Christine and Joan

One of the last written works by Christine de Pizan was the poem Ditié de Jehanne d'Arc ("The Tale of Joan of Arc"), published mere weeks after the coronation of Charles VII (17 July 1429). Two complete manuscripts of the poem have survived. This is the only work about Joan of Arc that was written in her lifetime. Christine never mentions here or anywhere the capture of Joan by the English, and it is assumed that Christine's death took place in 1430, preceding Joan's capture in May of that year.

Her opening prologue of a dozen stanzas offer us a bit of autobiography as well as her emotions about the end of the war, showing us a tremendous surge in national pride and optimism over the end of the war and the restoration of the original monarchy:

I.
I, Christine, who have wept for eleven years in a walled
abbey where I have lived ever since Charles (how strange
this is!) the King’s son–dare I say it?–fled in haste
from Paris, I who have lived enclosed there on account of
the treachery, now, for the first time, begin to laugh;

III.
In 1429 the sun began to shine again. It brings back the
good, new season which had not really been seen for a
long time–and because of that many people had lived
out their lives in sorrow; I myself am one of them. But I
no longer grieve over anything, now that I can see what I desire.

The following 49 stanzas tell us the story of the civil war, the first of which immediately credits the efforts of Joan of Arc:

XIII.
And you Charles, King of France, seventh of that noble
name, Who have been involved in such a great war before
things turned out at all well for you, now, thanks be to
God, see your honour exalted by the Maid Who has laid
low your enemies beneath your standard (and this is new!)

Joan's contribution to the war is considered a sign of divine intervention, as the young Maid of Orleans single-handedly renewed the fighting spirit of the French.

Christine concludes the poem with the understanding that not everyone sees the end of the war the same way as she:

LXI.
This poem was completed by Christine in the above
mentioned year, 1429, on the last day of July. But I
believe that some people will bc displeased by its
contents, for a person whose head is bowed and whose
eyes are heavy [can not] look at the light.

Christine's works were kept alive in small pockets of literary interest since her death. In 1949, French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir wrote that Christine's 1399 L'Épistre au Dieu d'amours ("Epistle to the God of Love") was "the first time we see a woman take up her pen in defence of her sex." The later 20th century saw increased interest in her as the first feminist writer.

We, however, will use her last work to veer off into politics of the French civil war and the appearance of Joan of Arc. See you tomorrow.

The Romance of the Rose, Part 2

The title of this blog post is almost "literal" in the sense that the Roman de la Rose was written in two parts: one by Guillaume de Loris in the first half of the 13th century and the second by the poet Jean de Meun in the second half. Jean saw nothing wrong with taking what Guillaume had written and adding to it—in fact, adding four times the number of lines as the original—but also changing its themes to those of personal interest to him.

Jean added new allegorical figures such as Nature and Genius, and continued the conversation about the nature of Love and its affect on the narrator. More than that, however, was a cynical approach to other topics, mocking many of the people and conventions of his society.

He attacks the priesthood, monastic orders, and the papacy, considering the Church's fairly recently push to outlaw clerical marriage. He attacked the mendicant orders: they had begun to push into the universities, becoming teachers and threatening the seniority of the secular clergy. He also mocks the nobility and the pretensions of royalty in a pre-echo of the 14th century's peasant's cry of "When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?"

He also took the opportunity to express cynical views on women and marriage. He offered his list of women's vices and how men could avoid their traps. Although this may have been entertaining to some readers, as the work became popular it was attacked by many writers of the 14th century, such as by Jean Gerson, Christine de Pizan, and Pierre d'Ailly.

One of its aspects that may have helped its duplication and distribution is that the (second) author had a broad knowledge of current scientific and literary knowledge. He packs into the total work a lot of references to classical authors and historical events. In fact, it is a reference to a specific event that helps place the composition: the execution of Conradin by Charles of Anjou in 1268, so the poem was completed after that date and before Jean's death in 1305.

Despite the hostility it received from some quarters, it was enormously popular. Chaucer made a translation called The Romaunt of the Rose, which he mentions in his poem The Legend of Good Women, but the extant version of The Romaunt of the Rose that we have may not have been produced by Chaucer, since parts of it differ stylistically from Chaucer's other works.

Back to the hostility, however, and a contemporary of Chaucer: Christine de Pizan is considered one of the earliest feminist writers, and we should talk about her more. We'll start that conversation next time.

The Romance of the Rose, Part 1

Let's talk about the most popular secular literary work in the Middle Ages. More manuscripts have survived of the Roman de la Rose than just about any other non-religious work. It has a few other notable aspects. One is its length: 21,782 lines! The other is that it is an unintended collaboration by two men who never met.

Guillaume de Lorris (c.1200 - c.1240) was a French scholar and poet who wrote 4,058 lines of a romantic poem called the Roman de la Rose c.1230. That is all we know about him; we would know even less if not for Jean de Meun. Jean de Meun (c.1240 - c.1305) was a Parisian writer who picked up Guillaume's work and added 17,724 lines. The only reason we know the name "Guillaume de Lorris" is that Jean de Meun names him as the man who started the poem that de Meun continued.

"Continued" should not be construed to mean "carried on in the same vein as the original." Guillaume's section takes place in a walled garden, a stereotypical locus amoenus ("pleasant place") for medieval lovers. The narrator describes a dream he had as a young man, finding the garden with carvings on the outside of the wall of women representing vices such as Cruelty, Covetousness, and Avarice.

When I the age of twenty had attained –
The age when Love controls a young man’s heart –
As I was wont, one night I went to bed
And soundly slept. But there came a dream
Which much delighted me, it was so sweet...

Inside the garden, however, he finds a different situation. A beautiful woman named Idleness introduces him to a young man named Pleasure, who in turn introduces the narrator to Love, Joy, Courtesy, and Pleasant Looks. After spending some time with them, the narrator goes for a walk, unaware that he is being stalked by Love. He comes to a pool in which he glimpses a beautiful rose. Just then, Love shoots him with five arrows— Beauty, Simplicity, Courtesy, Company, and Fair Seeming—and then demands the narrator become a servant to Love.

The narrator's goal then is to pursue the rose (which represents a lady as well as female sexuality). Reason appears and tells the narrator to abandon his quest for the rose. Friend comforts the narrator, who goes back to kiss the rose, but Jealousy builds a castle around the rose to keep the narrator away.

It doesn't seem likely that that is where Guillaume meant his poem to end, but that is all we have from him. When Jean de Meun came across it and decided to add more, he changed the tone a bit (he also might have edited the original, so we cannot be certain we know exactly what Guillaume wrote). Tomorrow I'll tell you how he changed the direction and used it to criticize more than just the act of falling in love.

The Parliament of Fowls

Chaucer's Parlement of Foules had a very different purpose from the Conference of Birds by Attar of Nishapur that I discussed yesterday. Whereas Attar intended to educate the reader on the Sufi path to enlightenment in this world, Chaucer wanted largely to entertain, although one can argue that there is a theme of love and free will.

The narrator starts by lamenting that he does not know love himself. One day, while reading a book about a prophetic dream (Cicero's "Dream of Scipio"), he falls asleep and has his own dream in which the Roman general Scipio appears and leads him up through the celestial spheres to the temple of Venus, decorated with images of doomed lovers.

Passing through, they come to a garden where he sees Cupid making arrows, as well as several other allegorical figures connected to the quest for love (Pleasure, Adornment, Lust, Courtesy, Cunning). Here the personification of Nature is holding a parliament in which birds will choose their mates. Three male eagles try to make their cases for who should mate with the sole female eagle.

There is no conclusive winner in this debate. The other birds are getting restless, waiting for the eagles to finish, and want to lave. The turtledove tells them to wait and let the eagles' debate play out. Nature decides to speed things up by selecting a judge.

The male falcon is selected to judge the eagles' situation, and suggests (in chivalric-tournament style) a battle between the three. The goose speaks up and suggests that maybe the female eagle should be given the choice herself. The female eagle says she cannot make a decision, and would like another year to think about it. Nature agrees, and tells the males to stay faithful while waiting.

After this, all the other birds pair off and began to chatter and sing. The noise wakes up the narrator, who resumes reading.

The poem is 700 lines, but one line has been quoted in more scholarly (and mundane) periodicals than any other, and that is line 309-10:

For this was on Seynt Valentynes day,

Whan every foul cometh ther to [choose] his [mate],

...and again, starting at line 319:

This noble emperesse, ful of grace,

Bad every foul to take his owne place,

As they were wont alwey fro yeer to yere,

Seynt Valentynes day, to [stand] there.

This is the earliest known reference to St. Valentine's Day being connected to the idea of love or choosing a mate. It may simply be that 14 February was warm enough that birds started being more active and building nests. There was a Medieval Warm Period when average temperatures were higher than they were after 1400, so mid-February might not be too great a stretch for spring activity.

Whatever the reason in Chaucer's mind, it gives us a reason to turn to St. Valentine, and get at the heart (pun intended) of this legend.

The Conference of the Birds

Probably the best-known work of the Sufi poet Attar of Nishapur is Manṭiq-uṭ-Ṭayr, called in English the Conference of the Birds. In it, birds from all over the world hold a conference to decide which of them should rule all the others. They turn to the wisest of the birds, the hoopoe, for advice. The hoopoe says they should go and ask the Simurgh. The Simurgh (pictured here) was a legendary bird of Persian mythology, like the phoenix. Attar makes its name a pun, because the phrase sī murğ means "thirty birds" in Persian. You'll see why this is significant.

The hoopoe tells the birds that to each the Simurgh they must cross seven valleys:

1. Valley of the Quest, where the Wayfarer begins by casting aside all dogma, belief, and unbelief.

2. Valley of Love, where reason is abandoned for the sake of love.

3. Valley of Knowledge, where worldly knowledge becomes utterly useless.

4. Valley of Detachment, where all desires and attachments to the world are given up. Here, what is assumed to be “reality” vanishes.

5. Valley of Unity, where the Wayfarer realizes that everything is connected and that the Beloved is beyond everything, including harmony, multiplicity, and eternity.

6. Valley of Wonderment, where, entranced by the beauty of the Beloved, the Wayfarer becomes perplexed and, steeped in awe, finds that he has never known or understood anything.

7. Valley of Poverty and Annihilation, where the self disappears into the universe and the Wayfarer becomes timeless, existing in both the past and the future.

The birds quail*, because they cannot imagine going through these valleys. Attar, of course, is trying to take his readers through the necessary stages of asceticism and purification that are the hallmarks of Sufism.

Some of the birds die of fright at the hoopoe's announcement. The rest start the journey anyway, but many don't make it due to hunger and thirst, or heat, or wild animals. Some just give up.

Finally, only 30 birds reach the Simurgh, to discover that they are the Simurgh, and that traversing the seven valleys has caused them to achieve success and become the pinnacle that they sought.

Although Attar wants the story to be entertaining, it became famous because of the symbolism that leads the reader through the stages to achieve enlightenment.

It would be difficult for a medievalist reading about this to not think about another poem in which all birds gather together, although their purpose for being together would be appalling to Attar. Next time we'll talk about Chaucer's Parliament of Fowls and the first recorded reference to a holiday that generates $10 billion in sales each year.

*Yes, that's an avian pun.

Pharmacist Turned Poet

Although little is known of his personal life, and he was not famous in his own lifetime, the Sufi poet known as Attar of Nishapur (c.1145 – c.1221) is commemorated in a National Day of Attar Nishapuri on 14 April. From rare contemporary comments and later mythologizing, here is what we think we know about him personally.

His full name was Abū Ḥāmid bin Abū Bakr Ibrāhīm. Born to a chemist, he was highly educated and became a pharmacist ("Attar" means "apothecary"), in which profession he attended to numerous patients. His patients would confide their troubles in him, which affected him deeply. Abandoning his profession, he traveled widely, meeting many people but especially Sufi philosophers, finally returning to his home town of Nishapur where he promoted Sufism, a religious practice found within Islam which is characterized by a focus on Islamic purification, spirituality, ritualism, and asceticism.

(By the way, Nishapur produced another famous Persian poet I have talked about in this blog, who died not many years prior to Attar's birth: Omar Khayyam.)

Attar wrote lyrical poems representing Islamic mysticism, biographies of famous Muslim mystics, and a few philosophical works. Although mentioned by contemporaries, he was not well-known in his lifetime, but some of his works survived so that they could be promoted in the 15th century. It is possible that he was "discovered" because of a comment by Rumi:

"Attar was the spirit,

Sanai his eyes twain,

And in time thereafter,

Came we in their train."

In another poem, Rumi wrote:

Attar travelled through all the seven cities of love

While I am only at the bend of the first alley.

The ideas infused in Attar's poetry reflect Sufi ideas: the soul is bound to the body and awaits its release to return to the source of spirit. This reunion can be attained in this life through purification and asceticism. He draws on many older works and history to explain his ideas.

In April 1221, Mongols invaded and slaughtered many in Nishapur, including the 78-year-old Attar. A mausoleum in Nishapur was built in the 16th century (pictured above is the mausoleum after a 1940 renovation).

His most famous poem is called (in English) The Conference of the Birds. I'd like to share it with you tomorrow.

The Persian Connection

Yesterday's post, "This Too Shall Pass," tells about a particular poem from the Exeter Book with the theme that sorrowful occurrences eventually pass away, so things get better. The saying "This too shall pass" is familiar to English speakers.

On 30 September, 1859, Abraham Lincoln used this expression while addressing the Wisconsin State Agricultural Society when he said:

It is said [redacted] once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words: "And this, too, shall pass away." How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride! How consoling in the depths of affliction!

Seems straightforward, and yet it's now time to reveal the [redacted] portion. The words I left out are "an Eastern monarch." Huh? Why not the Western European source of the Exeter Book? One of the earliest translations into Modern English of passages from the Exeter Book was in 1842, the Codex Exoniensis by Benjamin Thorpe. Deor was included, but it seems clear that Lincoln (although widely read) did not get his theme from this work on Old English poetry.

It is likely that he got it from a more popular author, Edward FitzGerald. Known more as the author of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, FitzGerald had published a retelling of an old Persian fable, Solomon's Seal, in which a sultan requests of Solomon a motto for a signet that would be useful in both adversity and prosperity, and Solomon offers "This also shall pass away." The story also appears in Jewish folklore, where sometimes Solomon is the king who requests a motto.

Lincoln may have got it from Blackwood's Magazine (1817 - 1980), a British periodical that was also distributed in the United States and featured American authors. An early English appearance of this tale appeared in Blackwood's in 1848.

Ultimately, the saying's origin has been traced to Persian Sufi poets such as Rumi, Sanai, and Attar of Nishapur. In fact, Attar (c.1145 – c.1221) may be the earliest source, and we'll check him out tomorrow.

Giovanni Boccaccio

Giovanni Boccaccio (1313 - 1375) was eight years old when Dante died, but he revered the man and wrote a biography about him. He even gave a series of lectures in Florence on Dante's works—a first for a non-Classical Era writer. He was more than just a fan of another, however, becoming a treasured poet in hid own right.

Like Dante, Bocaccio wrote in Tuscan vernacular rather than Latin, and he wrote in prose, telling stories that captured the imagination and inspired others, including Geoffrey Chaucer.

Boccaccio grew up in Florence. His father worked for the banking/trading company of the Bardi; Giovanni worked there for a brief time, deciding that it was not a profession to his liking. His father came head of a branch in Naples, taking the family there, and Giovanni persuaded his father to let him study law at what is now the University of Naples (where Thomas Aquinas had been 100 years earlier). Six years of studying canon law taught him that he liked that profession no more than he liked banking.

Two good things came from his time in Naples. One was his love for Fiametta. That was not her name; simply what he called her in his writings. If she existed, she was really Maria d'Aquino, illegitimate daughter of King Robert the Wise of Naples, whom he saw and with whom he fell in love. He wrote a novel about her, and mentions her in many other writings.

The other good thing from his time in Naples was that he began writing. He produced works such as Il Filostrato, about star-crossed lovers during the Trojan War (which became a source for Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde and Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida), and Teseida, nominally about Theseus but dominated by the rivalry of two young knights over a woman (and the source of Chaucer's "The Knight's Tale" in The Canterbury Tales).

He also wrote the first Italian prose novel, Il Filocolo, the story (well-known in Europe) of Florio and Biancifiore, two lovers from different stations in life. Fiametta appears as the "queen" of a "noble brigade" who pose questions to each other about love.

Perhaps his best-known work is the Decameron ("Ten Days"), in which a group of young men and women flee who flee Florence during the Black Death to the hills outside, where they spend ten days telling stories. More on that tomorrow.

The First Troubadour

William IX, Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony (1071 - 1127), also Count of Poitiers, had a shaky start in life. He was the son of Duke William VIII of Aquitaine and his third wife, Hildegarde of Burgundy; but the duke's earlier marriages and divorces (and the very close relatedness of the parents) caused the Church to declare the young William illegitimate. William senior had to make a pilgrimage to Rome for approval from Pope Alexander II (who wasn't always so obliging in marital questions).

Our subject was also a Crusade leader, but not of a Crusade that gets talked about, or even included in the numbering system: it is simply called the "Crusade of 1101."

He invited Pope Urban II—who had called for the Crusade in November 1095—to his court for Christmas of that year, during which Urban urged William to take up the Cross. William was more interested, however, in whether his rival, Count Raymond IV of Toulouse, would go on Crusade, leaving Toulouse unguarded (he did). William's wife, Philippa of Toulouse, was Raymond's niece, and William thought she could make a claim to the territory. The pair did capture Toulouse in 1098, and were subsequently threatened with excommunication.

What William is most known for now, however, is his career as the first known troubadour. There are 11 songs attributed to him. A 13th century vida says of him:

The Count of Poitiers was one of the most courtly men in the world and one of the greatest deceivers of women. He was a fine knight at arms, liberal in his womanizing, and a fine composer and singer of songs. He traveled much through the world, seducing women.

He did in one song admit to deceiving two women. Several of his songs show an attitude toward women in the courtly love tradition, however, in that the subject is called midons, "master":

Every joy must abase itself,
and every might obey
in the presence of Midons, for the sweetness of her welcome,
for her beautiful and gentle look;
and a man who wins to the joy of her love
will live a hundred years.
The joy of her can make the sick man well again,
her wrath can make a well man die,

Orderic Vitalis tells us that he wrote and performed "witty measures" of his adventures on Crusade, but the only Crusade in which he participated, as mentioned, was the Crusade of 1101. I'll tell you what happened with that tomorrow.

The Troubadour Styles

Troubadours originally referred to their songs as vers, but over time developed a set of several different specific types of composition. The vers was a love song that later took on the term canso. The newer identifiable genres include:

Alba (called an aube in German love songs or Aubade in French): a "dawn song"; the lament that dawn approaches and the man must depart before the lady's husband discovers them).

Comiat: a song renouncing the lover.

Canso de crozada: a song encouraging the Crusades.

Desdansa: a dance for sad occasions.

Devinalh: a riddle or cryptogram.

Gap: a boasting song.

Maldit: a complaint of a lady's behavior.

Planh: a lament on the death of an important figure (evolved from the Latin planctus, a lament).

Serena: a song expressing impatience, waiting for night to fall so one could join their lover.

Tenso: a debate between two poets.

Viadeira: a traveller's complaint.

Let's look at the man thought of as the original troubadour next time.

The Female Troubadour

The word "troubadour" was masculine, and the feminine form was "trobairitz" (both singular and plural). The term was rarely used, and was first seen in a 13th century Occitan romance, Flamenca. Trobairitz wrote and performed for Occitan noble courts from 1170 to about 1260—significant because up until then known female composers only produced sacred music.

Almost all information we have about them comes from their own biographical lyrics. We know of only 20 or so female poets. They were outnumbered by troubadours by 20 to 1, and their surviving works are about 1% of the total musical works from the 12th and 13th centuries. In fact, of the works of trobairitz that have survived, we have perhaps only a single work from each, except for two women.

The Comtessa Beatriz de Dia (pictured here from a 13th century codex; Dia was a town in southern France) was born c.1140 and died c.1212. She left us 5 works—four cansos and one tenson—one of which is the only trobairitz work with musical notation. (In the case of troubadours, about 10% have musical notation intact.)

The other trobairitz who left us more than one composition was Castelloza, the wife of Lord Turc of Meyronne (in southwestern France). She wrote several cansos about Arman de Brion, whose status was higher than hers. She describes the pain of betrayal:

My handsome noble-natured dear,
I’ve loved you since the day you pleased me.
How great a fool I am is clear.
For you held back, while such love seized me
That I not once have turned away.
Though you repay my good with ill
I’ll stand my ground and love you still,
For love so has me in its sway
That I now doubt my life can offer. [source]

Cansos and tenson were only a few of the types of songs composed by the troubadours and trobairitz. There were also alba, devinalh, gap, planh, ensenhamen, and many others. I'll give you a list next time, in case you want to try your hand at some different styles of song.

What Makes a Troubadour?

In the years 1100 - 1350, a type of musical performer arose called a troubadour. They did not call themselves troubadours; that term was first used in 1575 to refer to court poets of the 12th and 13th centuries. They almost always referred to themselves as chantaire, "singer." The term "troubadour" is assumed to come from Occitan trobador, from trobaire, "composer," which may be from Late Latin tropare, "to compose, to invent a poem."

The earliest known troubadour whose work has survived was Duke William IX of Aquitaine (grandfather of Eleanor of Aquitaine). He may not have been the first troubadour: it is possible that his political prominence helped him appear to be the start of a tradition, but he may instead have been just one example of an already thriving cultural event. The chronicler Orderic Vitalis records that William composed songs about his experience on the First Crusade. Order also gives us a first-hand account of William performing "many times ... with rhythmic verses and witty measures."

The troubadour phenomenon rose and fell. The 12th century began with few examples of activity, but the final decades saw a burst of output: almost half of the almost 2500 pieces (from a total of about 450 known names) that have survived come from the years 1180 - 1220. Beginning in western Aquitaine, it spread to eastern Aquitaine, then down to Toulouse and Provence. In the early 1200s it reached Italy and Spain.

Duke William was probably the highest-ranking member of society who could be designated a troubadour. Most described themselves as "poor knights," although there was Jaufre Rudel, prince of Blaye in southwestern France.

The troubadours had an "enemy" in the jongleur. The jongleur was not the juggler that the word has become, but was actually a minstrel. The difference is that the minstrel plays songs he has heard from others, although there may be an element of dancing and acrobatics. The troubadour is a poet-composer, a much higher calling requiring skill. Troubadours often wrote attacks on jongleurs. There were, however, many troubadours who also entertained in the manner of the jongleur.

The word troubadour is masculine; a female troubadour is a trobairitz. It would make sense to look at the phenomenon of the female composer in the troubadour tradition next.

Peire d'Alvernhe, Poet and satirist

I mentioned that, for all our talk of courtly love in the Middle Ages, the only use of the actual phrase was in a single Provençal poem. The author of that poem was Peire d'Alvernhe, a troubadour born about 1130. He produced 21-24 poems (authorship can be difficult to determine) by 1170. He was known well-enough that Dante names him in the Divine Comedy.

An anonymous biographer tells us he was handsome and charming and wise, and that he spent time in Spain at the court of Alfonso VII of Castile and his son Sancho III. The biographer calls his poems the greatest poems ever except for the slightly later Giraut de Borneill. A contemporary of Peire's, Bernart Marti, wrote a poem in which he accuses Peire of entering a religious life but abandoning Holy Orders.

Not only did he abandon the religious life, he also abandoned the concept that brought us to this blog entry. The reference to courtly love is in a poem in which he praises love of the Holy Ghost over that of cortez amors de bon aire, "well-spirited courtly love." In this preference of spiritual over carnal love he (and others) followed the influence of one of the earliest troubadours whose name we can put to his poetry, Marcabru (active 1130 - 1150).

Of all Peire's poems, modern scholars have spent the most time and effort discussing a particular one: Chantarai d'aquest trobadors ("Song of wandering troubadours"), a sirventes or "service song" used by troubadours to address a particular subject for educational purposes. In this poem he describes a dozen known troubadours, criticizing their looks and their poetry before proclaiming himself their superior. Although critical, it is seen as a good-natured parody, and he ends by telling the listener that it was composed "while laughing and playing."

On the other hand, if the twelve other troubadours were not present to laugh along with their descriptions, would an audience be familiar enough with the others to understand that it was all in fun? On the other other hand, it does give us (as few pieces of medieval literature do) give us information about specific poets we might not otherwise have, allowing us opportunities to identify authorship for some of the troubadours' works.

Peire d'Alvernhe, Bernart Marti, Marcabru, Giraut de Borneill—we have many names of troubadours, but what did they have in common? What made a "troubadour" rather than just a poet? Let's talk about the troubadour life tomorrow.

Courtly Love

"Courtly love" is the phrase used to describe a set of "rules" expressed in medieval literature about the relationship of a man (usually a knight) with a woman (usually a noblewoman). First appearing in continental French stories, it became (for some) a way to conduct oneself in a relationship, especially one outside of marriage.

First, a few facts. The phrase "courtly love," the English translation of the French amour courtois, was not routinely used until the late 19th century (introduced by a French philologist). (To be fair, the phrase cortez amors appears in a single Provençal poem in the 12th century.) C.S.Lewis in The Allegory of Love defined it as "love of a highly specialized sort, whose characteristics may be enumerated as Humility, Courtesy, Adultery, and the Religion of Love."

Also, the focus of the practice was not so much about the behavior of the knight as the privilege of the woman. Eleanor of Aquitaine is credited with bringing the courtly love ideals from her home to England when she married Henry II. Eleanor's daughter Marie, Countess of Champagne (by Eleanor's first husband, Louis VII), spread it to the court of Champagne. Troubadours popularized the ideas in their poems and songs.

Courtly love was expressed as a form of feudalism, where the man acts as a vassal of the lady. Addressing her in poetry as his "lord" served two purposes: it showed his willingness to serve, and it hid the lady's name. Courtly love was often a secret love, because it was adulterous: the lover pined for the love of a highborn lady who was often married to his real feudal lord. This "forbidden love" did not stop him from expressing g the utmost courtesy and humility toward her.

Many noble marriages were political arrangements rather than loving unions, and given the daily lives of many noble couples, who hardly spent time together, there were opportunities to see the lady without her husband present, although the presence of ladies-in-waiting precluded consummating physical love.

Andreas Capellanus in the late 12th century wrote De amore ("Concerning Love"), also known as De arte honeste amandi ("The Art of Loving Virtuously"). In it he lists several rules that became entwined with the courtly love idea:

1. Marriage is no real excuse for not loving.
6. Boys do not love until they arrive at the age of maturity.
8. No one should be deprived of love without the very best of reasons.
13. When made public love rarely endures.
14. The easy attainment of love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized.
20. A man in love is always apprehensive.
30. A true lover is constantly and without intermission possessed by the thought of his beloved.

Was this a real practice in anyone's life? Did real people engage in these "poetic" affairs (sexuality rarely comes into the subject of courtly love)? Hard to say, although it seems entwined with some of the very real chivalric ideals that were expected behavior on the part of the knight.

That single instance of cortez amors I mentioned was by a poet named Peire d'Alvernhe, who was prolific enough in his time and obscure enough in ours that he is a perfect subject for this blog...next time.

The Matter of France

This post referred to the Song of Roland as foundational to of the Matter of France. The Matter of France, also known as "The Carolingian Cycle," is a collection of legends and literary works about the origins of the French nation.

It is not unusual to look back in history and perceive a "Golden Age" when life was better and people were more heroic. Charlemagne, because he united much of Western Europe, promoted a rebirth of learning and arts, and spread Christianity, is seen as the cornerstone on which the nation of France was built.

The Matter of France is written about in chansons de geste, or "song(s) of heroic deeds."

A French poet from the Champagne region, Bertrand de Bar-sur-Aube (late 12th - early 13th centuries) divided the matter of France into three cycles of chansons de geste  at the start of a poem about a Count of Paris who was one of Charlemagne's grandsons:

At Saint-Denis, in the great abbey, we find it written (I don't doubt) in a book of noble lineage that there have been only three gestes in well-defended France (I think no-one will argue with me now). [...]

The lordliest is that of the kings of France. [...]

The next, it is right to say, was of Doon of the white beard, he of Mainz who had many lands. [...]

The third geste, which was much to be praised, was that of Garin de Monglane of the fierce countenance. [...]

Doon and Garin are not well-known to modern audiences, but Charlemagne turns up in every European history book. Their stories are different, but the heart of the Matter of France is Christianity (especially against Muslims, who are erroneously perceived as polytheistic) and feudal loyalty. The chansons were largely seen by the Middle Ages as reliable historical retellings.

The Matter of France evolved and spread to other countries. The Song of Roland became Orlando Furioso ("The Frenzy of Orlando") and Orlando Innamorato ("Roland in Love") in Italy in the early 1500s and late 1400s respectively. These works in turn influenced Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene in England.

More to the point for England and Spenser was the Matter of Britain, which I'll talk about next time.

The Song of Roland

In 778, Basques ambushed the rearguard of Charlemagne's army as it was going northward through the Ronceveaux Pass in the Pyrenees. They had good reason, and they destroyed the rearguard and the baggage train. In the process, according to Charlemagne's biographer Einhard, they killed the "prefect of the borders of Brittany," Hruodlandus. Hruodlandus is translated as the name "Roland."

In the 11th century, a poet writing in Old French produced a 4000-word epic poem, La Chanson de Roland ("The Song of Roland") that turned the incident mentioned briefly by Einhard into the foundation of a literary cycle called the Matter of France. It tells a very different story from Einhard's brief description.

Instead of being pursued by Basques whose chief city of Pamplona had its walls torn down by Charlemagne's army on his way home, the poem has Charlemagne's army fighting Muslims in Spain for seven years. The last holdout is the city of Saragossa, ruled by Marsile. Marsile promises treasures to Charlemagne and that he will become a Christian if Charlemagne will leave and go home.

Charlemagne is satisfied with this. His nephew, Roland, selects Roland's stepfather Ganelon to carry the message of acceptance to Marsile. Ganelon, afraid that Roland wishes him ill by sending him to where Muslims might kill him, betrays them all by telling the Muslims how to ambush Charlemagne's army as they pass through Roncesvalles. The rearguard, led by Roland with comrades Oliver and Archbishop Turpin, finds themselves overwhelmed.

Oliver tells Roland to blow his horn and summon reinforcements. Roland believes that would be an act of cowardice. Roland, however, loves Oliver's sister, so Oliver tells him that Roland will not be allowed to see his sister again if he does not summon help. It is Turpin who ultimately convinced Roland to blow his horn (in the illustration above). Emperor Charlemagne hears the horn and starts back, but takes too long because Ganelon delays him. With Roland's men dead or dying, he blows the horn one more time so powerfully that his temples burst. He is taken to Heaven by angels.

Charlemagne finally arrives, finds Roland and all his men dead, and pursues the Muslims into the River Ebro where they drown. While burying their dead, the Franks are attacked by Baligant, emir of Babylon, who has come to support Marsile. The armies fight, Charlemagne kills Baligant, the Muslims flee, and Charlemagne now conquers Saragossa, returning home with Marsile's queen.

Ganelon's betrayal is discovered, and he is imprisoned; he argues that he acted out of legitimate revenge against his stepson, not treason against the emperor. Although Ganelon's friend, Pinabel, will fight anyone who claims Ganelon is guilty of treason, Thierry convinces the council of Barons that it was treason, since Roland was serving Charlemagne at the time of the betrayal. Pinabel challenges Thierry to trial by combat, Thierry kills Pinabel, Ganelon is executed by having four horses tied to him, one to each limb, and set to gallop.

There are many improbabilities and impossibilities here, not least of which Charlemagne did not become an emperor until many years later, and an "emir of Babylon" is unlikely to appear in northern Spain, thousands of miles west of Babylon. The poem became an important literary and cultural touchstone for medieval France, however. I referred above to the "Matter of France." There were three great "Matters" in the Middle Ages, and I'll tell you more about them tomorrow.

Medieval Feminism

It is not fair to suggest that there was a "feminist movement" in the Middle Ages, but there were many examples of women who did not conform to what the Modern Age thinks of women in the Middle Ages being forced into "traditional" roles. Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim was one of those examples.

Hrotsvitha was a 10th century nun in the Abbey of Gandersheim who turned her hand to writing poetry, plays, and histories. The illustration, a woodcut by Albrecht Durer, shows her presenting her history of the Ottonian Empire to Otto the Great (he was previously mentioned here and here). As the first to write dramas in the Latin West, as the first female German poet, she became revered as a feminist icon in the 1970s.

Although she writes that any excellence in her work comes from God, not from her, she was not saying that she, as a woman, had no ability to produce excellence. This may have been just a literary convention, or even true humility. In fact, she sees that women taking the veil and taking vows of chastity shows the power of self-determination, rejecting the role of wife and mother that men would put them in.

Encouraged to write plays after reading the Roman playwright Terence, she produced works with female characters very different from his shrews and courtesans. Her female characters are virtuous, courageous, witty, and close to God. Even though she saw women as somehow weaker than men in worldly terms, she considered women more suitable instruments for God to bring about grace and salvation for them and those around them. She saw men as more susceptible to temptation and sin.

Her plays dealt with subjects important to women: marriage, rape, objectification. In Callimach, a man attempts to rape a beautiful woman, who prays for death. This she is granted by God before she can be violated. When the rapist resumes with her corpse, he is bit by a venomous serpent and dies. Dulcitius, aka Passio Sanctarum Virginum Agapis Chioniae Et Hirenae ("The Passion of the Holy Virgins Agape, Chionia, and Irena"), shows how a governor, Dulcitius, is foiled in his passion by three virgins. (You can read the play yourself here. It has fewer than 300 lines!)

Hrotsvitha clearly believed in an ideal of the virginal woman, which some dismiss as merely a Christian construct which prevents women from aspiring to higher goals, but it is argued that she was promoting a model of female integrity that encouraged more positive views of women in 10th century Germany.

Hrotsvitha was alive during the Ottonian Period in Germany, which I have barely touched on all these years. Let's get a better idea of what it was next time.

Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim

A nun, a poet, a playwright— Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim has been called the most remarkable woman of her time, but she was hardly known until a manuscript of her works was discovered in 1494.

From information in her writing we can glean that she was born between 930 and 940CE to a well-to-do Saxon family. We do not know what prompted her to "take the veil" and enter a nunnery, but we know she took vows of chastity and obedience but not poverty, presumable because she did not want to give up comforts and freedoms she had grown up with.

In a preface to her poetical works, she writes of her education at the Abbey of Gandersheim:

I was trained first by our most learned and gentle novice-mistress Rikkarda and others. Later, I owed much to the kind favour and encouragement of a royal personage, Gerberga, under whose abbatial rule I am now living. She, though younger in years than I, was, as might be expected of the niece of an Emperor, far older in learning, and she had the kindness to make me familiar with the works of some of those authors in whose writings she had been instructed by learned men.

Among the works to which she was introduced were those of the Roman playwright Terence, and she decided she wanted to try her hand at that genre, making her the earliest known playwright—female or male—in the Latin West. Where Terence wrote women as shrews and courtesans, Hrotsvitha wrote them as innocents who were exemplars of Christian virtue.

She was the first female poet in Germany, writing several works in dactylic hexameter, including a history of the Ottoman Empire. and a history of Gandersheim Abbey.

She was the first Northern European to write about Islam. In her play Passio Sancti Pelagio ("The Passion of Saint Pelagius"), which she says is derived from an eyewitness to the martyrdom of Pelagius of Cordova, she refers to the character of Abd al-Rahman III, the Emir of Cordova from 929-961. Her plays read as dialogues, which means they are labeled "closet dramas" (a play meant to be read out loud, rather than performed). We know, however, that the Abbey enjoyed her writing, and she was asked to read to the other nuns, so it is possible that her plays were "performed" at Gandersheim.

The discovery and publication (in 1501) of her works made her a subject for study. In the 20th century, she became a feminist icon, which means I'll take a deeper dive into her works tomorrow.

Fastitocalon

Fastitocalon is the name given to a sea creature in an Old English poem called "The Whale."

This time I will with poetic art rehearse, by means of words and wit, a poem about a kind of fish, the great sea-monster which is often unwillingly met, terrible and cruel-hearted to seafarers, yea, to every man; this swimmer of the ocean-streams is known as the asp-turtle.

His appearance is like that of a rough boulder, as if there were tossing by the shore a great ocean-reedbank begirt with sand-dunes, so that seamen imagine they are gazing upon an island, and moor their high-prowed ships with cables to that false land, make fast the ocean-coursers at the sea's end, and, bold of heart, climb up on that island; the vessels stand by the beach, enringed by the flood.

The weary-hearted sailors then encamp, dreaming not of peril.
On the island they start a fire, kindle a mounting flame. The dispirited
heroes, eager for repose, are flushed with joy. Now when the cunning
plotter feels that the seamen are firmly established upon him, and have
settled down to enjoy the weather, the guest of ocean sinks without
warning into the salt wave with his prey (?), and makes for the bottom,
thus whelming ships and men in that abode of death.

Such is the way of demons, the wont of devils:

The poem then shares a moral, comparing the experience of Fastitocalon with the Devil, who entices men with a promise of safety and security before turning and "sinking" them into their own destruction.

The poem continues, explaining another trait of the monster: when it is hungry, it opens its enormous maw, from which a "perfume" emanates that draws a host of fish inside, when it then snaps its jaws shut. This suggests that sailors may have actually seen a whale opening its mouth to feed.

Fastitocalon is the name given to the creature, but that is the Old English version of the original. The poem (and two others) is found in a Bestiary called the Old English Physiologus, part of the Exeter Book. In the Latin version, the creature is called aspidochelone, combining Greek aspis (shield) and chelone (turtle). The Old English version has become more popular (and familiar) thanks to Tolkien writing a poem of that name in The Adventures of Tom Bombadil.

Where did the story of this giant sea-creature-as-island originate? There is a Greek Alexander Romance written in the first few centuries CE that contains a whale-island anecdote in a letter from Alexander to Aristotle. The first voyage of Sinbad (composed c.8th-9th centuries CE) tells a similar tale. Pliny the Elder talks about enormous fish as well. The Babylonian Talmud and Inuit of Greenland folklore both contains legends of a fish so large that it resembled an island and inspired sailors to land on its back. There are many more examples from different parts of the world.

Even St. Brendan encountered it, and gave it a name that has since been used by the Magic: The Gathering card game. I'll share more tomorrow.

The Poetic Edda

The Poetic Edda (author[s] unknown) is our name for a collection of narrative poems in Old Norse. It is distinct from the Prose Edda whose author is known, but Snorri Sturluson certainly found a source for some of his stories in the Poetic Edda. Of all the versions that exist, the "common ancestor" is a manuscript called the Codex Regius or Konungsbók ("King's Book"). The Codex was discovered in 1643; it was made a gift to the king of Denmark in 1662; in 1971 it was taken to Iceland, its likely place of origin.

The poems are all alliterative and use kennings. Authorship is impossible to determine, as well as original composition date for most. They were likely orally transmitted over generations before being committed to written form. Dating of a few can be done by internal information. One poem's title, for instance, Atlamál in grǿnlenzku ("The Greenlandic Lay of Atli") could not have been composed before 985, since Greenland had not been settled before that year. Occasionally a poem will mention an actual historical person, indicating the poem's composition obviously later than that person's life.

Another way of dating and locating the poems is by considering the flora and fauna mentioned. If a story contains wolves, for example, it could not have taken place in Iceland. There is always the chance, however, that poetic license was used to enhance a story.

The best-known and most-examined story in the Edda is the Vǫluspá ("Prophecy of the seeress") in which a seeress tells Odin the story of the creation of the world, its coming end, and its rebirth. It exists not only here, but also in another manuscript, and parts are quoted in the Prose Edda. Although dated to the 10th century, prior to the Christianization of Iceland, some think the idea of rebirth after destruction was influenced by Christian ideas of redemption and Heaven.

Speaking of Norse culture, Christianity, literature, and the Eddas, I hope you'll indulge me in discussing their influence on a 20th century Roman Catholic writer and medievalist named Tolkien; but that's for tomorrow.