The theme recurs throughout Lancelot’s childhood scenes, illustrated in particular during the
disagreement with his tutor over his largesse. Although, had he grown up under normal
circumstances, his determination and noble birth would no doubt have been sufficient for him to
become a knight, what is implied in the Prose Lancelot, is that it is the Lady of the Lake’s
contribution to his development that allows Lancelot to become the greatest of knights.
The concept of being ‘the best’ is particularly emphasised in Lanzelet. His education is less
developed and sophisticated than that described in the Prose Lancelot. He has no tutor or
companions, and is first instructed by the ladies in music and courtly skills, and then trained in
physical activities by merwunder. At the end of his years of instruction, he is skilful in all things
except knightly pursuits, and has never ridden a horse. Lanzelet’s education has therefore been
viewed as being restricted by the supernatural and feminine character of the merminne’s land.13
However, lack of a realistic knightly education does not prevent Lanzelet from being, as is
frequently stated, ‘der beste’.
Having left the Otherworld, Lanzelet has a brief, second period of education with Johfrit de Liez
and his mother, during which time he is able to acquire the knightly skills which the merwunder
were unable to teach him, by merely observing others. First, having watched Johfrit ride,
Lanzelet imitates him skilfully. Johfrit’s mother then organises a tournament which Lanzelet
again observes, and then participates in, performing faultlessly. Lanzelet’s development into an
excellent knight appears to be inherent and inevitable, he merely requires this nominal training to
draw out his internal qualities and capabilities.
It has been suggested that Johfrit plays a parallel role to Gurnemanz in Parzival, and also that
Lanzelet’s education is more closely related to Parzival’s than Lancelot’s.14 However, it is
interesting that once Johfrit has introduced Lanzelet to his mother, Johfrit receives no further
mention in the text, and it is she who takes over the role of instigating Lanzelet’s remaining
education. Additionally, aside from Johfrit himself, the castle appears to be populated only by his
mother and other ladies, suggesting a certain parallel with the merminne and her land of maidens.
SUPER-NATURE
Aside from their prowess, both Lancelot and Lanzelet are marked and set apart from their peers
by the protection and favour granted them by their supernatural foster-mother. Even after the
hero has left her nurturing care, she continues to aid, guide and protect him, either in person, or
through the agency of her followers or magical items. In addition, a certain mark of the
12
‘Social and Political Ideas in the French Prose Lancelot’, Medium Aevum, 26 (1957), 90-106 (p. 104).
Kennedy, Lancelot and the Grail, p. 15.
14
Madeleine Pelner Cosman, The Education of the Hero in Arthurian Romance (Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press, 1966), pp. 127; 134.
13
65
Otherworld becomes attached to the hero during his adult life. Elspeth Kennedy observes that
Lancelot is the only knight in the Prose Lancelot to have any direct contact with the supernatural,
and that this in turn is due to his association with the Lady of the Lake.15
One interpretation of the abduction of Lancelot as a child, is that it symbolises the hero’s second
birth, or rebirth, as the son of the Lady of the Lake. For example, Laurence Harf-Lancner
suggests that
le sens de l’exposition sur l’eau, lié au symbolisme de la naissance, éclaire le rapport de Lancelot,
le chevalier du lac, l’homme faé, à ses deux mères, la reine et la fée. […] La chute dans l’eau de
l’enfant et de la femme étroitement embrassés est une image de naissance, la seconde naissance de
Lancelot.16
Nicole Belmont, in her study Les Signes de la naissance, examines a number of traditional tales
in which the child is exposed to water or placed in a sack to be cast into the sea, and notes
dans ces mythes, la double naissance signifie que l’enfant est promis à une existence
exceptionnelle. […] Il est probable qu’une grande partie des mythes où ce motif est présent, peut se
ramener à une opération assez simple où la fonction maternelle est dédoublée. En effet, dans de
nombreux cas, un substitut maternel remplit la fonction de protection que la mère réelle est
empêchée pour une raison quelconque de remplir.17
While the Prose Lancelot is the most explicit in its portrayal of these elements, the concept can
equally be applied to a certain extent in Lanzelet: again the natural mother is replaced by a
second, supernatural mother, who is intrinsically associated with water, and who provides the
hero with the necessary nurture, guidance and education for his later exploits. This symbolic
rebirth augments the importance of Lancelot’s second mother: not only does she serve the
function of raising and protecting the hero, but also, and perhaps more importantly, she bestows
upon the hero a certain element of her Otherworldiness, which could be termed ‘Super Nature’.
Upon reaching the age of knighthood, both Lancelot and Lanzelet are provided by their fostermother with a magnificent horse, arms and clothing, in which the colour white predominates.
Upon Lancelot’s arrival at Arthur’s court, the Lady of the Lake makes the unusual request that
he be knighted with his own arms and in his own clothing. Harf-Lancner comments that
15
‘The Role of the Supernatural in the First Part of the Old French Prose Lancelot’, in Studies in Medieval
Literature and Languages: In Memory of Frederick Whitehead, ed. by W. Rothwell and others (Manchester:
University of Manchester Press, 1973), 173-84 (p. 181).
16
‘Lancelot et la Dame du Lac’, Romania, 105 (1984), 16-33 (pp. 18; 27).
‘The meaning of the discourse on water, linked to birth symbolism, highlights the relationship between Lancelot, the
knight of the lake, the man marked by the Otherworld, and his two mothers, the queen and the fairy. […] The
descent of the tightly intertwined woman and child into the water is an image of birth, the second birth of Lancelot’.
17
(Brionne: Gérard Monfort, 1997), p. 84.
‘In these myths, the double birth signifies that the child is destined for an exceptional existence. […] It is likely that
many of the myths containing this motif boil down to a fairly simple process, where the maternal function is split in
two. In fact, a maternal substitute frequently fulfils the protective role that the real mother is prevented from doing
for one reason or another’.
66
on sent bien qu’ici la couleur seule importe. L’insistance de la Dame à ne faire adouber Lancelot,
contre tout usage et au dam de la fonction de générosité du suzerain, que de ses armes et de ses
vêtements blancs, imprime la marque de l’autre monde sur le héros.18
The foster-mother’s protection of the hero is a recurring theme in each text. During Lancelot’s
conquest of the Dolorous Garde, the Lady of the Lake sends two demoiselles and three magic
shields to aid the hero in the adventure, the completion of which allows him to learn his identity
and make his name as a great knight. The Lady of the Lake also encourages Lancelot and
Guinevere’s love, and appears in person to heal Lancelot when he becomes mad.
While Lanzelet’s merminne does not reappear in the narrative herself, she also sends a
messenger to assist the hero. She first appears following Lanzelet’s defeat of Iweret, reveals his
name and lineage and provides him with magical gifts. She later appears at Arthur’s court while
Lanzelet is imprisoned in Plurîs. The messenger instigates the mantle test, the outcome of which
favours Iblis above all other women at court, and then reveals Lanzelet’s whereabouts so that he
is able to be rescued.
Two further mother-figures play minor roles in Lanzelet, the first being the mother of Johfrit,
whom I have previously mentioned. The second is named the Duchess of the White Lake, whom
Lanzelet meets just after he has learned his identity. As well as the link to Lancelot implied by
her name, she is related to the hero via both his parents: she is the sister of Pant, and her husband
is the brother of Clarîne. The Duchess provides Lanzelet with two fine horses, a function
reminiscent of the foster-mother, thus enabling him to reach court in time for Valerîn’s
challenge.
In each of the oldest surviving accounts of Lancelot’s adventures, identity is consistently a
central theme. Michel Stanesco notes that the most famous heroes of the Matière de Bretagne,
for example, Arthur, Gawain, Tristan, Lancelot and Perceval, are all marked in some way by the
abnormality of their childhood. They are either an orphan, bastard, abandoned child, or are
brought up by foster-parents, and yet, they all come to be known as the son of someone: Arthur
son of Uther Pendragon, Gawain son of Lot, Yvain son of Urien. Lancelot, on the other hand, is
what Stanesco considers to be the true ‘incarnation du chevalier sans nom, solitaire, qui reste
consciemment anonyme et se dérobe à tous […] Lancelot, fait assez curieux, est l’unique à ne
pas revendiquer sa filiation paternelle : il ne sera jamais Lancelot fils de Ban’.19
Instead, Lancelot carries the name of his fairy foster-mother, as Lancelot du Lac. In the prose
romance, Lancelot first learns his name below the slab in the cemetery of the Dolorous Garde,
where it is written: ‘chi gerra Lancelos del Lac, li fiex au roi Ban de Benoÿc’.20 His paternal
18
Les Fées au Moyen Age: Morgane et Mélusine. La Naissance des fées (Paris: Champion, 1984), pp. 107-1.
‘One feels that, in this case, only the colour is important. The Lady’s insistence, contrary to tradition and despite the
liege lord’s prerogative to generosity, that Lancelot should be dubbed only with his own arms and in his white
clothes, imprints the hero with the mark of the Otherworld’.
19
‘L’Enfant aimé des fées’, in Lancelot – Lanzelet, hier et aujourd’hui: recueil d’articles, ed. by Danielle
Buschinger and others (Griefswald: Reineke-Verlag, 1995), 341-51 (p. 341).
‘Embodiment of the solitary, nameless knight, who consciously remains anonymous and evades everybody […]
Lancelot, curiously, is the only one not to claim his paternal lineage: he will never be Lancelot son of Ban’.
20
Micha, VII, p. 332.
67
lineage is noted, but not as part of his name, and it is secondary to the association with the Lady
of the Lake. Likewise, Lanzelet is never named ‘son of Pant’. Prior to learning his name, he is
occasionally referred to as the warrior ‘von dem Sê’ (from the Lake), but once his identity is
revealed, he is consistently named ‘Lanzelet de Lac’. This retention of the French title in the
German text would appear to confirm its fundamental importance in the Lancelot tradition.
The earliest surviving text recording Lancelot’s name is Chrétien de Troyes’ Erec et Enide (c.
1171), where the three greatest knights are listed in order as Gawain, Erec, and Lancelot of the
Lake.21 As Lewis Thorpe observes, although Lancelot appears third in this list, it is inferred that
he is second only to Gawain, since Erec has to be given pre-eminence in his own romance.22
Lancelot appears again in Chrétien’s Cligés (c. 1176) as one of a number of knights whom
Cligés vanquishes at a tournament as proof of the eponymous hero’s own prowess.23 For
Chrétien to place Lancelot among the greatest of knights, attests to an earlier, widely known
Lancelot tradition, while consistent use of the title ‘du Lac’, also implies that this tradition
included the story of the aquatic fairy guardian.
In Le Chevalier de la charrette, the earliest extant text of which Lancelot is the central character,
Chrétien again calls him ‘Lanceloz del Lac’, but more importantly, he briefly comments on the
hero’s upbringing with a fairy, who continues to watch over her fosterling even after he has left
her care, and who has given him a ring with the power to reveal enchantments:
Cele dame une fee estoit
Qui l’anel doné li avoit,
Et si le norri an s’anfance,
S’avoit an li molt grant fïance
Que ele an quel leu que il fust
Secorre et eidier li deüst,
Mes il voit bien a son apel
Et a la pierre de l’anel
Qu’il n’i a point d’anchantemant.24
In the Prose Lancelot, the hero is given an identical ring by the Lady of the Lake: ‘lors trait la
dame de son doit un anelet, sel met l’enfant en son doit et li dist qu’il a tel forche qu’il descuevre
tous encantements et fait veoir’.25 It is evident, despite the apparent loss of earlier sources, that a
Lady of the Lake-type character was an integral element of the Lancelot tradition from its
earliest conception, and that by the late twelfth century at least, the two characters were
‘Here will lie Lancelot of the Lake, the son of King Ban of Benoïc’.
21
Trans. and ed. by Jean-Marie Fritz (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1992), lines 1687-90.
22
The ‘Lancelot’ in the Arthurian Prose Vulgate (Illinois: Wheaton College, 1980), p. 8.
23
Trans. and ed. by Charles Méla and Olivier Collet (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1994), lines 4700-2.
24
Trans. and ed. by Charles Méla (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1992), lines 2345-53.
‘This lady was a fairy who had given him the ring and who had cared for him in his infancy; so he was certain that
she would come to succour and aid him wherever he might be. But he could tell from his appeal and from the stone
in the ring that there was no spell cast here’. From the edition by William W. Kibler (New York: Garland, 1981), pp.
99-101.
25
Micha, VII, p. 270.
‘The lady took a small ring from her finger, placed it on the child’s finger, and told him that it had the power to
uncover and reveal all enchantments’.
68
inseparable, for, in the words of Elspeth Kennedy, ‘Lancelot cannot be Lancelot without a
lake’.26
From this brief consideration of the roles and themes associated with various maternal figures in
each narrative, it is clear that a fundamental role is attributed to mothers, both in terms of the
development of the hero, and of the narrative itself. Lancelot’s excellence as a knight can be seen
to stem from his fundamental nature, inherited primarily from his mother, and shaped by the
nurture provided by his supernatural foster-mother. Additionally, the foster-mother imparts to
him a certain measure of her own Otherworldliness, or Super Nature, setting him apart from his
peers through his dealings with the merveilleux, through her protection and guidance, and
perhaps most importantly, through his inheritance of her name.
26
‘The Role of the Supernatural’, p. 176.
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
The manifestations of physical prowess in relation to the warrior hero par
excellence of the Ulster Cycle, Cú Chulainn.
Mary Leenane
School of Celtic Studies, National University of Ireland, Maynooth.
The so-called Ulster Cycle is primarily concerned with warfare and related events surrounding
the inhabitants of pre-historic Ulster. This heroic literature is the platform upon which the
warrior hero par excellence, Cú Chulainn, is presented. In this paper I will endeavour to
demonstrate how physical, and more specifically, martial prowess is the crux upon which his
martial career is defined. This is particularly evident in the early stages of his career, ultimately
gauging and redefining his progression as a warrior. This paper will begin by briefly referring to
features found in Compert Con Culainn (The conception of Cú Chulainn), which determine his
destiny as a warrior, thus requiring him to prove his martial ability throughout his career.1 The
expression of his martial prowess in a number of his macgnímrada (Boyhood deeds) and during
his visit to the lands of Scáthach in Tochmarc Emire (The wooing of Emer) will be the principal
concern of this paper.
There are two main surviving versions of the tale which relay the details of the conception and
birth of Cú Chulainn.2
The beginning of version I of Compert Con Culainn describes a
devastating attack on the land in front of the Ulster royal centre, Emain Machae by a flock of
otherworldly birds, despite the presence of Conchobar and his warriors.3 The defeat of the Ulster
warriors in their own territory, where their martial strength should be at its greatest, suggests that
their military power or forces are inadequate to some extent. The scene is deliberately set for the
arrival of a vigorous martial force to fill this void in the guise of Cú Chulainn, demarcating his
destiny as a prodigious Ulster warrior. The Ulster warriors are lured by these birds to the
1
A.G. van Hamel (ed.), ‘Compert Con Culainn’ in Compert Con Culainn and other stories, Mediaeval and Modern
Irish Series III, (Dublin: The Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1933; repr. 1978), pp. 3-8.
2
For a discussion of these versions see van Hamel, pp. 1-2.
3
van Hamel, p. 3, § 1.
77
Otherworld for the auspicious occasion of the hero’s birth, his first birth in this version.4 The
Ulstermen are forced to take shelter in a small house inhabited by a man and a heavily pregnant
woman who gives birth with the assistance of Deichtine, Conchobar the king’s daughter (in this
version), while Conchobar and his Ulster warriors engage in their central warrior activity of
feasting.5 The feast in this instance may be viewed as a type of ceremonial event marking the
birth of the hero and his incorporation, although at a basic level, into the elite group of Ulster
warriors.6 Cú Chulainn’s ability to perform great martial deeds is prerequisite to his role and
destiny as the ultimate Ulster warrior.
The tales of Cú Chulainn’s boyhood deeds or macgnímrada are filled with accounts of his
exceptional courage, strength and physical ability.7 This is illustrated from the point when he
leaves home alone to go to Emain Machae at the tender age of five despite the pleas of his
mother. Thereafter Cú Chulainn’s unannounced arrival triggers the boy-troop’s attack on him.
He does not falter or retreat, although he is greatly outnumbered, instead he wards them off and
attacks them before directly negotiating with the king, Conchobar, who engineers a truce
between them.8 Cú Chulainn demonstrates his remarkable ability and prowess by overcoming
such a large number of his peers, single-handedly, despite the fact that they had already received
a certain amount of training in Conchobar’s court. Thus his youthful martial prowess is depicted
as being vastly superior to that of his peers, in order to present him as the warrior hero par
excellence. Most importantly, he overcomes the boy-troop in this crucial martial act, placing
him on the first rung on the ladder toward becoming a warrior. In addition he has moved away
from his mother’s home and into Conchobar’s court to embark on his martial career.
4
Although he has a further two conceptions and one birth in this version, this birth is given most attention and is
most similar to that found in version II.
5
van Hamel, p. 4, § 3.
6
Arnold van Gennep, The rites of passage, translated by Monika B. Vizedom & Gabrielle L. Caffee, (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1960) p. 20 suggests that a shared meal can be interpreted as an incorporation rite,
welcoming or marking incorporation into a new group or society.
7
This discussion will concentrate on the version of the macgnímrada as edited by Cecile O’Rahilly, Táin Bó
Cúailnge: Recension I, (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1976) from Lebor na hUidre and the Yellow
Book of Lecan referred to as Recension I. For a discussion of the versions of Cú Chulainn’s boyhood deeds see D.
Melia, ‘Parallel versions of the boyhood deeds of Cuchulainn’, Oral Irish Literature: Seven Essays, 25-40. ed. J.J.
Duggan, (Academic Press & Barnes & Noble: Edinburgh & New York, 1975).
8
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 423-454.
78
Cú Chulainn’s ultimate youthful act of martial prowess is found in the macgnímrad in which he
slays the hound of Culann.9 Cú Chulainn’s expertise on the playing field at the outset of the tale
earns him an invitation to a feast at the home of Culann the smith with Conchobar and a select
group of Ulster warriors. He is privileged to be invited owing to the restriction placed by Culann
on the number of people that could be brought to the feast by Conchobar. It is a great honour for
him, a mere boy of six, particularly as it places him amongst Conchobar’s ‘noblest and most
illustrious’ of warriors.10 Although rather casual in his response, Cú Chulainn accepts the
invitation but chooses to follow Conchobar and his warriors to the feast at a later point. Culann
releases his fierce hound to protect his lands on the arrival of Conchobar and his entourage,
unaware that Cú Chulainn has yet to come. The scene is deliberately set for a decisive contest
between Cú Chulainn and the hound. Indeed this scene echoes the one discussed above, where
he refused to wait for a chaperone to accompany him to Emain Machae, ensuring that he was
alone for his encounter with the boy-troop.
Likewise in this tale, Cú Chulainn does not
accompany the other Ulster warriors to the feast, opting instead to follow later on his own.
Contests or fights, particularly those between two warriors, are presented as the critical stage for
determining a warrior’s martial ability. The fact that Cú Chulainn remains unaccompanied prior
to and upon entering into both contests ensures that he is centre stage for it and that he receives
all the credit for the deeds performed. This is particularly poignant given that Cú Chulainn’s
audience in this instance is an illustrious group of Ulster warriors.
Cú Chulainn’s opponent in this tale is Culann the smith’s hound who is renowned for his
prowess and fierceness in his role as protector of Culann’s land. McCone proposes that the
hound was the ‘embodiment of the canine and martial virtues of strength, frenzied fierceness and
fidelity’ and thus could be considered as the ‘symbol of warrior values par excellence in early
Ireland’.11 Once released, the hound duly attacks the intruder, Cú Chulainn, who justifiably
attacks the hound in an act of self-defence. McCone rightly states that ‘one simply has two
martial figures in conflict, each of them behaving quite correctly in light of the position in which
9
Cú Chulainn’s childhood name was Sétantae up until the point where he slays the hound of Culann.
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 548-549.
11
Kim McCone, ‘Aided Cheltchair Maic Uthechair: hounds, heroes and hospitallers in early Irish myth and story’,
Ériu 35 (1984), 1-30, (p. 10, p. 13).
10
79
he finds himself’.12 Most importantly, Cú Chulainn slays the hound in an honourable manner,
particularly in the account found in Recension I, where he casts aside his hurl and ball and
engages the hound in a virtuous type of hand-to-hand combat: ‘Now when the hound came
towards the boy, he cast aside his ball and his hurley, and he tackled the dog with both hands,
that is, he put one hand on the apple of the hound’s throat and the other at the back of his head,
and dashed him against the pillar-stone that was beside him so that all the hound’s limbs sprang
apart’.13 Cú Chulainn conforms to the ‘martial principal of fír fer, weakly translated as ‘fair
play’, by dropping his weapons.14 Therefore, both figures rely solely on their inherent martial
abilities in order to overcome the other in the act of combat. It is Cú Chulainn’s success in this
single virtuous martial contest, which embellishes him further as a warrior figure.
McCone observes that ‘Cú Chulainn now passes the supreme test of overcoming the great dog
that embodies the martial virtues and is thus able to incorporate those same virtues in its stead
and to fulfil its function as aggressive guardian of people and property from outside attack’.15
Cú Chulainn in effect becomes the hound, albeit temporarily by taking on its role as protector of
Culann for a year until a whelp can be reared as a substitute.16 Therefore Cú Chulainn’s superior
prowess secures his victory in this contest and also redefines him as a warrior by transforming
him from the child Sétantae to his adult name and identity, Cú Chulainn.17 The naming of Cú
Chulainn in this manner is also significant because it serves as a reminder of the great contest
and his great victory, thus he is content to bear the name of the hound: ‘Your name shall be Cú
Chulainn (the Hound of Culann) then,’ said Cathbad. ‘I am glad that it should be my name,’ said
Cú Chulainn.’18 The fact that this event occurs at a feast is significant and may mark the
bestowing of his adult name upon the youth and his further progression as a warrior.
Cú Chulainn moves further up the ladder to become a warrior in his final macgnímrad when he
prematurely takes up arms (gabál gaiscid) and goes into a chariot in a matter of days. Once
again a warrior’s martial prowess is integral to this event and this is perhaps reflected in the word
12
McCone, Aided Cheltchair maic Uthechair, p. 14.
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 582-585.
14
McCone, Aided Cheltchair maic Uthechair, p. 12.
15
McCone, Aided Cheltchair maic Uthechair, p. 11.
16
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 598-601.
17
McCone, Aided Cheltchair maic Uthechair, p. 11.
18
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 603-604.
13
80
gasiced ‘set of arms’ which by extension means ‘martial prowess, valour’.19 Cú Chulainn
demonstrates his intellectual ability and perhaps audacity, by approaching the king for arms on
the strength of an overheard prophecy of Cathbad the druid that it was a good omen to take up
arms on that particular day. The magnitude of his strength is underlined as he smashes through
fifteen sets of weapons until only the king’s own can withstand him, thus paralleling his strength
with that of the king despite his tender age.20 He subsequently procures the king’s chariot in a
similar fashion, this being the only one that can withstand him.21 The youth’s courage also
shines through prior to this in his response to Cathbad’s prophecy that whoever takes up arms on
that day will be renowned forever, but will live a shortened life. Cú Chulainn replies: ‘A mighty
thing!’ said Cú Chulainn. ‘Provided I be famous, I am content to be only one day on earth.’22
This reiterates the importance placed by the warrior on the accomplishment of great martial acts
which could live beyond his death.
The remainder of this macgnímrad is concerned with Cú Chulainn’s subsequent expedition. It
seems as if he merges two trips into one, owing to the fact, perhaps, that he receives his chariot
and horses almost immediately after receiving arms. Thus he goes forth to test both on one trip,
and his deeds of valour are duly multiplied beyond the norm. Cú Chulainn has acquired the
physical attributes i.e. the weapons and chariot plus horses, of an elder warrior and also enjoys a
physical elevation in that he now stands on a chariot, no longer a mere foot soldier. Indeed from
a distance he could perhaps be mistaken for Conchobar, given that he has the weapons, but more
importantly because he is in his chariot with his charioteer. As a result of this elevation in status,
it is no longer sufficient for Cú Chulainn to prove himself amongst his peers, he must go forth
and defeat the enemy to prove that he is capable of fulfilling the role of an Ulster warrior.
Once again a martial contest forms the crux of this expedition. Although this is Cú Chulainn’s
maiden expedition into enemy territory he is not content to enter into combat with any mere
single warrior, but chooses to rid Ulster of three of the most fearsome enemy fighters, the sons of
Nechta Scéne. Since Cú Chulainn has now stepped into the arena of the elder warrior he seeks to
19
Kim McCone, Pagan Past and Christian Present in early Irish Literature, (Maynooth: An Sagart, 1990), p. 121.
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 621-626.
21
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 644-652.
22
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 640-641.
20
81
be the best within it and thus takes on a challenge which has already failed a number of Ulster
warriors. Indeed Cú Chulainn goes a step further and provokes combat with these three warriors
despite the protests of his charioteer. Cú Chulainn is determined that his fight with these
warriors will be the pinnacle of this expedition thus he instructs his charioteer only to wake him
if a number of warriors approach.23 The goal of his journey is aptly summed up by Cú Chulainn
when subsequent to the charioteer’s pleas to the sons of Nechta Scéne not to fight the youth, he
overhears and says: ‘I am no lad indeed,’ said Cú Chulainn, ‘but the lad who is here has come to
seek battle with a man.’24
Despite the fact that these warriors each have an exceptional martial skill, Cú Chulainn excels by
overcoming each of them in three successive contests and he takes their heads as proof of this
valorous act.25 These trophies were particularly important in this instance given his youth and
the possibility that the Ulstermen may not have believed him capable of performing such a
magnificent deed. Their importance is highlighted by Cú Chulainn’s statement: ‘I will not part
from these tokens of my triumph until I reach Emain.’26 However, he is not content with this
outstanding accomplishment and subsequently goes in search of more trophies. Thereafter he
encounters a herd of wild deer and later a flock of swans and asks his charioteer how the
Ulstermen would deem it best for him to catch them, dead or alive. The charioteer replies in
relation to both that it is best to take them alive but that not everyone is capable of this. Of
course Cú Chulainn catches them alive, such is his prowess, once again vying for his place as the
supreme Ulster warrior. He also proves his amazing accuracy which was another integral
warrior skill. This is particularly evident in the manner by which he captures the swans: ‘Cú
Chulainn then threw a small stone at the birds and brought down eight of them. Again he threw
a big stone and struck twelve of them. All this was done by his ‘return –stroke.’27
Cú Chulainn subsequently returns exceedingly glorious to Emain Machae with his chariot
adorned with wild deer, a flock of swans and the three heads of the sons of Nechta Scéne. These
tokens prove the outstanding success of his first expedition especially since the Ulstermen were
23
O’Rahilly, Táín, line 716.
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 729-730.
25
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 732-754.
26
O’Rahilly, Táin, line 758.
27
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 785-787.
24
82
absent to view his deeds. Cú Chulainn has clearly successfully tested the arms and chariot and
has proved his extraordinary prowess marking his initiation as a warrior. Although Cú Chulainn
has performed great deeds by the time he returns to Emain Machae his martial appetite has not
been satiated and he threatens to turn on his own people if someone is not brought to fight him:
‘I swear by the god by whom the Ulstermen swear that, unless some man is found to fight with
me, I shall shed the blood of everyone in the fort.’28 The bare-breasted women of Ulster are sent
forth to greet him and on seeing them the youth hides his face thus facilitating his capture and his
subsequent immersion in three vats of water, after which his ardour is quenched and he is no
longer a threat to his own people. McCone considers the significances of these events and states
that ‘Cú Chulainn’s martial outing and subsequent homecoming in this episode constitute a
somewhat formalized and clerically bowdlerized literary reflex of the aristocratic youth’s semibestial phase as a member of the fían or hunter-warrior association before his transition to full
membership of propertied society was marked by an erstwhile baptismal rite similar to that
represented iconically on the Gundestrup Cauldron’.29
By the end of his macgnímrada, Cú Chulainn has been initiated as a warrior figure and has the
physical manifestations of one. However, the second part of Tochmarc Emire gives an account
of his further training in arms with Domnall and the female warrior Scáthach.30 There are certain
difficulties in relation to the origin and possible connection of this section to the tale as a whole
owing to the chronology of Cú Chulainn’s career found in Recension I of Táin Bó Cúailnge
(Cattle-Raid of Cooley) where Cú Chulainn’s training in the lands of Scáthach is included
amongst some of his macgnímrada and may originally have existed as a single entity and may
have been considered as one of them.31 Cú Chulainn’s adventure to the lands of Scáthach may
quite plausibly have represented another crucial phase in his development, his training in arms
prior to his taking up of them. This phase may be viewed as a type of apprenticeship in
preparation for his receipt of arms and, therefore, as a tale would be best placed as a precursor to
28
O’Rahilly, Táin, lines 808-809.
McCone, Pagan Past, p. 172. This is discussed by McCone elsewhere in ‘Werewolves, Cyclopes, díberga and
fíanna: juvenile delinquency in early Ireland’, Cambridge Medieval Celtic Studies 12, 1-22 and ‘Hund, Wolf und
Kreiger bei den Indogermanen’, Studien zum indogermanischen Wortschatz (W. Meid. Ed), 101-54.
30
A.G. van Hamel (ed.), ‘Tochmarc Emire’ in Compert Con Culainn and other stories, Mediaeval and Modern Irish
Series III, (Dublin: The Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1933; repr. 1978), pp. 20-68. See this edition for a
discussion of the versions of this tale pp. 16-19.
31
This issue is discussed in greater detail in my forthcoming Ph.D.
29
83
his final macgnímrad, where he took up arms. Nonetheless it is impossible to be conclusive with
regard to this issue.
This trip to the lands of Scáthach parallels with a crucial event which features in the lives of a
number of heroes, a visit to the Otherworld.32 Owing to the fact that Cú Chulainn is a warrior
hero, the emphasis is placed on his martial exploits and attainments during this visit. A common
feature of such visits is that the hero acquires an object specific to his profession which sets him
apart from his counterparts in the ordinary world. However, in order to be the beneficiary of this
object, the hero must firstly prove that he is worthy of it. First Cú Chulainn overcomes Scáthach
by placing his sword at her heart and threatens to kill her in order to secure thorough training in
arms from her.33 He proves his martial excellence further to Scáthach by overcoming her enemy
Aífe. Thus he benefits by receiving a thorough training in arms and most importantly by
receiving the powerful weapon, the gáe bolga, which is instrumental in Cú Chulainn’s defeat of
a number of warriors including his son Connla in Aided Óenfir Aífe (The death of Aífe’s only
son) and his foster-brother Fer Diad in Táin Bó Cúailnge.34 Although it is not explicitly stated
that Cú Chulainn acquired the gáe bolga from Scáthach, this is implied by her apparent status as
the sole instructress of this weapon, who therefore controlled its bestowal upon a deserving
warrior and also from other collateral evidence.35 Cú Chulainn’s outstanding martial ability
earns him the gáe bolga and grants him more training in arms from the supernatural instructress
Scáthach, advancing him further as a warrior.
Cú Chulainn’s destiny as a heroic Ulster warrior figure is implicit from the outset of Compert
Con Culainn thus conflict and contests are integral to this existence. Like other warriors, Cú
Chulainn is also spurred on by a strong desire for glory and fame, which was fundamental to the
warrior ethos. Glory and fame was achieved by accomplishing great victories which enhanced a
32
Some of the features that suggest that it is an otherworldly location include Scáthach’s name meaning ‘Shadowy
one’, its island location to the east of Domnall’s home and the fact that it is only accessible by a treacherous bridge.
The kingly hero, Cormac Mac Airt, goes on an otherworldly trip in Echtra Cormaic i Tír Tairngiri.
33
van Hamel, p. 50, §70, § 71.
34
A.G. van Hamel (ed.), ‘Aided Óenfir Aífe’ in Compert Con Culainn and other stories, Mediaeval and Modern
Irish Series III, (Dublin: The Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1933; repr. 1978), pp. 11-15.
35
Van Hamel, 15, § 11, it is stated that in Aided Óenfir Aífe that Scáthach only taught Cú Chulainn the feat of the
gáe bolga.
84
warrior’s profile. This goal constantly drives the young hero to perform outstanding deeds to
ensure his everlasting fame and to secure his position as the supreme Ulster warrior. The
extraordinary feats performed by Cú Chulainn in his macgnímrada redefine him and facilitate his
rapid advancement as a warrior figure. In light of the above examples it seems evident that his
remarkable victories in a number of contests were deemed to be pivotal to this progression. By
the end of his macgnímrada his deeds of prowess ensure his initiation as an adult warrior figure,
despite his tender age of seven. Cú Chulainn’s quest for fame continues and his martial exploits
reach their pinnacle in Táin Bó Cúailnge when he fulfils his role as the protector of Ulster
against the military forces of Medb and Ailill.
Bibliography
McCone, K. R., ‘Aided Cheltchair Maic Uthechair: hounds, heroes and hospitallers in early Irish
myth and story’, Ériu 35 (1984).
McCone, K. R., Pagan Past and Christian Present in early Irish Literature, (Maynooth: An
Sagart, 1990).
O’Rahilly C., Táin Bó Cúailnge: Recension I, (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies,
1976).
van Gennep, A., The rites of passage, translated by Monika B. Vizedom & Gabrielle L. Caffee,
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960).
van Hamel A. G., (ed.), Compert Con Culainn and other stories, Mediaeval and Modern Irish
Series III, (Dublin: The Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1978).
85
THE MANY FACES OF FORTUNE IN THE FILOSTRATO
Marina Ansaldo, National University of Ireland, Galway.
The Filostrato, one of the earliest and, allegedly, minor works by Giovanni Boccaccio, has been
largely neglected by scholars of Italian literature. It is usually studied in relation to English
studies as it is the primary source of the vastly more successful and famous Troilus and Criseyde
by Geoffrey Chaucer. Issues such as fortune1 and determinism more in general have been
extensively discussed in relation to Chaucer’s work, but a systematic analysis of fortune in the
Filostrato has, surprisingly, not been attempted so far. One can guess why. Although fortune is
often mentioned in the course of the poem, a scholar attempting a thorough analysis of the
concept soon sees that its portrayal is far from being coherent throughout the work. One way of
dealing with this problem would be to argue that Boccaccio was not excessively interested in
fortune and that, therefore, fortuna is depicted in a generic and superficial fashion in this early
poem. This is precisely what Vittore Branca suggested in 1964.2 Another way of proceeding
would be to analyse in detail every instance in which fortune is mentioned within the poem and
see if a more satisfactory explanation can be given for this apparent superficiality on the part of
Boccaccio. After all Branca’s opinion dates back to a time when Boccaccio’s early works were
largely neglected, regarded primarily as autobiographical transpositions of his experiences of
love. Scholars have since shown that there is much more to these works that had been previously
believed.3 Far from being mere autobiographies, they often engage in an ironic and original way
with traditional themes and motives of love poetry. Considering the changed attitude towards
these works in the scholarly world, it seems that a time has come to challenge the simplistic view
of fortune in the Filostrato as something not worth looking into.
1
Due to the variety of meanings that the term fortune has in the present study and to the impossibility, in some
cases, to establish whether it should be considered as a personification, a force, or simply a way of describing a
positive or negative event, this word will not be used with the capital initial unless it is preceded by a full stop.
2
Vittore Branca, ‘Filostrato - Introduzione', Tutte Le Opere Di Giovanni Boccaccio / Uniform Title: Works
(Milano: Mondadori, 1964), p. 4.
3
See for instance Robert Hollander, Boccaccio's Two Venuses (New York: Columbia University Press, 1977), p. 3
and Laura Dowell Kellogg, Boccaccio's and Chaucer's Cressida, Studies in the humanities; v. 16 (New York: P.
Lang, 1995).
86
The Filostrato is divided into three parts. In the proem the narrator presents himself as Filostrato,
meaning won by love.4 A perfect example of the Petrarchan lover, he seems quite content to
observe from a distance his beloved Filomena, until her unexpected departure from Naples
suddenly plunges him into a state of desperation. In order to overcome his sorrow, he decides to
commit it indirectly to paper, and he looks for an ancient story through which he can express his
own passions.5 Troilus’s seems to be the perfect choice. By narrating the sorrows of this young
Trojan he will be, cathartically, cured of his own melancholy. The poem itself describes the love
story between Troiolo and Criseida. The story is quite similar to that which will be subsequently
reproduced by Chaucer. In the epilogue, Filostrato addresses his work to Filomena in the hope
that he may obtain her mercy and convince her to return to Naples.6
The depiction of fortune in the proem is quite straightforward. The unexpected transition from a
state of happiness to a state of sorrow, such as the one faced by Filostrato when Filomena leaves
Naples, is a typical change of fortune and it is in such circumstances that we tend to realise how
evanescent happiness can be, and to bemoan the loss of something precious to us. Such
complaints are frequent in the literature of all times,7 and Boccaccio is no exception.8 Filostrato
too complains, and he repeatedly blames fortune for Filomena’s departure in the prologue. In
particular, fortune here appears as a mentor, since her actions seem to have a didactic purpose
insofar as she makes the narrator aware of a mistaken opinion. The Filostrato opens with a
question: is it better to see the beloved, to talk to her, or to think about her?9 This same question
was present in anther work by Boccaccio, the Filocolo and critics have noticed parallels between
this problem and Dante’s phases of love as described in the Vita Nuova.10 The narrator used to
believe that thinking about the woman was the better option since he could make her responsive
to his wishes with his own imagination. Her sudden departure, though, clearly showed him that
he was mistaken. Imagination is little comfort once he is denied the sight of Filomena:
4
Giovanni Boccaccio, Surdich Luigi, Filostrato (Milano: Mursia, 1990), note 1 p. 47.
This is a common feature of Boccaccio’s opere minori. See Hollander, Boccaccio's Two Venuses
6
Boccaccio, Filostrato, ‘Proemio’, pp. 47-59.
7
Howard Rollin Patch, The Goddess Fortuna in Mediaeval Literature (New York: Octagon Books, 1967), p. 49.
8
Complaints on the part of Boccaccio’s narrators are frequent throughout his works. See Hollander, Boccaccio's
Two Venuses, p. 98.
9
Boccaccio, Filostrato, ‘Poremio’, p. 48.
10
Fabian Alfie, 'Love and Poetry: Reading Boccaccio's Filostrato as a Medieval Parody', Forum Italicum 32 (1998)
pp. 355-358.
5
87
Ahi, lasso, quanto m’è la Fortuna, crudele inimica de’miei piaceri, sempre stata rigida maestra e correggitrice
de’mei errori! Ora, misero me, il conosco, ora il sento, ora aperissimamente il discerno, quanto di piacere,
quanto di bene,quanto di soavità, più nella luce vera degli occhi vostri veggendola co’miei, che nella falsa
lusinga del mio pensiero dimorasse. Così adunque, o splendido lume della mia mente, col privarmi della
vostra vista, ha Fortuna risolto la nebula dell’errore per addietro da me sostenuto.11
[Alas, how Fortune, cruel enemy of my pleasures, was always a severe mentor and always corrected my
errors! Now, wretched that I am, now I know, now I feel, now I clearly understand that there was so much
more pleasure, good, and beauty to be found in the true light of your eyes as I looked at them with mine than
in the false flattery of my thought. So, o splendid light of my mind, has Fortune dissolved the cloud of my
previous error by depriving me of your sight.] (My translation)
If we consider fortune as a random force, as she is often represented in both everyday life and
literature,12 it may seem strange that she should take the role of a maestra, a mentor. If she is an
aleatory power, her action should not have a didactic purpose. One may argue that the change in
fortune is didactic by chance; that it is not fortune’s intention to make the narrator aware of his
mistake; that she does not take willingly the role of maestra, but merely acts as one in her blind
proceedings. The fact that Filostrato states that she has always been a teacher for him makes it
clear that this is not an isolated effect. If fortune’s actions always show to Filostrato his mistakes,
then it is unlikely that she always corrects him randomly. Then fortune is indeed depicted by
Filostrato as a deliberate mentor. Not a goddess of Chance as she was for the ancient Romans,13
not at all blind, here she is rather represented as a guide for the narrator.
In this depiction of fortune, Boccaccio seems to follow closely the example of the Consolation of
Philosophy14 the sixth century work by Boethius in which a personified Philosophy enlightens
Boethius on many matters, including the nature of fortune. Not only does bad fortune, in both
cases, correct a mistake of the protagonists; in both cases she reveals to the narrator that he is
making a crucial error. Filostrato used to believe that thinking about Filomena was more
pleasurable than seeing her; Boethius misconstrued the greater good. The former error may
11
Boccaccio, Filostrato, Proemio, p. 54.
See for instance, Saint Augustine, Dyson R. W. 'The City of God against the Pagans / Uniform Title: De Civitate
Dei. English', Cambridge texts in the history of political thought; (New York, 1998), IV.XVIII.
13
Frederick Kiefer, Fortune and Elizabethan Tragedy (United States of America: The Huntington Library, 1983) p.
1.
14
Boethius, Ludwig Bieler, Anicii Manlii Severini Boethii Philosophiae Consolatio / Uniform Title: De
Consolatione Philosophiae, Corpus Christianorum; Series Latina ; 94 (Turnholti: Brepols, 1957).
12
88
appear less severe than the latter. It may be argued that Boccaccio is intentionally placing too
much emphasis on his narrator’s mistake. But if we consider the importance given by Dante,
who was undoubtedly Boccaccio’s main source of inspiration, to the observation of the eyes of
the beloved as a way of ascending towards the divine, then Filostrato’s mistake and Boethius’s
can be considered of equal weight.
The importance of looking at Beatrice’s eyes in Dante’s poetry is undeniable, as it is shown, for
instance, at the end of Purgatorio, when Dante the character finally sees the eyes of the woman
for the first time after she died in the Vita Nuova.15 They clearly irradiate God’s own light.
Moreover, it is in looking at her that he moves from Purgatory to Heaven.16 Thus Beatrice is a
clear medium between man and God and observing her is a way to rise above the limits of this
world and reach the divine.
In this light, it is possible to say that both Filostrato and Boethius fail to see the true good.
Boccaccio’s narrator used to think that the greatest happiness resides in earthly goods (thinking
about the woman, that is to say imagining the woman respondent to his wishes, therefore
obtaining pleasure) while thanks to the action of fortuna, he realises that greater happiness is to
be found in looking into her eyes (which brings him towards the divine). Now he is in the same
position as Boethius after the latter understands the true nature of fortune: they have both
realised the transience of earthly goods and they are a step forward towards understanding what
true happiness consists of. In both cases, fortune can be considered not only as mentor, but as
moral guide, since her actions promote a Christian or at least philosophical attitude towards
earthly goods.
Moving onto the poem itself, the depiction of fortune dramatically changes. She is never openly
described as a mentor. Most occurrences of the term fortuna and of words that can be regarded as
synonyms, such as ventura, occur as the characters reflect upon their own situation, and
especially when they complain about a sudden and negative turn of events that threatens a former
15
16
Alighieri Dante, La Divina Commedia. Purgatorio (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1902), XXXI, 134-145.
Alighieri Dante, La Divina Commedia. Paradiso (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1902), I, 64-72.
89
state of happiness or stability. This is perfectly in line with the traditional complaints about
fortune in literature.17
What may surprise the careful reader is the variety of ways in which fortune is described. In
some passages she is addressed as a pagan goddess,18 in others she seems more like a force
controlling external events.19 Sometimes, rather than a random force, fortune is something fixed
and predetermined, thus coinciding with fate.20 In other occurrences terms such as fortuna and
ventura simply signify luck, without any implication about the forces determining the outcome
of events.21 It seems that Boccaccio drew upon the vast and often contradictory imagery related
to fortune without attempting any unification. In other words, fortune does not seem to have a
specific and logically articulated role within the poem. In order to try and make some sense in
the apparently contradictory portrayal of this concept, I have divided the occurrences of the term
fortuna and its synonyms in different categories, and I have so identified four main semantic
groups in which such occurrences can be divided: fortune as administrator of worldly goods,
personal fortune, fortune as fate, and fortune as occasion.
When fortune appears in charge of worldly goods, the figure seems to lack the philosophical and
logical coherence that she has, for instance, in the descriptions provided by Boethius and Dante.
She may be construed as an agent at the service of a Christian god and acting for a moral purpose
(showing Troiolo the transient nature of worldly love), but this is never openly stated within the
poem. In some cases she seems to be a random force,22 while in others she willingly hurts the
characters out of envy, as a pagan goddess may do.23 Nevertheless, if focusing on Troiolo’s
depiction of fortune, his blaming her is a constant throughout the poem. The fact that, unlike the
narrator, he never recognises any didactic function for fortune, does not necessarily mean that
this role should not be contemplated. On the contrary, it can be perceived as a symptom of the
limited perspective of the character. Troiolo’s lack of understanding of what fortune really does
for him is a trace of his unworthiness. Unable to see the greater good, captive of physical
17
See for instance Patch, The Goddess Fortuna in Mediaeval Literature, p. 49.
Boccaccio, Filostrato, ‘Parte Quarta’, p. 235; ‘Parte Quinta’, pp. 316-317.
19
Ibid., ‘Parte Terza’, pp. 174, 192-193, 216.
20
Ibid., ‘Parte Seconda’, pp. 131-132; ‘Parte Settima’, pp. 370-371; ‘Parte Ottava’, pp. 415-416.
21
Ibid., ‘Parte Prima’, p. 86; ‘Parte Seconda’, p. 118; ‘Parte Quarta’, pp. 231-232; ‘Parte Quinta’ p. 337.
22
Ibid., ‘Parte Terza’, p. 194.
23
Ibid., p. 216.
18
90
pleasures, he blames fortune for what is indeed the result of his own blind passions.24 The
function of these instances in which fortune appears, Dante-like, as general ministra e duce25 of
worldly goods may be to show Troiolo’s moral limitations in contrast to the narrator’s apparently
superior understanding of true happiness.
Fortuna does not always refer to the administrator of wealth and happiness in this world. At the
beginning of the poem, immediately after Calcàs has fled from Troy, Ettore tells Criseida that
she will not suffer the consequences of her father’s disloyalty.
[…] – Lascia con al ria ventura
[Let your father go with ill fortune since he so offended
tu padre andar che n’ha offeso tanto,
us. You shall remain with us in Troy safe, happy and
e tu sicura, lieta e sanza noia,
con noi, mentre t’aggrada, ti sta’n Troia.
undisturbed as long as it pleases you] (My translation)
26
In this instance ria ventura, meaning ill fortune, is almost used as a curse. Although Calcàs is
strongly blamed for his behaviour within the city,27 he does not seem to suffer misfortune at the
present time as he is safe among the Greeks. Therefore, ria fortuna is something Hector wishes
for him as a punishment for his treason and for leaving his daughter behind. The Trojan hero is
not asking the goddess of fortune to bring ruin to Calcàs, nor is he talking about an external force
influencing human events: he is merely wishing him ill. Although this implies that misfortune
may occur as a punishment for evil actions, still ria ventura is here primarily used in a colloquial
sense, meaning bad luck, with no apparent reference to causation. This is not an isolated case
within the poem. Both ventura and fortuna are often used to describe a positive (or negative)
impact of events or sets of events in the life of a specific character, without any theological or
philosophical implication. Such occurrences do not seem to imply a moral conception nor a
preoccupation with the causes of events, but have a merely descriptive function. This mirrors the
24
See Hollander, Boccaccio's Two Venuses, p. 51: ‘Troiolo’s frequent complaints against Fortuna […] have an antiBoethian spirit that bring the De Consolatione to mind as a corrective model. The same may be said for finding
consolation in love’ and p. 179, note 106 about the character’s complaints against fortune in Boccaccio’s opere
minori: ‘The context of their complaints is likely to make them seem vain and wrong’.
25
Alighieri Dante, La Divina Commedia. Inferno (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1902), VII, 65.
26
Boccaccio, Filostrato, ‘Parte Prima’, pp. 73-74.
27
Ibid., p. 71.
91
way in which we often refer to fortune in common speech. If something is fortunate, logically, it
should be unexpected and unintended, arriving as a consequence of mere chance. This would
imply no intervention of any kind of god but mere randomness. Of course, when we use the term
fortune or derivates in common speech, these implications rarely apply.
Another characteristic of the way in which we commonly speak about fortune is the confusion
between this force and fate. Boccaccio is not immune to the widespread error. As Criseida tries
to convince Pandaro that she will not yield to Troiolo’s love, she prays her cousin to let her lead
such life as fortune has prepared for her (‘chente Fortuna apparecchiata m’have’).28 This
expression clearly suggests that there is a plan or pattern that fortune has established for Criseida,
but if this is the case, then fortuna is far from being a random force here. The idea that the future
is predetermined is precisely what we call fate, and not fortune. Troilo and Pandaro often betray
a similar confusion.29
Patch argues that the conception of fortune in the Filostrato is strictly pagan, and that this work
provides an essentially fatalistic vision of life in accordance with the pre-Christian setting.30 This
may appear true when considering some of the characters’ complaints against fortune: the very
idea of blaming an external random force for whatever happens to us is, in itself, a way of
rejecting responsibility for events in our lives. At the same time, Patch’s understanding of
fortune in the poem largely simplifies the complex and multifaceted portrayal of this force in the
Filostrato. Some passages in particular express a portrayal of fortune that has very little to do
with a pagan vision of life, allowing for man to influence and alter the action of fortune, and may
easily bring to the mind a more modern conception of the forces influencing our existence. The
chief exponent of this vision of fortune is Pandaro. He tries to convince both Troiolo and
Criseida to become active agents by assuming control over what is happening to them. When
trying to convince Criseida to accept and reciprocate Troiolo’s love, he urges her to take action:
28
Ibid., ‘Parte Seconda’, pp. 125-126.
Ibid., ‘Parte Seconda’, pp. 131-132; Parte Settima, pp. 370-371.
30
Patch, The Goddess Fortuna in Mediaeval Literature, pp. 31-32.
29
92
Solo una volta ha nel mondo ventura
[Once only can anyone living have good fortune if he
Qualunque vive, s’ei la sa pigliare;
can seize her; who lets her go while she approaches
che lai vegnente lascia, sua sciagura
should blame only himself. Your graceful and beautiful
pianga da se sanza altrui biasimare;
figure has found her, now you must act wisely.] (My
la tua vaga e bellissima figura
translation)
la t’ha trovata, or sappi adoperare.
31
Here a new aspect of fortune emerges. It is no longer conceived as an external, all powerful force
but rather as something that can be controlled and affected by the action of man. Courage and the
ability to promptly recognise a favourable opportunity and act accordingly are presented as
determining factors in one’s existence. Fortune has still the power to bring about favourable or
unfavourable circumstances, but her action does not seem to determine the outcome of events.
Thus the notion of fortune is used to express a vision of life which is definitely not fatalistic.
This characterisation of fortune borrows from the Roman Occasio, or the Greek Kairos, the
ancient embodiments of opportunity.32 It is precisely the merging of fortune and opportunity that,
according to Kiefer, characterises the predominant depiction of fortune in the Renaissance.33
This clearly shows to what extent ancient aspects of fortune merge with more modern
interpretations of this concept in the Filostrato.
This brief summary of my analysis on the Filostrato shows that within the poem fortune reveals
a variety of aspects that cannot always be logically reconciled. She is primarily a minister of
worldly goods, but even in this form her portrayal is hardly homogenous. Her actions are
sometimes attributed to mere chance, while in other instances she acts with a moral purpose, thus
possibly performing the role of God’s minister as envisaged by Dante. In other occurrences she
reveals pagan traits as her actions seem to be urged by envy and, more generally, by cruelty.
When the terms for fortune are not used to refer to a force, minister or goddess but in a more
colloquial fashion, they primarily signify good or bad luck with no philosophical or theological
implications. Sometimes fortune appears as a synonym for fate, and her action is often confused
or associated with that of Love, Zeus, the gods an even, anachronistically, to a seemingly
31
Boccaccio, Filostrato, pp. 121-122.
Kiefer, Fortune and Elizabethan Tragedy, p. 196.
33
Ibid., p. 196.
32
93
Christian God. More modern views of a fortune which can be influenced by human action are
also present.
A way of overcoming this apparent discontinuity is to consider the instances of fortune within
the poem as reflecting, primarily, the character’s perceptions of fortuna. Their confusion is that
of pagans who lack the theological knowledge necessary to understand what fortune really is. In
other words, Boccaccio is here realistically reproducing the way in which people commonly talk
about fortune without knowing or considering her true nature. This theory may find support in
considering a later work by Boccaccio, the Esposizioni sopra la Comedia.34 This work is
exceptional in so far as it allows us to know his view of fortune outside the filter of artistic
creation. As he comments on Dante’s Commedia, the author often shares with us his own beliefs.
It is in the commentary on ‘Canto VII’ that it is possible to find an exhaustive declaration of
Boccaccio’s views on fortune. Although this work was composed much later than the Filostrato
and Boccaccio’s idea of fortune may have evolved in time, still this passage may offer a way of
justifying the use of fortune in the early poem:
In questa parte [Dante], quanto più può, secondo il costume poetico parla, li quali spesse volte fanno le cose
insensate, non altrimenti che le sensate, parlare e adoperare, ed alle cose spirituali danno forma corporale, e,
che è ancora più, alle passioni nostre aproprian deità e danno forma come se veramente cosa umana e
corporea fossero: il che qui l’autore usa, mostrando la fortuna avere sentimento di deità; con ciò sia cosa che,
come appresso apparirà, questi accidenti non possano avvenire in quella cosa la quale qui l’autore nomina
“Fortuna”, se poeticamente fingendo non s’attribuiscono. […] Come molti per avventura abbian creduto o
credano, io estimo questa ministra dei beni temporali non essere altro se non l’universale effetto de’ vari
movimenti de’ cieli, li quali movimenti si credono esser causati dal nono cielo, e il movimento uniforme di
quello esser causato dalla divina mente […] E dicesi dato ministro, più tosto a dimostrazione che cosa possa
essere questo nome “fortuna” attribuito a questi mutamenti delle cose che perché alcun ministerio vi bisogni,
se non essa medesima operazion de’ cieli. […] Ed esso effetto non è altro che permutazioni delle cose
prodotte da’ cieli, le quali, non avendo stabilità le cose da’ quali causate sono, né esse similmente possono
avere stabilità […] Ora hanno gli uomini a questo effetto posto nome “fortuna” a beneplacito, come quasi a
tutte l’altre è stato posto; e, secondo che le cose secondo i nostri piaceri o contrarie n’avvengono, le
chiamano “buona fortuna” o “mala fortuna”.35
34
Giovanni Boccaccio, Esposizioni Sopra La Comedia Di Dante: Note, Varianti E Indici (Milano: A. Mondadori,
1994).
35
Ibid., pp. 397-400.
94
[In this part [Dante], as much as he can, speaks conforming to poetic fashion. Poets often represent insentient
entities acting and speaking as if they were living creatures, and give physical form to spiritual things; and
they even portray like deities our passions and give them shape as if they really were human and tangible
things; this is what our author does here, as he describes fortune like a goddess. This shows that, as it will be
explained later, these phenomena cannot be properly considered “Fortune”, as the authors calls them, unless
we consider this name as a poetic way of describing them. […] As many believed and still do, I think that
this minister of temporal goods is nothing but the universal effect of all the movements of the skies. These
are believed to be caused by the ninth sky, whose unvarying motion is ultimately generated by the divine
intellect […]. This effect is described as a minister not so much because a minister is needed there,
everything being caused by the movements of the skies, but rather to give a meaning to this name “fortune”.
[…] And this effect is nothing but the permutations of the things generated by the skies which, since their
causes are in constant motion, cannot themselves be stable. […] Men arbitrarily called this effect “fortune”,
like almost all things have been given an aleatory name. Depending whether events are conforming to our
wishes or not, we call them “good fortune” or “evil fortune”.] (My translation)
In this light, fortune emerges as an empty word. It does not have a precise, determined referent. It
comes to mean different things depending on who uses such a term. Its function is, ultimately, to
reveal us something about the speaker or writer rather than about the forces controlling events.
The use of a variety of words for fortune with a number of meanings on the part of the characters
of the Filostrato essentially shows their own confusion, but it also reveals something about the
attitude of each of them. In the case of Troiolo, the prevalence of a fatalistic view of fortune
shows his inherent paralysis. Pandaro and Criseida’s more modern conception of fortune
emerging from some passages as something that can be changed with courage and valour shows
their extremely practical nature. Although they may appear more directly responsible for the
catastrophic end than Troiolo, they also display the ability to adapt to fortune’s turns. That is
possibly why they survive while Troiolo, unable to change, must share the fate of his city.
95
Bibliography
ALFIE, FABIAN, 'Love and Poetry: Reading Boccaccio's Filostrato as a Medieval Parody', Forum
Italicum32 (1998) 347 - 74.
BOCCACCIO, GIOVANNI, Esposizioni sopra la Comedia di Dante: note, varianti e indici (Milano:
A. Mondadori, 1994).
BOCCACCIO, GIOVANNI, SURDICH LUIGI, Filostrato (Milano: Mursia, 1990).
BOETHIUS, LUDWIG BIELER, Anicii Manlii Severini Boethii Philosophiae consolatio / Uniform
Title: De consolatione philosophiae, Corpus Christianorum; Series Latina; 94 (Turnholti:
Brepols, 1957).
BRANCA, VITTORE, 'Filostrato - Introduzione', Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio / Uniform
Title: Works (Milano: Mondadori, 1964).
DANTE, ALIGHIERI, La divina commedia. Inferno (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1902).
---, La divina commedia. Paradiso (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1902).
---, La divina commedia. Purgatorio (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1902).
HOLLANDER, ROBERT, Boccaccio's two Venuses (New York: Columbia University Press, 1977).
KELLOGG, LAURA DOWELL, Boccaccio's and Chaucer's Cressida, Studies in the humanities; v.
16; (New York: P. Lang, 1995).
KIEFER, FREDERICK, Fortune and Elizabethan Tragedy (United States of America: The
Huntington Library, 1983).
PATCH, HOWARD ROLLIN, The goddess Fortuna in mediaeval literature (New York: Octagon
Books, 1967).
SAINT AUGUSTINE, DYSON R. W., 'The city of God against the pagans / Uniform Title: De
Civitate Dei. English, Cambridge texts in the history of political thought (New York,
1998).
96
(Occitan) saint vs. (French) dragon: the power of translation in the Life of St Enimia
Huw R Grange, Saint John’s College, Cambridge
In the early thirteenth century the head of a priory in the Gévaudan, the historical province that
more or less coincides with the modern French département of Lozère, gives a clerk by the name
of Bertran of Marseilles an assignment, a translation. Bertran is to take a Latin prose version of
the Life of St Enimia, already in circulation for a century or so by this stage, and translate it not
only into verse but into the local dialect of Occitan.1 The result is a rather loose reworking of a
Latin original: Bertran may claim to be faithful to his source – the modesty topos requires it after
all – but in actual fact he modifies the Latin text as he sees fit, abridging longwinded theological
passages, adding entirely new episodes, and, as we shall see, using his powers as a translator to
promote a regional identity grounded on antipathy towards the French.2
Bertran’s achievement may initially seem remarkable, since the Life of St Enimia, in
Latin as in Occitan, is the story of a Frankish or French princess.3 For the anonymous Latin
author, Enimia’s illustrious royal ancestry deserves pride of place in the narrative (p. 252, 1824).4 He begins with a description of Enimia’s family tree: she is none other than the greatgranddaughter of Clovis (the first Frankish king to convert to Christianity), the daughter of
1
The Latin Life translated by Bertran survives in a single fourteenth-century manuscript (Paris, Bibliothèque
nationale, fonds latin, 913). In Clovis Brunel’s preface to ‘Vita, inventio et miracula sanctae Enimiae’, Analecta
Bollandiana, 57 (1939), 237-98 (pp. 237-51) he argues that this Life must have entered written tradition early in the
twelfth century. P. Bonnassie, P.-A. Sigal and D. Iogna-Prat, ‘La Gallia du Sud, 930-1130’, in Histoire
internationale de la littérature hagiographique latine et vernaculaire en Occident des origines à 1550, ed. by Guy
Philippart (Turnhout: Brepols, 1994-), I (1994), 288-344 (pp. 309-10), suggest it may be pre-1100. BN lat. 913 also
contains two heavily abbreviated Lives of St Enimia in Latin.
There is only one fourteenth-century copy of the Occitan Life extant (Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, 6355), but
Brunel argues on linguistic grounds that the vernacular Life was composed at the beginning of the thirteenth
century. See Clovis Brunel (ed.), La vie de sainte Énimie (Paris: Champion, 1916), pp. iii-xv.
2
Bertran says he is translating the Life directly from the Latin (vv. 5 and 12). For the Occitan Life, line numbers
refer to Brunel, La vie de sainte Énimie.
3
Both Occitan and Latin maintain the ambiguity between ‘Frankish’ and ‘French’.
4
For the Latin Life, page and line numbers refer to Brunel, ‘Vita’.
97
another King Clovis, and the sister of a future King Dagobert (p. 253, 6-10).5 But Enimia does
not fit in at the French court. A difficult child, she shuns her family’s opulence, behaving like an
old maid in the flower of youth, delighting in giving her wealth away to the crowds of paupers
who flock to her, and taking great pleasure in wearing rags among expensively-dressed
courtiers.6
Perhaps unexpectedly, however, family life remains harmonious despite Enimia’s
rebelliousness: in the Latin Life, the king and queen even encourage their daughter to carry out
her charity work and we are reminded that it is her parents’ wealth that makes her gift-giving
possible (p. 253, 30-33). Real problems only begin to arise when Enimia is of marriageable age.
Her parents adopt what might be considered a surprisingly liberal attitude for the time, inviting
Enimia to choose a husband for herself.7 But Enimia does not think much of her manifold
suitors, prays to God for an alternative, and is turned into a leper through divine intervention.8
The entire royal family is devastated. The king sends far and wide for the best medical experts in
the realm, but no one is able to cure the princess (p. 256, 34-40).
Eventually, an angel informs Enimia that she will only be cured if she bathes in a spring
called Burla beside the Tarn river in the Gévaudan (p. 256, 40 - p. 257, 9). The royal household
sets off at once and as soon as Enimia bathes in the spring-water her leprosy disappears (p. 260,
3-12). But her affliction returns when she gets back to France, prompting yet another trip to the
Gévaudan (p. 261, 10-13). Before long it dawns on the princess that she has no choice but to
5
André, among others, suggests that Enimia’s fictitious genealogy stems from a misreading of the Latin
abbreviation ‘Clous’, whereby ‘Clodoveus’, or Clovis II, was mistaken for ‘Clotarius’, or Chlothar II. See Ferdinand
André, ‘Histoire du monastère et prieuré de Sainte-Énimie’, Bulletin de la Société d’agriculture, industrie, sciences
et arts du département de la Lozère, 18 (1867), II, 1-140 (pp. 7-8).
6
See p. 253, 22-29, and p. 254, 1-3.
7
p. 254, 40 - p. 255, 3. On the surprising liberality of Enimia’s parents in the Occitan Life see Gérard Gouiran, ‘Les
saints et leurs familles dans les Vies de saints occitanes’, in Les Relations de parenté dans le monde médiéval (Aixen-Provence: CUERMA, 1989), 469-86 (p. 477).
8
p. 255, 16-38; p. 255, 39 - p. 256, 3.
98
move to the Gévaudan for good (p. 263, 26 - p. 264, 7). In the Latin Life, Enimia is faced with an
agonizingly difficult decision: she may not be overly concerned with her patria, her homeland,
but we are told that she is hugely homesick nonetheless and desperately misses her parents and
indeed her entire family.9 She instructs everyone in the royal party who does not wish to remain
with her in the south to return to the French court to tell her parents not to be sad on her account.
Enimia will never desert them, we are told, because she will pray non-stop for her family and,
moreover, for France.10
In his Occitan translation, Bertran gives the same family tree as the author of the Latin
Life: Enimia is the daughter of a King Clovis and the sister of a future King Dagobert (vv. 3554). He also takes the opportunity, however, to point out how long it took for the French royal
family to convert to Christianity: France is obdurate and barbarous in matters of faith, he says, by
its very nature, ‘per natura’ (29-34). In the Occitan Life, Enimia is just as much of a difficult
child, shunning everything associated with her kingdom (113-15). But she is certainly no old
maid as she is in the Latin Life. On the contrary, Bertran places great emphasis on her
youthfulness, radiant beauty, generosity and courtliness:
Aquist doy agron una filha
Que fo bela per miravilha,
Si que natura non poc far
Negun temps de beltat sa par;
Ans vos dic que per sa beltat
La venieu vezer totz jorns,
Et aquo era lors sonhorns;
Mas la tozeta no·y metia
9
See p. 264, 15-17 and 30-32.
See p. 265, 14-16 and 27-31; p. 265, 38 - p. 266, 6.
10
99
Son pes, ni s’en orgolhosia. (vv. 51-60; my emphasis)
([King Clovis and Astorga] had a daughter who was so astonishingly beautiful that Nature has never produced her
equal. All the noblemen of the realm came to see her every day because of her beauty: that was their sport. But the
young girl did not think anything of it, nor did she become proud.)11
The Occitan Enimia is strangely reminiscent, then, of the archetypal Lady of troubadour song.
And like so many troubadours before and after him, Bertran opposes courtliness, cortezia, to
pride, orguelh. In the Occitan Life of St Enimia, Enimia’s courtliness is said to be in stark
contrast to the worldly pride of the noblemen and women who attend the French court (68-76).
In the Occitan Life, Enimia does not seem to fit in with her family up north because she has all
the attributes of a southern Lady.
Avoiding the unappealing prospect of marriage to a French nobleman thanks to her
leprosy and a trip to the Gévaudan, the Occitan Enimia does not face quite the same dilemma as
her Latin counterpart. It is clear from the outset that Enimia has no intention whatsoever of
returning to her kingdom.12 She does at least send members of the royal party who really are
missing their families up north to tell the royal family not to be sad that she will not be coming
home: as in the Latin Life, she says she will pray for her parents. But a comparison of the
Occitan Enimia to her Latin counterpart reveals that Bertran’s Enimia offers no prayers for
France:
Hac de re, omni voce rogo omnique instantia exposco ut domini mei genitores seu germani, aut illi quos
sanguinis linea reddit propinquos, ne de me doleant aut quasi amissam lugeant, quoniam in veritate dico,
non illis deero, sed communem Dominum iugi prece pro illorum salute exorabo, ut et in presenti regnum
ipsorum pacatissima pace conservet integrum et in futuro ad commune sanctorum omnium felice
transmigratione regnaturos faciat pervenire. (p. 265, 38 - p. 266, 6; my emphasis)
11
12
All translations are my own.
‘Anc pueys no la pres voluntat Que s’en tornes en son regnat,’ vv. 741-42.
100
(Concerning this matter, I ask in every way and request in all eagerness that neither my parents nor my siblings, nor
any of my blood-ties, grieve for me or mourn my quasi-death, because in all truth I say that I will not desert them
but entreat the universal Lord with constant prayers for their salvation, so that at the present time undisturbed peace
preserves their kingdom and in the future leads them, after they have reigned and with a happy parting, to the realm
of all the saints.)
E pregaret lo rey mon payre,
Cant seretz vengutz, e ma mayre,
E·l myeu car frayre atressi,
Que non syon iratz de mi
Ni·n fasson lach captenemen,
Aysso lur prec yeu caramen,
Car tos temps lor profeitaray
Ab los precs que per els faray. (vv. 795-802)
(When you arrive, tell my father the king, my mother and my brother too not to be sad because of me [or angry with
me], nor to act wickedly. This is what I dearly ask of them. For I will always benefit them with prayers on their
behalf.)
In the Latin Life, then, Enimia leaves her family because they are royal. In the Occitan Life, she
leaves them, at least in part, because they are French.
Having successfully negotiated her family, Enimia’s next challenge takes the form of a
dragon. The princess sets up shop as a professional miracle-worker in a cave near the spring at
Burla. She dismisses the royal party, retaining a single maid and it is no coincidence that her sole
companion also goes by the name of Enimia. The royal Enimia plans to build an abbey, but
much to her annoyance the local dragon keeps destroying it at night (p. 270, 11-17). Enimia
chooses not to follow in the footsteps of her illustrious female predecessors Sts Margaret and
Martha and slay the creature herself, instead enlisting the help of Bishop Hilarus of Mende to
101
solve her dragon problem. To understand why she turns to Bishop Hilarus, I would contend that
we need to understand the status of the Bishops of Mende in the twelfth- and thirteenth-century
Gévaudan.
Throughout the High Middle Ages, the Gévaudan was nominally under the suzerainty of
the Counts of Toulouse, but the borderland province was on the periphery of the Toulousain
domains, enabling the local Viscounts to increase their authority during the eleventh century at
the expense of their overlords in Toulouse.13 By the time the Latin Life was written at the
beginning of the twelfth century, rights to the Viscounty of the Gévaudan had passed to the
Counts of Provence and perhaps even to the Counts of Barcelona.14 By the late twelfth century,
the province was nominally in the hands of the King of Aragon.15 Meanwhile, in the course of
the twelfth century, with the Gévaudan being ruled by Viscounts living further and further afield,
the Bishops of Mende slowly increased their temporal power in the region, acquiring land
through donations, purchases and inheritance.16 By the time Bertran came to write his Occitan
Life, the Bishops of Mende could claim to hold complete temporal power over the Gévaudan.17
Returning to the Life itself, where we left Enimia fretting over a noisome dragon: one
night, after a long evening’s theological discussion in Enimia’s cave, Enimia and Bishop Hilarus
wake to the sound of the dragon razing Enimia’s abbey to the ground (p. 271, 6-14). Enimia
instructs the bishop to kill the beast and the dragon is quickly dispatched (p. 271, 16-21). Hilarus
puts together a couple of branches in the shape of a cross and the dragon immediately takes
flight. Once it has been cornered by the cross-wielding bishop it manages to escape by hewing a
13
Albert Grimaud and Marius Balmelle, Précis d’histoire du Gévaudan rattachée à l’histoire de France (Paris:
Champion, 1925), pp. 115-16.
14
Ibid., p. 116.
15
Ibid.
16
Ibid., p. 122.
17
André, p. 24.
102
pathway out of the rock (p. 271, 25-39). Hilarus is then unable to keep up with the devilishly
quick creature, so he simply asks God to make the valley-sides fall on top of the beast. God, of
course, is only too happy to oblige (p. 271, 39 - p. 272, 16).
Once the abbey has been built, Bishop Hilarus puts Enimia in charge and men and
women come from far and wide bearing gifts. When the French court hears about the French
princess’s success, one way or another they acquire all the land surrounding the abbey and
Enimia inherits it all (p. 273, 7-15). No further questions are asked; at least, not in the Latin Life.
A century later Bertran expands considerably on the central dragon episode, elaborating
on Bishop Hilarus’s heroic display in particular. Once the dragon has been cornered by Hilarus,
it does not merely forge its own escape-route but hews a hole in the rock to hide from the crossbrandishing bishop (vv. 1145-52). God then expels the dragon from its hiding-place, allowing the
bishop to whack the creature with his cross, splattering blood everywhere. Bertran informs us
that there was so much blood that the stains are still visible and that a church now
commemorates Hilarus’s heroic deeds.18 As for the bishop, he is said to be delighted by the
bloodshed (1197). Bertran then returns to his Latin source and follows it more closely: the
dragon escapes and Hilarus’s prayer is answered when the valley sides tumble down on top of
the beast (1223-56).
Once Enimia has been put in charge of her newly-built abbey, the French royal family
acquires the surrounding land and Enimia inherits it, as in the Latin Life. But Bertran adds in no
uncertain terms that the thirteenth-century priory of St Enimia owes the French nothing in return:
there are to be no lawsuits and no objections, Bertran says, because the priory owns the land fair
and square (1321-44). I would argue that, in this central episode of the Life of St Enimia, Bertran
18
‘Aqui eus que·l dracs fo issitz,  Sainchz Ylis fo amanoïtz  E a lo ferit ab la crotz,  Si que·l sancs cazet fers e
ros  En una roca, on encar  Per senhal lo pot hom trobar;  So dizon li clerc e·l gens layga,’ vv. 1169-75; vv.
1179-86.
103
not only opposes ‘temporal’ France to the ‘spiritual’ Gévaudan, as suggested by Karena Gupton
Akhavein in her recent thesis on the Occitan Life;19 I would argue that, by accentuating the
heroic prowess of a local leader who wields both temporal and spiritual power and by stressing
that St Enimia’s priory owes the French monarchy nothing in return for the gifts of land it once
received, Bertran’s Gévaudan is as grounded in temporal reality as the Kingdom of France.
Many years later, Enimia receives a vision of her own death and the death of the other
Enimia, her maid. She concocts a cunning plan to ensure her holy body will never be taken away
from the health-giving spring at Burla, will never be translated that is, to use the word in one of
its ecclesiastical senses.20 Enimia instructs her fellow nuns to place the maid’s body in an
ornately decorated tomb above her own unadorned and unnamed tomb (p. 274, 22-25). She is
right to be so meticulous in her preparations because when her brother Dagobert becomes king of
France, he wants to remove Enimia’s body from Burla and take it to Saint Denis, the burial place
of French royalty since the seventh century.21 Enimia’s final battle, then, is against her brother,
King Dagobert of France.
At the beginning of the twelfth century, when the Latin Life was written, the Bishops of
Mende were looking northwards towards France as a means of guaranteeing their own prestige
and their own autonomy from the great Mediterranean powers of Toulouse, Provence, Barcelona
and Aragon.22 This rapprochement culminated in 1161 when the Bishop of Mende was granted
the Golden Bull of the Gévaudan by the French king. The bishop paid homage to the king,
19
Karena Gupton Akhavein, ‘“Reman say in aquesta terra.” The Function of Translatio in the Occitan Vita of Saint
Enimie’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Columbia University, 2002), pp. 193-200.
20
On the multiple meanings of ‘translatio’ see, for example, Kathleen M. Ashley and Pamela Sheingorn, ‘The
translation of Foy: bodies, texts and places’, in The Medieval Translator, ed. by Roger Ellis and René Tixier
(Turnhout: Brepols, 1996), V, 29-49.
21
Philippe Plagnieux, La basilique de Saint-Denis (Paris: Patrimoine, 1998), p. 25.
22
Grimaud and Balmelle, p. 124.
104
perhaps the first Occitan-speaking ruler to do so, and in return was granted full temporal rights
over the province.23
But at the beginning of the thirteenth century, it was no longer possible for the Bishops of
Mende to quietly maintain authority in their borderland territory, with or without French support.
With the advent of the Albigensian Crusade, the holy war called in 1208 ostensibly to eradicate
the Cathar heresy from the Languedoc, the Gévaudan was caught up in a power struggle between
the French, the Aragonese and the Toulousains, all of whom laid claim to the province,
threatening its de facto independence. By 1225, the Bishop of Mende may well have been most
sympathetic towards the Aragonese: in that year the King of Aragon signed a charter in which he
paid homage to the bishop for the Viscounty of the Gévaudan.24 But four years later, in 1229, the
Treaty of Paris was signed, signalling the end of the Albigensian Crusade and awarding the
Gévaudan to the French king.25 By the middle decades of the thirteenth century, then, it was not
only Toulouse and Aragon that were threatening the Gévaudan, but France.
We return to the Lives of St Enimia, with Dagobert poised to steal his sister’s holy body.
In the Latin Life what we find are excuses for the French king’s actions: he is passionate about
his latest building project, the extension of the Saint Denis basilica, and he wants nothing more
than to adorn it with holy relics from near and far, and with his sister’s in particular (p. 278, 4-5).
When the French king steals the wrong body, taking the body of his sister’s maid back up to
France and leaving his sister’s body in Burla, he is not openly derided by the Latin author for his
innocent mistake.
But a century on and Bertran has considerably more to say about Dagobert’s relicthieving antics. The author of the Occitan Life adds a lengthy debate between Dagobert and the
23
Ibid., p. 125-26.
Ibid., p. 134.
25
Ibid.
24
105
new abbess, Enimia’s successor, in which he explores the potential effects on the bereft local
community of translating a saint’s relics. Dagobert begins by explaining why he has come:
motivated by love, he intends to take Enimia’s body back to his country, ‘en mon païs’ (vv.
1515-23). In reply, the abbess asks what she and her fellow nuns are supposed to do in their
moorlands, ‘en cestas landas’, if Dagobert takes their relics to his country, ‘en ta terra’ (152528). Dagobert offers land in exchange for Enimia’s body, but the abbess simply repeats her
question: what are they supposed to do without their saint? (1531-50) The king says he will take
his sister’s body regardless and charges into the abbatial church with his men, repeatedly asking
where Enimia’s body is (1551-55). The nuns judiciously tell him that he will find his sister’s
body if he looks hard enough (1577-86). And when Dagobert thinks he has found the right tomb
they put all their acting skills to the test and pretend to be overcome with grief (1663-92). They
also do their utmost, somewhat uncharitably we might feel, to obtain as much land from
Dagobert in compensation for the wrong body (1693-96). In the Occitan Life, then, the joke is
firmly on the French.
Midway through the long episode recounting the French king’s vain search for his sister’s
body, Bertran interrupts the narrative with a direct appeal to his audience. He addresses the entire
local population, irrespective of class and gender, and explains why they should all honour St
Enimia:
Baro, prohome, ar vejatz,
Vos qu’en aquela val istatz,
Home e femnas, laics e clergue,
Si deuratz ben a cesta verge
Portar honor digna e bona,
Car ilh no volc que sa persona
En fos en altre luec portada,
106
Per so que la vals grans e lada,
Que non portava negu fruch
Adoncs, et aquo sabem tuch,
Ni neguna ren don hom viva,
Tan era sela vals esquiva,
Pogues tostemps pel sieu istar
Vinhas e blatz e fruchs portar. (vv. 1629-42)
(All those of you who live in this valley – noblemen and less noble men, men and women, clerics and laypeople –
now you see why you should honour this virgin, worthy and good, for she did not want her person to be carried
elsewhere, and – as we all know – our great, wide valley, which never used to bear any fruit or anything good to eat
because it was so desolate, will now always yield wine, corn and fruit, because she lived here.)
It is thanks to Enimia, Bertran says, that their formerly barren valley can now sustain life. It is
thanks to her that they are all so prosperous. The community imagined by Bertran here may be
quite some distance away from Benedict Anderson’s much-cited definition of the nation as ‘an
imagined political community – and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign’;26
Bertran’s imagined community may even be quite some distance away from the pan-Occitanian
community imagined by troubadours such as Guilhem de Montanhagol, Peire Cardenal and the
anonymous author of the Song of the Albigensian Crusade who all composed during the
thirteenth century in response to French aggression in Occitania; but it is not entirely removed
from either of them: Bertran’s imagined community may not be as large as Anderson’s national
community and at times it may not even encompass the whole of the Gévaudan let alone the
entirety of medieval Occitania, but it is nonetheless characterised by a ‘deep, horizontal
comradeship’ and does coincide with a delimited territory even if those limits remain in flux.
26
Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (London:
Verso, 1991), p. 6.
107
In the twelfth century, associating a local saint with the French monarchy could add
prestige to both saint and locality. The Latin Life of St Enimia is the story of a French saint and a
dragon from the Gévaudan. But in the thirteenth century, Bertran of Marseilles can be
understood to use his powers as a translator to rework Enimia’s struggle against her family,
against a dragon, and against France to promote a regional identity grounded on hostility towards
the French. The Occitan Life of St Enimia, then, is the story of a saint from the Gévaudan and a
dragon as obnoxious as the French.
108
A Whale of a Seamonster
Sarah Corrigan, N.U.I., Galway.
amal ba bledhmhil do torathraibh in maru é…
…as if he were one (literally, a whale) of the monsters of the sea…
This paper originated from an investigation into the mythical, monstrous or animal nature
of the creatures in In Tenga Bithnua (The Evernew Tongue, ITB) and the role assigned to them in
this apocryphal text. ITB is a Middle Irish text composed sometime between the ninth and
eleventh centuries.1 The text itself is an elaborate account of Creation, with a focus on the order
of the cosmos and the creatures contained therein. This account was related to a congregation of
Hebrew sages on the eve of Easter by the apostle Philip (also known as the Evernew Tongue –
hence the title), who is speaking from Heaven.
A fundamental question which arose out of this study was what actually constitutes a
monster. In modern English ‘monster’ may mean many things but the three usages most relevant
here are those that relate to mythical creatures, creatures of extraordinary size and creatures that
have mutations or malformations. It is evident that in the modern context the word ‘monster’
encompasses both fictional and existing creatures. I would like to clarify that for the purpose of
this paper mythical will refer to creatures that have some entirely fictional attribute and animal to
existing creatures that are zoologically classifiable. The common feature uniting mythical
creatures and animals that are considered monsters is that from the author’s perspective, or that
of his contemporaries, they are distinctly other in some way, and have one or more apparently
extraordinary physical features or abilities. The monstrous nature of animals that are unusually
large or malformed is evidently the result of the perspective of those who encounter them. This
perspective is of course dependent upon previous experience and knowledge. For this reason the
creatures signified by the word, monster, were by far more numerous and varied in the Middle
1
Whitley Stokes proposed, on the basis of linguistic evidence, that the text was composed in the tenth or eleventh
century. Whitley Stokes, ‘Evernew Tongue,’ Ériu 2 (1905), p. 97. John Carey, however, supports an earlier period
of composition, suggesting the ninth century. The earliest recension of the text is found in the fifteenth century Book
of Lismore. John Carey, ‘In Tenga Bithnua: From Apoclypse to Homily?,’ in Thomas O’Loughlin, ed., The
Scriptures and Early Medieval Ireland (Turnhout: Brepolis, 1999), pp. 52-53.
109
Ages than today. Correspondingly, discovering what exactly is signified by a particular instance
of this word in medieval literature is often an extremely challenging exercise.
This ambiguity in the nature of monsters is particularly evident in the representation of
sea-monsters, and it is upon the Irish word bledmíl that I would like to focus. Bledmíl is defined
by the Dictionary of the Irish Language, or DIL,2 as a ‘sea-monster, some kind of reptile [or a]
whale.’ Bledmíl is a compound of two distinct words: míl and bled. Míl means any living
creature, with the exception of humans, and is also often translated as ‘beast’ or ‘animal’. It is in
the first part of the compound however that the true meaning lies – bled is defined as a whale or
a sea-monster, and it is here that we are introduced to the ambiguity that is the subject of this
study. Because bledmíl may specifically refer to whales as well as sea-monsters, two specific
questions arise: firstly, what differentiates the animals from the sea-monsters and, secondly, to
what extent sea-monsters are mythical creatures, as opposed to unfamiliar animals of shockingly
unusual appearance or size.
This analysis of ITB will attempt to identify as specifically as possible what it is that the
words used for mythical and monstrous creatures signify. Several methods will be employed in
order to do so. The first is a comparative examination of the contexts in which the word is used,
which often helps to uncover the semantic intention of the author. The interpretations of modern
English translators will also be taken into account, as their concordances and disparities may be
of assistance. Finally, bledmíl will be compared with semantically similar Latin terminology, as
this may provide additional insight into a word’s semantic history and usage.
The reliance of the monstrous on perception is further illustrated by the word’s
etymology, as it derives from the Latin, monstrum. As well as meaning ‘monster’ the Latin word
also encompasses creatures or phenomena interpreted as portents or omens.3 Likewise, the Latin
portentum, from which the word, portent, derives, shares the same dual meaning and this
interchangeability verifies the strong association in Latin culture of the monstrous with omens.
Events and creatures perceived as extraordinary were considered to be abnormalities of nature,
2
3
Electronic Dictionary of the Irish Language (eDIL), www.dil.ie.
All Latin definitions are taken from Lewis & Short, A Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1879).
110
deliberately placed on earth as a communication from the gods. Thus the categorisation of
monsters relies on human perception of that which is different, in other words that which is
outside of the realm of experience: this is particularly relevant in this discussion as it deals with a
period in which many of the earth’s creatures and phenomena were not substantially identified or
explained.
ITB contains five instances of the word bledmíl, as well as several other clearly mythical
sea-monsters signified using míl alone, which cannot be discussed in detail here. Regarding the
first approach to a word’s semantic uncertainty outlined above, unfortunately all five instances of
bledmíl in this text occur in a relatively generic context – one which lists various types of
creatures found in creation. As ITB includes and indeed prioritises many mythical creatures as
integral aspects of God’s creation, these lists of categories may be assumed to include both
animal and mythical creatures and therefore do not assist in narrowing the semantic intention in
each case.
The two primary translations taken into consideration in trying to identify the
creatures signified by bledmíl, are those of Whitley Stokes and John Carey. This also proved
uncooperative as their translations of bledmíl vary in a particularly unhelpful manner. Both
Carey and Stokes have for the most part decisively chosen one translation of bledmíl. Carey
generally translates as ‘whales,’4 thus removing any association with mythical creatures.5 Stokes,
on the other hand, consistently uses ‘monster.’6 Given that these reflect the two extremes of
bledmíl's semantic range they provide little assistance here. So it is necessary to search outside of
this context in order to acquire more information.
As the first two approaches that often allow great insight to be gained into a word’s
semantic range prove fruitless in this case, I shall now turn to Latin for clarification. Two citation
of bledmíl’s use found in DIL are Irish renderings of biblical passages. These provide an
excellent opportunity to compare bledmíl to equivalent Latin terminology in the Vulgate Bible.
Here, two relatively modern English translations of the Vulgate shall also be taken into
4
John Carey, King of Mysteries: Early Irish Religious Writings (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 1998), pp. 83, 86, 93,
94.
5
Except on one occasion, in which the phrase bledmila muiride is used, and Carey translates as ‘sea-monsters’
Carey, King of Mysteries, p. 80.
6
Whitley Stokes, ‘The Evernew Tongue,’ Ériu 2 (1905), §15, p. 105, §35, p. 113, §58, p. 121, §132, p. 139, §153, p.
143.
111
consideration: the Knox and Douay-Rheims versions of the Bible. The first use of bledmíl is a
reference to the biblical tale of Jonah in a poem on the observances of Sunday, found in the
fifteenth century manuscript Franciscan A9 in UCD, referred to as Denaid cain domnaigh De
dil:
’San domnach dodechaid ass a broinn in bledhmil Ionas,
On Sunday Jonah came out of the whale’s belly. 7
This line of the poem derives from the Jonas 2, of which verses 1 and 11 are quoted here:
et praeparavit Dominus piscem grandem ut degluttiret Ionam et erat Iona in
ventre piscis tribus diebus et tribus noctibus
et dixit Dominus pisci et evomuit Ionam in aridam.8
The Douay-Rheims translation renders this passage:
Now the Lord prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonas: and Jonas was in the
belly of a fish for three days and three nights.
And the Lord spoke to the fish: and it vomited out Jonas upon the dry land.9
The original Latin text uses the phrase piscis grandis, literally ‘a great fish’. Though it is possible
that the great fish in question is entirely mythical, it may also be a monstracised account of a
whale or shark.
On an aside, though there are no reliable accounts of such an event, there a wonderful,
though undoubtedly dubious account which claims that in 1891 a whaling ship named the Star of
the East lost one of its crew, James Bartley, to a whale. Subsequently the whale was killed and
during its slaughter movement was detected in its stomach. The living Bartley was hastily
retrieved from the belly of the whale. Though he was mad for two weeks after the event and his
skin was damaged by gastric juices to the extent that it was bleached white and acquired the
texture of parchment, Bartley made a full recovery, describing his ability to breathe while inside
this hot and moist organic prison.
Returning to the piscis grandis, though it may signify many creatures, piscis is
semantically specific in that it suggests a purely animal creature, and has no inherent mythical
allusions. The Douay-Rheims Version translates piscis grandis literally as ‘great fish.’ The Knox
7
J. G. O’Keeffe, ‘A Poem on the Observances of Sunday,’ Ériu 3 (1907), §14, pp. 144, 146.
Robert Gryson, ed., Biblia Sacra Iuxta Vulgatam Versionem (Stuttgart: Bibelgesellschaft, 2007).
9
Douay-Rheims Version: The Holy Bible: Translated from the Latin Vulgate (Dublin: James Duffy, 1861).
8
112
Version, however, translates far more vaguely as ‘great sea-beast’10 perhaps in order to better
accommodate the mythical events in which this creature participates.
In one way the Irish bledmíl appears the ideal word choice in this context as it represents
both the animal and the mythical, and so, like sea-beast, excludes neither possibility. However,
the Irish writer’s rejection of the literal translation of piscis, the Irish íasc,11 when combined with
the DIL entry for this word suggests that íasc only signified the more common and considerably
smaller fish native to Ireland’s rivers and coastlines. If this is the case, it strongly suggests a
semantic distinction in Irish based upon size rather than animal or mythical nature.
One other relevant appearance of the Latin piscis in Insular literature occurs in the
Hiberno-Latin text, Navigatio Sancti Brendani Abbatis (The Voyage of Saint Brendan the Abbot,
NB).12 Piscis is used of a creature upon which Brendan and his companions alight, believing it to
be an island, during their sea voyage in search of terra repromissionis sanctorum, the promised
land of the saints:
Insula non est, ubi fuimus, sed piscis, prior omnium natancium in oceano... Qui
habet nomen Jasconius.13
Where we were was not an island, but a fish – the foremost of all that swim in
the ocean… His name is Jasconius.14
This gargantuan creature, large enough to be mistaken for an island, is referred to as piscis and
later in the text as belua15, meaning ‘beast, wild animal or monster, with associations of great
size or ferocity,’ but with no indication of a marine habitat. Like the bledmíl which held Jonas in
its stomach for three days, the sheer size of Jasconius suggests either an entirely mythical
creature or plausibly an exaggerated account of a whale, which is still considered the greatest of
sea creatures. Two other distinctive sea-monsters appear in this text, one closely resembling a
10
The Holy Bible: Knox Version (London: Burns & Oates Ltd., Macmillan & Co Ltd, 1960).
eDIL, letter I, column 38-39.
12
Extant manuscript of the various recensions of this text, of which there are many, date from the tenth century to
the seventeenth, and the text itself is estimated to have been composed early in the tenth century. Carl Selmer, ed.,
Navigatio Sancti Brendani Abbatis (University of Notre Dame Press, 1959), pp. xxix-xxxi.
13
Selmer, Navigatio, §10, ll. 24-26, p. 21.
14
John J. O’Meara, trans., The Voyage of Saint Brendan: Journey to the Promised Land (Dublin: The Dolmen Press,
1976), p. 19.
15
Selmer, Navigatio, §15, l. 63, p. 43.
11
113
whale in description16 and the other having the mythical ability to breathe fire.17 However, the
terminology used for these excludes them from this limited discussion.
In the same passage of the Greek Septuagint the creature which swallows Jonas is
signified by κητος µεγας (ketos megas). Ketos is defined as ‘any sea-monster or huge fish,’18
though it may also refer to seals and the cetacean group of mammals in particular. The use of
ketos in animal and mythical contexts is reflected by the Irish bledmíl in its flexibility of use and
ambiguity of meaning. In spite of this breadth of meaning, M. G. Easton suggests a very specific
interpretation of ketos in his nineteenth century Bible Dictionary, stating that ‘here the Gr. ketos
means properly any kind of sea-monster of the shark or the whale tribe, and that in the book of
Jonah it is only said that "a great fish" was prepared to swallow Jonah. This fish may have been,
therefore, some great shark. The (great) white shark is known to frequent the Mediterranean Sea,
and is sometimes found 30 feet in length.’19 As well as suggesting an animal that could have
eaten Jonas, Easton’s text furthers the ambiguity of the matter entirely as it introduces the
classification of whales and sharks as sea-monsters despite their clear identification as animals.
The Hebrew upon which the Greek text in turn is based is reflected by the Latin piscis
grandis in the Vulgate. In this case, the creature is signified by
16
,‫ ָג ָדל‬, (dag gadowel’),
Brendan and his companions are at one point in their journey threatened by
illis bestia immense magnitudinis post illos a longe, que iactabat de naribus spumas et sulcabat undas uelocissimo
cursu quasi ad illos deuorandos.
a beast of immense size following them at a distance. He spouted foam from his nostrils and ploughed through the
waves at a great speed, as if he were about to devour them.
Selmer, Navigatio, §16, ll. 3-5, p. 45. O’Meara, The Voyage of Brendan, §16, pp. 39-40.
This specific description of a sea-creature is also the most reminiscent of a whale. The foam being spouted from its
nostrils may depict either the spray caused by air being emitted from its blowhole, or perhaps water being expelled
from the mouth of a baleen whale. The latter could also possibly explain the apparently threatening nature of the
animal’s movement, as its great size and wide open, forward-surging mouth would indeed appear terrifying and
aggressive.
17
The creature which comes to their rescue however is decidedly different:
Que statim irruit bellum contra illam, ita ut ignem emisisset ex ore suo.
He immediately attacked him, emitting fire from his mouth.
Selmer, Navigatio, §16, ll. 16-17, p. 46. O’Meara, The Voyage of Brendan, §16, p. 40.
There is no further description of the ingens belua, ‘powerful beast,’ which comes to their aid, but its ability to
breathe fire is clearly mythical. As well as this it is only referred to as belua and bestia neither of which specifies its
nature in any way. This mysterious creature is thus open to vast amounts of interpretation, including the possibility
that it is some form of sea-dragon based upon its single distinguishing characteristic, the capacity to breathe fire.
18
Henry George Liddle & Robert Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon in Perseus Digital Library
<http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/cgi-bin/ptext?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.04.0057&query=head%3D%2321>
19
Mathew George Easton, Easton’s Bible Dictionary, 3rd ed. (1897), in Christian Classics Ethereal Library
<http://www.ccel.org/ccel/easton/ebd2.EBD.html>
114
also literally meaning ‘a great fish.’20 Though it is on occasion cited as also referring to the great
biblical sea-monster, the Leviathan, this appears to originate with later exegesis of the Genesis
1:21, in which the same word, dag, is interpreted as referring to the Leviathan.
The second biblical use of bledmíl introduces the Latin derivative of the Greek ketos and
what may be considered the Latin equivalent of bledmíl. It is a direct translation into Irish of
Genesis 1:21:
ro thuissim Día bleidhmíla mora muirídí.21
God begot the great bledmíla of the sea.
The equivalent Latin text in the Vulgate reads:
creavitque Deus cete grandia et omnem animam viventem atque motabilem
quam produxerant aquae in species suas…
Here Douay-Rheims version translates as:
And God created the great whales, and every living and moving creature, which
the waters brought forth, according to their kinds…
In this passage the Latin word translated as bledmíl is cetus, meaning ‘any large sea-animal’
including ‘a seamonster; particularly a species of whale, a shark, dog-fish, seal or dolphin.’ The
Knox Version once again uses ‘sea-beast,’ a term which carries a similarly broad significance
and retains the semantic uncertainty, whereas the Douay-Rheims Version uses the specifically
animal meaning of cetus, ‘whale.’
Regarding cetus, I would like to briefly return once again to the Navigatio Brendani.
When they are threatened by one of the sea-monsters mentioned above Brendan and his
companions appeal to God, crying out:
Domine, libera nos, sicut liberasti Ionam de uentre ceti magni.22
Lord, deliver us, as you delivered Jonas from the belly of the whale.23
20
Strong's Hebrew and Greek Dictionary Index
http://www.htmlbible.com/sacrednamebiblecom/kjvstrongs/STRINDEX.htm
21
Robert Atkinson, ed., The Book of Ballymote: A Collection of Pieces (Prose and Verse) in the Irish Language
(Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 1887), 15 b 25.
22
Selmer, Navigatio, §16, ll. 12-14, p. 45.
O’Meara, The Voyage of Brendan, §16, p. 40.
115
Once again the ambiguous cetus is encountered, here used for the beast which swallowed Jonah.
Here, as in Denaid cain domnaigh De dil, the Irish author may be indicating the ambiguous
nature of this creature through the choice of terminology.
One passage which perhaps epitomises the duality of sea-creatures in medieval Insular
literature is found in the Middle Irish text Cath Ruis na Ríg for Bóinn (The Battle of Rosnaree on
the Boyne) which enumerates the following list of creatures:
róin 7 rossail 7 a chorr-cind 7 a chenandain.
the seals and walruses and crane-heads and ‘cenandans.’24
Edmund Hogan’s translation represents the recorded meanings of rón, ‘seal’ and rosualt,
‘walrus.’ Corrcenn is defined in DIL as ‘having a pointed-head’ rather than ‘crane-head’ as
above, thus reflecting the appearance of the creature it signifies. The word left untranslated by
Hogan, chenandain, is defined in DIL as relating to sea-monsters, though this definition is vague
as it is predominantly based on its appearance in this text. The significance of this passage and its
list of sea-creatures is that the terms used for animals, rón and rosualt, may both also signify seamonsters, which in turn sustains the argument that whales were not alone in being perceived as
mysterious or monstrous.
It is apparent that the lines that separate animal, monstrous and mythical sea-creatures are
extremely blurred. Though at times either the context or the terminology used, may favour one of
these three categories above the others, a conclusive identification of the nature of these
creatures is an often unattainable goal. From this brief study it would appear that this is
predominantly due to the mysterious nature of many of the sea-animals and, as a result, these
unfamiliar and often enormous animals merge and blend with fictional tales of mythical
creatures.
One final note I would like to make is that the Irish language retains a wonderful sense of
the mystery of the sea in that the modern Irish for whale is míol mór, thus from this island’s
perspective the sea is to this day inhabited by ‘great beasts’.
24
Edmund S. J. Hogan, ed. & trans., Cath Ruis na Ríg for Bóinn, Tod Lecture Series IV (Dublin: Royal Irish
Academy, 1892), ¶10, pp. 14, 15.
116
Aspects of Power in the Gawan Books of Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival
Valentin Blass, Universidade do Porto
Chrétien de Troyes’ Conte du Graal, considered the first courtly novel, tells the story of two
heroes, Perceval and Gauvain, and relates two relatively independent narratives. While Wolfram
von Eschenbach to a great extent retained this structure in his Middle High German adaptation of
the Arthurian and Grail romance, he did bring the two narrative strands closer together in terms
of content and extended them considerably in terms of length. In my presentation I wish to
highlight a number of aspects of the codification of power in Wolfram’s Gawan books: these
relate among other things Gawan’s love service, his duel, and the act of redemption at the
magical castle Schastel marveile. With recourse to theorems from the phenomenology of power
and communication theory I will attempt to demonstrate the complex interaction of various
spheres of power and claims to power in these episodes.
In my reflections I will take as my point of departure the contrast of two figures whose
relationship with the phenomenon of power is particularly evident, yet who, at the same time,
differ in an essential way in the codification of power in Parzivali: on the one hand God, and on
the other Clinschor, the magician who in Chrétien`s version is left unnamed. Wolfram
scholarship generally stresses the features shared by Clinschor and Anfortas, the Grail King.
Both are punished for their forbidden love and as a consequence lose their capacity to procreate.
By the will of God (479, 3ff.), Anfortas suffers a serious injury to his genitals (479, 12) as the
result of his love for the duchess Orgeluse. Duke Clinschor is castrated by Queen Iblis’ husband
as punishment for the adultery he commits with her (675, 21). In both cases, entire societies
suffer for the crimes of their rulers and in each case a saviour figure, Parzival and Gawan
respectively, is needed to free them from their unfortunate condition.
117
But between the magician Clinschor and God too there are a series of parallels and antitheses,
which upon closer examination are hard to ignore. Both are responsible for the laws and the
social order of one of the two great centres of power in Parzival, the Grail Castle at
Munsalvaesche and Schastel marveile. However, they are also marked by their physical absence
from their respective domains, for which reason I will also characterize the influence of the two
ruling figures on mankind as a metaphysical exercise of power. In the cases of both God and of
Clinschor, the essential conditions for a personal presentation of power are not given. The
practice of a demonstrative ritual style of communication, so typical of the Middle Ages, in
which rank and status must again and again be publicly asserted, becomes unnecessary given the
lack of a physical presence.
In Wolfram’s work God’s power is connoted in an unequivocal positive way and takes on a very
special character through the virtues of triuwe and helfe. His interventions, despite their
infrequency, know no bounds: got noch künste kan genouc (796, 16) says the hermit Trevrizent
after Anfortas’ healing, and his question: wer weiz ende sîner kraft? (797, 25) is merely
rhetorical. The notion that both law and justice had their source in God was largely taken for
granted in the Middle Ages.
The situation is completely different in the case of the power which Clinschor exercises over his
fellow man. After his castration, which at that time would not have been exceptional as a
referential punishment for adultery, Clinschor is guotes willen nimmer mêr bereit (658, 5). In the
city of Persidâ he studies necromancy and begins to take revenge for the humiliation inflicted
upon him. Through his magic Clinschor, whom Wolfram makes the nephew of Virgil (656, 17f.),
a figure associated with magic in the Middle Ages, possesses a power that is otherwise reserved
for God: daz er wol schaffet swaz er wil (658, 1). Scarcely anyone can feel himself safe from his
118
hatred for his fellow man: er hât ouch aller der gewalt, / mal unde bêâ schent, / die zwischen
dem firmament / wonent unt der erden zil (658, 26-29). Clinschor’s negative power is also
distinct, in its seemingly unlimited dimensions, from all forms of power of which human beings
are capable and thus approaches the omnipotence of God. It is, however, precisely through God’s
omnipotence that Clinschor’s hatred and power over mankind is limited, as they always fail: wan
die got beschermen wil (658, 30).
Through the use of his magic, Clinschor pursues the goal of denying noble men and women joy
(658, 2-8). In his castle Clinschor holds prisoner four queens and four hundred married ladies
and – separately – a similar number of knights (659, 10-16); yet as Joachim Bumke says:
“nowhere is the perversion of love turned to hatred so devastatingly clear as here. With his
magic, Clinschor tears families apart, inhibits love and creates a state of complete social
infertility.”ii While the infertility at Munsalvaesche results from God’s will (495, 7ff.) and is
ultimately conceived of as a religious merit, Clinschor’s evil magic merely represents the
emasculated duke`s misanthropic desire to transmit his own misfortune to his prisoners.
Though the menace that emanates from Clinschor’s evil power is as ubiquitous as God’s, only a
few figures adopt strategies aimed at avoiding a confrontation with the magician. To my mind,
these measures coincide with the avoidance strategies that Niklas Luhmann in his theory of
poweriii sees as an essential requisite for the exercise of power. Power is, according to Luhmann,
a form of communication, in which a holder of power can limit the capacity of those with less
power to take decisions and actions so as to favour his own interests. Luhmann assumes a twosided ordering of preferences, schematized into more positive or more negative assessments.
This ordering not only needs to be clear to both sides, but is also structured differently in each
case. A power holder can – in the simplest case through the threat of negative sanctions –
119
influence the preferences of those who possess less power, and turn the latter’s freedom to make
choices to his own advantage. Sanctions, for example the threat of violence, are however merely
possible options that both sides would prefer to avoid. But as the weaker fears the execution of
possible sanctions more than the power holder does, it is the former who, in the sense of a dual
contingency, seeks strategies to avoid them.
All the characters who adopt avoidance strategies in Parzival so as to escape the magician’s
menace are topographically tied to Clinschor’s realm Terre marveile. The measures through
which they seek to dispel Clinschor’s evil magic are of a predominantly legal character and can
be summed up as a “policy of alliances”.
In order to secure the peace, King Irot gives Clinschor eight miles of land and the rock on which
Clinschor then builds Schastel marveile. Orgeluse too knows of Clinschor daz er mit zouber
twingen kan (617, 13) and for this reason takes precautions to prevent him from making good his
threat. In accordance with the treaty (617, 25) the duchess temporarily keeps her distance from
the gifts which Anfortas had once brought her from Thabronit as a present (616, 15-18) and then
are stored outside the gate at Schastel marveile. These goods – among them a harp – are to
belong to Orgeluse and Clinschor in common until a knight passes the adventure at Schastel
marveile; Orgeluse is to offer her love to him (617, 20f.). If the successful knight requites
Orgeluse’s love, the treasure is to belong to the couple from then on. If he rejects her love, the
agreement stipulates that Orgeluse is once again to dispose of the treasures on her own (617,
22f.).
While it is not clear what specific benefit Clinschor derives from the agreement, Orgeluse
benefits from her inferior position in relation to the magician in several ways. In addition to the
guarantee of peace with Clinschor, she uses the agreement in a very deliberate way in seeking
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revenge on King Gramoflanz. She converts the treasure promised as the prize in a practically
unpassable adventure at the castle into a love trap. She desires Gramoflanz’s death as it was he
who killed her husband Cidegast and held her prisoner for a year. But just as his father Irot had,
Gramoflanz avoids all contact with the magician and consistently avoids the adventure at the
castle, likely out of fear of the latter’s magic. Despite the hierarchical order, Clinschor’s
seemingly unlimited influence over mankind exists side by side with God’s power without
competing with it or entering into conflict with it. The situation is entirely different within Terre
marveile, Clinschor’s domain, where not only is Clinschor’s power perceived as a serious threat,
but the different interests and property claims of the characters acting therein also generate a
series of power relationships. Taking as an example the knight Lischoys Gweljus, whom, in
contrast with Clinschor, the Wolfram scholarship has hardly taken into account, I would like to
examine the interdependence among various power relationships in what follows.
When Gawan reaches Schastel marveile with his lady Orgeluse, his dependence on his travelling
companion is so marked that it would be an underestimation to dismiss it as a topos adopted
from courtly poetry. Over long stretches of their journey together, Gawan’s behaviour is almost
exclusively determined by Orgeluse’s decisions, so that the repeated description of Gawan as a
prisoner is more than a simple metaphor for his frustrated fondness for the duchess. The onesided power relationship finally takes on paradoxical characteristics because Orgeluse,
characterized by wrath, promises her courtly knight only contempt and derision rather than
recompense for his service. It is under these conditions that she has Gawan joust against the
knight Lischoys Gweljus (who is also fighting for her love) on the green at Schastel marveile. An
application of Heinrich Popitz’ theory on the phenomenology of poweriv would allow one to
view the duel as a power of action specific to a given situation, a kind of power that is
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constituted through the asymmetry of physical and technical attributes. This physical
vulnerability differs from organized, enduring forms of power in that they as a rule do not
assume any methods. Despite possible repeatability, this vulnerability, which can lead to death,
normally remains associated with single actions and is therefore limited to a specific test of
strength, which begins and is decided each time anew.
The fight between these two outstanding knights is different from all the other duels in Parzival
in several ways. The desperate exchange of blows between Gawan and Lischoys is deprecated by
the narrator as unworthy of chivalrous behaviour since it is not based on any commitment; in her
wrath, Orgeluse has two of her courtly knights fight against one another âne schulde (583, 3),
simply for her evil pleasure, something made possible by the power that emanates from her
overwhelming beauty and is repeatedly described as a “love spell”. The fight between Gawan
and Lischoys is also unique in that after his defeat Lischoys repeatedly refuses to surrender as
Gawan demands: du sûmest dich ân nôt: / für sicherheit gib ich den tôt (542, 27f.). Through this
mainly fictitious measure of chivalrous violence regulation, the power thus far exercised, or the
power of action in Popitz’ phenomenology, assumes the character of instrumental power,
through which the test of strength specific to the situation becomes permanent submission.
Through legitimisation and institutionalization, the interests and superiority in power of
individuals or a group of people may be additionally consolidated and guaranteed. Power takes
on a semi-objective meaning: positions of power are created and then persist independent of the
holder at a given point.
In contrast with the other defeated knights in Parzival, who must submit to their vanquishers,
Lischoys not only categorically refuses the submission demanded of him, but also any other form
of communicating power. In simply omitting the ritual of submission so often found in the
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Arthurian romance, he appears as the most antiauthoritarian knight in Parzival. Through
Lischoys’ willful posture, one perhaps unique in mediaeval literature, a limit is placed on the
exercise of power. According to Niklas Luhmann, power always reaches its limit and loses its
function when the negative sanctions threatened (which in essence define power) are actually
applied. The exercise of physical force, but also the forcing of those inferior in power to do
something specific, signifies not the exercise of power, but is, according to Luhmann, the
expression of its failure. The inferior’s ability to choose is reduced to zero and thus power loses
its essential characteristic of dual contingency, and the search for avoidance strategies comes to
an end.
This is, I believe, precisely the case with Lischoys’ completely unexpected behaviour. Given
Lischoys’ preference for death, Gawan opts for a “generous” relaxation of the rules of the game.
He spares his rival from death, even when the latter reaches for his sword (541, 10-13), a trick
that violates the code of chivalry for a second time. But it is only on the surface that Gawan thus
corresponds to the image of the most humane of knights, in conformance with a convention in
the Middle High German Arthurian romance, or to use Wolfgang Mohr’s language, to that of the
“catalyst” of humanity in whose proximity confusion is resolved to the good.v
The conflict of power is further expanded through the entry of the ferryman Plippalinot. The
latter makes legal claims on Gawan: tuot mir reht bekant (544,29) and demands as a fee the
vanquished Lischoys’ horse. Since Lischoys’ horse is in fact Gawan’s horse Gringuljete, which
had been stolen and somehow landed up in Lischoys’ possession, Gawan ignores the ferryman’s
rights. In contrast with Lischoys’ behaviour toward him earlier, Gawan does not totally reject the
position of power of his interlocutor. Instead of refusing any sort of communication of power,
Gawan looks for options to dissuade Plippalinot from pressing his initial demand. Firstly, he
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cleverly offers him a different horse (545, 13ff.), then threatens him with force (545, 26f.) and
finally explains Gringuljete’s origins to the ferryman. (545, 16-546,1). However, none of these
avoidance strategies work with Plippalinot, who continues to demand his due. In the end, Gawan
resolves the conflict by offering him Lischoys (instead of Gringuljete) as a reward – an offer he
cannot refuse: sô rîche gâbe ich nie gesach (546, 12). Neither he nor Gawan show any legal or
ethical reservations about the exchange. Through the deal worked out regarding Lischoys, the
value of which is given as 500 horses (546, 15-19), the relationship of power between Gawan
and Plippalinot is turned on its head. The ferryman and his family see a chance to considerably
increase both their wealth and their power – in Middle High German both concepts are expressed
by a single word maht. This is when that the exercise of power first becomes tangible, in
Luhmann’s sense, in the form of positive sanctions. Positive acts are transformed into power by a
holder of power when it is not the initial position itself but rather its elimination that influences
the behaviour of the inferior. And it is the fear of the withdrawal of the generous promise that
makes the ferryman and his family lavish Gawan with praise. The gratitude of the ferryman for
the handing over of Lischoys goes so far that he offers Gawan his house as shelter and his
daughter as a bed companion. Through the deal, Lischoys for his part loses his once so
characteristic willfulness and submits to both Gawan’s and Plippalinot’s authority without the
slightest resistance: gedulteclîch ân allen bâc / man den helt des volgen sach (548, 18f.). The
surrender which once could not be gained, even through force, becomes a permanent submission,
which in the end derives less from the influence of power, than from a sort of “internal”,
“authoritative”, power: in Popitz’ terms this is a power that does not need to operate through
external advantages and disadvantages, through threats and promises, a power that generates a
voluntary willingness to obey.
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The events surrounding Lischoys Gweljus are taken up again at the end of the twelfth book when
Gawan and Orgeluse cross over to Schastel marveile together on Plippalinot’s ferry. Wolfram
expanded the crossing briefly mentioned by Chrétien into an entire scene in the course of which
the interdependence of various interests and claims to power comes to light in all their
complexity in relation to Lischoys Gweljus. Gawan has, in the meantime, with God’s help,
successfully passed the adventure at Schastel marveile and become its new lord. It is surely no
coincidence that the climax of the adventure is the defeat of a bed, Lit marveile, an allusion to
Clinschor’s adultery and emasculation, the origin of his hatred for mankind. Orgeluse in her turn
has put aside her hatred for Gawan, and the power of her love spell is also broken. When the
ferryman asks Orgeluse for the harp from the treasure outside the magic castle in exchange for
Lischoys’ release, its ownership is still in doubt as Orgeluse has still not complied with the terms
of her agreement with Clinschor, which require her to offer her love to Gawan. Clinschor
however appears not to take any notice. In contrast with God, who pursues violations of the rules
of the Company of the Grail with, among other things, his wrath, Clinschor remains in the
background as an unseen authority and remains aloof of the course of events. His power over the
prisoners (784, 19f.) is still not broken even after Gawan’s victory over the bed.
Clinschor’s lack of interest in the treasure, but also Orgeluse’s desire for the release of her
former courtly knight, make clear that Wolfram, in his sketching of the figure of Orgeluse is now
pursuing an entirely different goal. The question of the ownership of the harp shows that
Orgeluse is submitting herself for the first time to Gawan. The duchess now regards the treasure,
which according to the agreement still belongs to both her and Clinschor, as belonging to Gawan
alone. For this reason, only he can decide about Lischoys’ release: die härpfn untz ander
krâmgewant, / […] wil er, mit sîner hant / mac geben unt behalden / der hie sitzet: lâts in walden
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(623, 25-28). Orgeluse had already given up her autonomy, so often stressed by critics, on
Plippalinot’s ferry and not, as is so often assumed by the scholarship, upon her marriage and
consequent surrender of land and body.
The unusual feature of the agreement surrounding the harp is that Lischoys’ surrender (that once
was gained in exchange for Gringuljete) is now subject to transformation for the second time.
This multiple convertibility of his surrender is unique in Parzival and probably in courtly
literature as a whole. It is true that in the eighth book of Parzival, King Vergulaht had transferred
to Gawan the surrender and quest of the Grail that Parzival had demanded of him (425, 15-30) in
order to excuse the latter’s escapade with Princess Antikonie. (528, 23). Through Plippalinot’s
claim to the harp, the logic of the surrender is however subject to a quite unusual modification: it
is not only transferred to another person, but through this dual transformation becomes that from
which it emerged at the very beginning, a material possession. The surrender of Lischoys is
thereby detached from the traditional constellation of power holder and inferior in power and
thus depersonalized. Lischoys goes from being an inferior in power to being an object of power.
It is certainly no coincidence that Lischoys Gweljus is the only knight in Parzival whose
surrender is not tied to a mission.
It would however be easy to regard Lischoys Gweljus as no more than a depersonalized object, a
pawn in the interplay of power among different interests. Orgeluse’s wish for his release is
motivated not by any ulterior motive of usability, but solely by the humane attitudes which
Wolfram increasingly stresses in his conception of Gawan’s future spouse. On the other hand,
Gawan, as is to be expected, approves the release of his former opponent and rival in love (624,
7ff.) and thus corresponds once again to the stereotypical image of his character as it developed
in the Middle High German Arthurian romance. In the end, Wolfram changes the function of
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Lischoys’ fate as well as the unresolved issue of the ownership of the treasure into a
demonstration of love, through which Lischoys regains his freedom: he is then for once and for
all rid of his role as a mere object of power.
To sum up, I have attempted to point out a few aspects of the codification of power to be found
in the Gawan books in Wolfram`s Parzival. I have consciously taken as my point of departure
traditional assumptions about clearly individuated power holders and inferiors in power and have
attempted first through the contrasting of the magician Clinschor with God, and then through the
example of the knight Lischoys Gweljus to provide a framework based on phenomenology and
communication theory for the exercise of power. I hope that I have been able to make clear how
Gawan’s, Orgeluse’s, Plippalinot’s and indeed Clinschor’s claims to power intersect in the
person of Lischoys Gweljus and, taken as a whole, form a complex web of widely varying
interests, threatened sanctions and avoidance strategies. I also hope that I have to some extent
succeeded in making the interdependence and hierarchical ordering that gives rise to these claims
to power somewhat easier to see.
i
Text citations are taken from: Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parzival. Studienausgabe. Mittelhochdeutscher Text nach
der sechsten Ausg. von Karl Lachmann. Übersetzt von Peter Knecht. Einführung zum Text von Bernd Schirok
(Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 1998).
ii
Cf. Joachim Bumke, Wolfram von Eschenbach, 8th edn (Stuttgart: Metzler 2004), p. 109.
iii
Niklas Luhmann, Macht, 2nd edn (Stuttgart: Enke, 1988).
iv
Heinrich Popitz, Phänomenologie der Macht, 2nd edn (Tübingen: Mohr, 1992).
v
Cf. Wolfgang Mohr, ‘Obie und Meljanz. Zum VII. Buch von Wolframs Parzival’, in Wolfram von Eschenbach.
Aufsätze, Wolfgang Mohr (Göppingen 1979), pp. 94-119 (p. 108) (first publ. in: Gestaltprobleme der Dichtung, ed.
by Richard Alewyn (Bonn: Bouvier 1957), pp. 9-20.
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