Speaking in the Medieval World

SPEAKING IN THE MEDIEVAL WORLD CULTURES, BELIEFS AND TRADITIONS medieval and early modern peoples Editorial Board: w...

Author: Jean E. Godsall-Myers

77 downloads 3121 Views 917KB Size Report

This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is wrongfully on our website, we offer a simple DMCA procedure to remove your content from our site. Start by pressing the button below!

Report copyright / DMCA form

DOWNLOAD PDF

SPEAKING IN THE MEDIEVAL WORLD

CULTURES, BELIEFS AND TRADITIONS medieval and early modern peoples Editorial Board:

william brinner, University of California at Berkeley florike egmond, Leiden University gustav henningsen, Danish Folklore Archives mayke de jong, University of Utrecht miri rubin, Pembroke College, Oxford University eli yassif, Tel Aviv University VOLUME 16

SPEAKING IN THE MEDIEVAL WORLD EDITED BY

JEAN E. GODSALL-MYERS

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2003

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Speaking in the medieval world / edited by Jean E. Godsall-Myers. p. cm. -- (Cultures, beliefs, and traditions, ISSN 1382-5364; v. 16.) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 90-04-12955-3 1. Literature, Medieval--History and criticism. 1. Godsall-Myers, Jean E., 1951- II. Series. PN681.S68 2003 809'.02--dc21 2002033036

ISSN 1382–5364 ISBN 90 04 12955 3 © Copyright 2003 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

For For Für For

Muzz, mother by birth Audrey, mother by law Mutti, Austauschmutter Nancy, Doktormutter

This page intentionally left blank

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments ...................................................................... Notes on the Contributors ........................................................ Introduction ................................................................................ Jean E. Godsall-Myers

ix xi 1

PART ONE Peccatum linguae and the Punishment of Speech Violations in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Times ...................... Bettina Lindorfer He Conquered al the Regne of Femenye: What Chaucer’s Knight doesn’t tell about Theseus ............................................ Laurel Broughton Gender Conﬂicts, Miscommunication, and Communicative Communities in the Late Middle Ages: The Evidence of Fifteenth-Century German Verse Narratives .......................... Albrecht Classen With a Silver Spoon in his Mouth? Wolfram’s Courtly Contestants .................................................................................. Jean E. Godsall-Myers

23

43

65

93

PART TWO Negotiating the Present: Language and Trouthe in the Franklin’s Tale .............................................................................. Andrea Schutz Bilingualism and Betrayal in Chaucer’s Summoner’s Tale ........ Tom Shippey The Discourse of Characterization in Jehan et Blonde ............ Carol Harvey Ways of Using Abusive Language in La Celestina .................. Lourdes Albuixech

105 125 145 167

Index .......................................................................................... 187

This page intentionally left blank

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If publishing a book is inherently a collaborative eﬀort, then publishing an anthology is even more so. I would like to acknowledge the other people involved in the creation of this anthology. Brill’s Assistant Editor Marcella Mulder has been as attentive as she has been expert in seeing this project through from beginning to end. The publisher’s anonymous reader and Professor N. C. Dorian oﬀered critical commentary in the initial stage. Brill’s Production Editor I. van Rossum worked on the manuscript in the ﬁnal stage. The contributors of these essays have inspired me with their scholarship and patience. S. Waller at Widener University’s Writing Center reviewed the draft for technical issues. S. Beatty oﬀered computer assistance. T. Kohm, as always, assisted me with more than just clerical skills throughout this whole project. Obviously, there may be errors remaining in the manuscript. I accept the responsibility for those. At Widener University, former President Bruce, Provost Buck, former Dean Skinner, Dean Panek, and Associate Dean Serembus all encouraged me during my years of administrative employment to pursue my commitment to scholarship. Dr. M. Clark, Dr. I. Lieberman, and Dr. R. Melzi have been scholarly mentors. Professors S. Christoph, A. Classen, P. Dyer, M. Gibbs, S. Jaeger, B. Kratz, A. Mielke, B. Norton, S. Samples, G. Weise, D. Wienroeder-Skinner, C. Wulf, and M. Zelljadt have all given comments to me, particularly at conferences, about my ideas and work. A. Trumm, J. Camhi, G. Alburger, T. Kershaw, C. Dreher, J. Frank, and others have inspired me to continue learning about the German-speaking world. That world has included the families BastHaider, Kawohl, Kuckhoﬀ, Lohse, Osteroth, Reitz, Schatz, and Tjarks, among others. D. Allison, E. Baldwin, and P. Nussbaum have been loyal friends and the Almquists have been kindred spirits. Family members have been supportive, but the three other Godsall-Myers on the planet, namely Steve, Rob, and Tim, continued to love me while we all determined and responded to what really is important in life – S. D. G. Jean E. Godsall-Myers

This page intentionally left blank

NOTES ON THE CONTRIBUTORS

L A, Assistant Professor of Spanish at Southern Illinois University, specializes in Medieval and Early Modern Spanish literature. She has written articles on sentimental romance and on Golden Age Drama. L G. B is Lecturer in English at the University of Vermont. Her medieval publications include Catalog of Medieval Miracles of the Virgin (forthcoming), and articles on Chaucer, Hildegard, and the Virgin Mary. A C is Professor of German at the University of Arizona in the USA. More recently he edited Mein Seel fang an zu singen, Medieval German Voices in the 21st Century, and Deutsche Frauenlieder des fünfzehnten und sechszehnten Jahrhunderts and published his latest monograph on Verzweiﬂung und Hoﬀnung. His teaching and research interests span medieval life, comparative interpretation, and literary theory. J E. G-M is Associate Professor of Humanities at Widener University, USA. She has published on Medieval and Modern German literature and Anna Seghers. Her research and teaching interests include sociolinguistic approaches to literature, the Middle Ages, and the GDR era. C H is Professor of French at the University of Winnepeg in Canada. Her books La francophonie sur les marges, La Littèrature au féminin, and Le cycle manitobain de Gabrielle Roy are complemented by numerous chapters to other anthologies and articles on Philippe de Remy and courtly literature. She sits on the editorial boards of Florilegium and Cahiers franco-canadiens de l’Ouest. B L is Assistant Professor in the department of Philosophie und Geisteswissenschaften within the Freie Universität Berlin. Her dissertation Roland Barthes: Zeichen und Psycholanalyse was published by Fink Verlag in 1998. Her research areas include language theory, semiotics, and historical anthropology of language.

xii

   

A S is Assistant Professor at St. Thomas University in Fredericton, Canada. She has published on Chaucer and pedagogy. She has presented papers at conferences in Canada, the USA, and the United Kingdom. She is currently working on a book about metamorphosis, one of her many medieval research interests. T S is Walter J. Ong Chair at St. Louis University. He has published widely on Old and Middle English, and on his predecessor in the medieval Chair at Leeds, J. R. R. Tolkien. He is currently working on a book on speech in early Germanic literature.

INTRODUCTION* Jean E. Godsall-Myers

In the early 1960’s, Dell Hymes posed a theoretical basis for considering language use. His “ethnography of speaking” was based on a straight forward assumption: “The whole of behavior is approached from the point of view of discovering the relevant classes of speech events, the factors constituting them, the range of functions served by speech in the particular community, and the relations existing among them.” (Hymes Language 386). Subsequent scholars began reﬁning the parameters of speech situations, events, and acts (see especially Bauman and Scherzer IV), and the concept of a speech community (e.g., Kloss). As studies came to reveal fascinating linguistic interaction within both familiar/local and exotic/distant cultures, literary scholars also began to examine more closely the nature of dialog as well. The scholars contributing to this volume oﬀer examples of such investigation within the medieval world. But to appreciate fully the value of the connection between Hymes’ theoretical perspective and the essays published here, a brief overview connecting the ﬁelds of linguistic and medieval literary scholarship is oﬀered. Obviously omitting developments signiﬁcant otherwise, I would consider three stages showing parallels within the academic ﬁelds. The ﬁrst stage in linguistics included the diachronic and synchronic focus on grammar (morphology and syntax) and dialectology (semantics as well as phonology). In the early years, linguists depended on written texts, often literary ones, on which to base their assertions. Colleagues in medieval literature traveled the same route, if not even carrying the same professional title while being housed in literature departments, examining medieval literature from the standpoint of word studies, comparing manuscripts of a same text, and rendering the older texts into modern ones. Several of these same scholars have also provided colleagues with valuable resources on the web * This introduction is based on a paper I presented at the 35th International Congress on Medieval Studies in Kalamazoo, Michigan, May 4–7, 2000. The translations provided in this introduction are my own, unless otherwise noted.

2



(e.g., What every medievalist should know and the Middle High German Conceptual Data Base, listed in the Works Cited area). In the twentieth century, a second stage evolved, as the ﬁeld of linguistics expanded its scope, to include transformational/generative grammar. Among other aspects, the investigations posited the presence of a deep structure and a surface structure operant in sentences, and it was clear that meaning was created by more than just words strung next to each other in a particular order. The medieval literary scholars were also sensitive for the richer potential of a text to communicate meaning. Thus scholars examined the many perspectives of a text and discussed the voice of the author, the voice of the character, and the voice of the audience within a literary theory that pursued a text’s reception. The term “discourse analysis” found in many titles refers seldom to conversational analysis per se. Roger Fowler illustrates using linguistics with more modern literature (see especially his Chapter 4), and Arthur Groos and Evelyn Birge Vitz oﬀer fascinating insights into medieval literature. And almost simultaneously, the third stage evolved and has had a greater impact as far as this volume is concerned. The third stage included the primacy of the spoken word, that is to say, speech. The linguists reached across disciplinary lines to other social scientists in anthropology, sociology, and ethnology, and others, just as medievalists had always reached out to other humanists in history, art history, history, music, philosophy, and religion. The linguists looked at speech to discover diverse ways of speaking in other cultures. They attempted to classify speech within an entire system of organization that included the situation, event, act, etc. (Hymes Foundations 45f.). They established some ways that speaking works, including turn-taking, etc. And, ﬁnally, the linguists stressed the context of that speaking. The evolution of sociolinguistics, the study of language in society, has indeed yielded valuable results for its eﬀorts. It is of note that the literary scholars were not as keen to follow suit with these developments as they had been earlier. The following comments are intended to highlight several issues extant within sociolinguistic analysis of literary texts. A ﬁrst comment is obvious: sociolinguists have examined mostly live speech, and as such, speech that is spontaneous. Literary scholars treating dialog have not had access to that luxury, unless watching a staged drama or ﬁlm, hardly the access route to most medieval texts. Literary scholars interested in dialog analysis will ﬁnd helpful the assessment of Traugott and



3

Pratt (260f.) and or Person (Structure 32–37); often even spoken language is reporting an event or reporting what someone else said, and to that extent, even live and spontaneous speech is constructed in ways similar to literary dialog. A related comment is also noted: medieval literature exudes literary convention, which also could inﬂuence the production of dialog and thus the kinds of conclusions a scholar could draw. And again even here, the discussion of those dialogs in view of these conventions could be very valuable. Another comment more apparent to the medievalists: literary scholars often work with a text that stems from several manuscripts, each of which may reﬂect the dialect, expertise, and writing conventions (including even punctuation, or lack thereof ) of the local scribe, a situation which certainly could inﬂuence any conclusions drawn about the nature of dialog. Thus examining the dialog in a text via manuscript contrast might be quite revealing. And along that vein, I would mention that the additional intrigue of interpretation with which medievalists contend. Medieval authors often have sources for the plot outside their own cultures. If a scholar examines the dialog in, say, Hartmann’s Iwein, which is based on Chrétien de Troyes’ Yvain, the scholar is dealing with several layers of evidence. For the particular speech act, say greetings at court, the scholar needs to consider the possibility that the norm may be indicative of Hartmann’s world, Chrétien’s world, the literary conventions of both cultures, the style of the scribe, and or the editing decision made in compiling a normalized text. Such varied perspective is a call for extensive investigation, requiring broad expertise. These comments are intended to encourage medievalists and sociolinguists to undertake work similar to that of the contributors of this volume. Literary scholars, both medieval and beyond, have begun appreciating the potential that a sociolinguistic approach has, and sociolinguists have examined literary texts. Raymond Person has used conversational analysis in treating the biblical story of Jonah. Günter Weise, Deborah Tannen (Silence) and other conversational analysts have examined aspects of dialog within several genres of more modern literature. And certainly Language in Society as a journal includes treatments of literature, e.g., Yonglin’s article on Shakespeare. Medievalists have been less interested in adapting such an approach, but even the limited eﬀort has been productive. These scholars have begun describing how people speak in the Middle Ages, the scholars have demonstrated that the literary dialogs do reﬂect other medieval

4



values, and the scholars have been asserting that spoken language warrants attention within medieval literary scholarship. While the lists at the end of this introduction and the subsequent chapters are more inclusive, a few examples are oﬀered here. Tom Shippey considers the role of listener-hearer in looking at earlier poetic bird imagery. Patrick McConeghy uses the strategy model of Brown and Levinson when he treats medieval women’s speech. Related studies of silence include the work of Albrecht Classen and Barbara Thoran. Linda Sussman demonstrates the value of speaking among characters involved with the Grail. The chapters of this volume intend to contribute to that scholarship, by treating speech in medieval texts. It should be clariﬁed to what extent these essays are to be considered “sociolinguistic”. A strict sociolinguist may be disappointed to note the absence of conversational analysis as suggested by Taylor and Cameron, or others, and may think of Garrioch when reading the chapter by Albuixech or may think of Tannen’s work when reading Classen’s chapter, or may even think of Bach and Harnish when reading the chapter by Schutz. Those readers may feel more comfortable with the degree of sociolinguistic analysis oﬀered here by Harvey or Shippey. On the other hand, Hymes deﬁned “sociolinguistics” fairly generally: “Sociolinguistics could be taken to refer to use of linguistic data and analyses in other disciplines, concerned with social life, and, conversely, to use of social data and analyses in linguistics.” (Foundations vii) To the extent that readers are interested in both language and society, they will ﬁnd some enlightening insights within the medieval context. The essays in this volume suggest that looking carefully at the ways characters speak in medieval texts is not only productive, but it can also be important for several reasons. The ﬁrst is that understanding such studies will give us information about the social networks extant in the medieval society. We have all understood such structures as the classes of lords and knights, monks and clerics, nobles and peasants. Several closer examination of who speaks to whom and how that conversation really works may lead us to some diﬀerent conclusions about medieval social organization. Secondly, such studies may reveal artistic skills of writers we have not yet realized and therefore could not appreciate. Medieval writers created dialog that moves the plot along, reveals aspects of character development, etc. But the medieval dialog also needed to resonate with some of the cultural speaking norms or the audience would never have continued listening. Thus the writers of dialog needed to be very creative



5

at the same time they needed to operate within contemporary restraints. As such, the writers may be artists deserving greater credit than oﬀered to date. Thirdly, we do the writers a disservice when we overlook their attention to dialog because the writers themselves considered speech signiﬁcant. In some texts, dialog may constitute up to a third of the lines. The writers use any number of adverbs to describe how a character speaks, to say nothing of the numerous verbs for speaking. To paraphrase Bauman and Scherzer, there is a lot of talk about talk (165), i.e., speech is not just quoted. This aspect is important because when an author describes the speech as polite or rude, the description aﬀords readers potential access to attitude towards speaking. Equipped with the author’s sense of a standard, the reader can pursue what triggered that assessment, and then apply the standard elsewhere for comparison. Assuming the author uses speciﬁc items to trigger speciﬁc assessments accurately, the claim can be posited that the author has constructed in literature speech which authentically reﬂects speech norms extant in the real medieval world. A diﬀerent, but related question within this line of analysis remains unanswered: to what extent do writers take into account their genre when constructing dialog, do characters speak diﬀerently in poetry than in prose. Fourthly, when we look at conversations and how they work in medieval texts, we can establish connections in much the same way as scholars of dialects, language historians, and sociolinguists have done. As mentioned above, how does one manuscript of a text diﬀer from another manuscript of the same text, with respect in particular to the lines of dialog, and what is the signiﬁcance of such diﬀerence? Does Tristan, in the version by Thomas of Brittany, use language the same way that Tristan in the text by Gottfried von Straßburg does, i.e., how does speaking in the Anglo-Norman world compare to speaking in the German world (and in that vein, does Tantris in Ireland speak diﬀerently from Tristan in Cornwall?)? How does speaking in the medieval German world compare to speaking in the modern German world? In other words, what parameters of a speech community in the Middle Ages can we ascertain? And from a practical standpoint, having determined such parameters, how can modern readers of these texts beneﬁt from such information? At this point, another clariﬁcation and another caveat need to be oﬀered. The term “speech community” has been used by linguists far and wide. Literary scholars may beneﬁt from discussions of the term, such as those oﬀered by Saville-Troike (16–25), Romaine (14–24), and Milroy (12–21). In this volume, part of the task of the contributors



6

is to reveal the way speech is used, as both the contributors and readers ponder the medieval spin on this concept. Readers will discover that some of the same issues abound, e.g., insider-outsider status, signiﬁcance of choosing one word over another, consequences of norm deviation, indications of hierarchy and power, etc. Readers will also have the opportunity to see a way of speaking examined and then be able to determine the extent to which that is a characteristic of one character or a way used by everyone. And is that way of speaking reﬂected only in epic texts or is that also present in courtly literature? The “speech community”, as used here, may be applied more generally to that group of people who are in a social network and share a recognition of, and an appreciation for, norms of speaking. Since people belong to more than one speech community, it becomes clear that as characters move within a particular community, as well as from one community to another, readers may see new dynamics in force. The sociolinguistic scholars will see that many of the aspects of speech, operant in cultures around the world today, were also extant in at least Western Europe a thousand years ago. The hope is that the essays here will indeed provide a bridge between literary and linguistic disciplines as the authors examine the role of speech in the Middle Ages. If that begins to answer the question Why approach medieval texts with sociolinguistics?, then we can move on to consider the question How?. The standard approach would start with an aspect of dialog and formulating a question about that dialog. How do the words a character chooses to utter aﬀect behavior and perception in social situations? One then would look at the speech used by those characters, and determine appropriate conclusions. But other approaches to conversational analysis abound, as the variety of this volume’s essays reveals. One set of suggested approaches follows. A fundamental assumption to these approaches is that one starts with the dialog, with the way the characters speak, and then one begins to reﬁne the question, and only much later draws conclusions, taking care to include enough evidence or material from the text. Literary scholars might also consider this approach to be analogous to “letting the text speak ﬁrst”. If, on the other hand, one is interested in a particular a speech act, e.g., telling jokes, then one needs to look at those instances of dialog, rather than all dialogs.1 1

These straight forward directives are oﬀered in recognition of the strategies



7

* Start with one speaker and examine all the instances where that character speaks. Assemble as many pieces of information about those instances as possible. What does the person say? To whom? Where? When? What forms of language? etc. What pattern or evolution is apparent? A test of the pattern can be found in considering the consequences, were the character to speak diﬀerently. In other words, once a norm is established, consider an alternative. And as for evolution, a caveat includes noting that medieval literature often includes characterization, which is not as developmental as is the case in modern literature. Furthermore, as readers, we need to be careful to approach the examination from the standpoint of what the evidence oﬀers, not what we would expect, given our own cultural norms. For example, a twelve year old in the medieval world may be far more articulate than a twelve year old today. A good literary scholar looking at how characters speak in a medieval text may ﬁnd it very productive to read some comparable sociolinguistic studies. And ﬁnally, it is good to remember that part of the value of the norm is that it can alert us to the exception and that can lead us to a fuller interpretation of a passage. * Compare this speaker to another speaker in the same text. What are the similarities? Diﬀerences? For example, if examining a scene in which a woman seeks counsel from a conﬁdant, examine another scene in which a man seeks counsel from a conﬁdant. How does the author use speech to establish a sense of community, beyond the characters speaking the same language and thus being members of the same Sprachbund (to borrow Kloss’ term), to constitute the Sprechbund (as Schutz discusses in this volume)? How does the speech of the characters indicate insider/outsider status? How do characters move in and out of a community? What strategies are used by the characters that indicate power? What aspects of speech are rooted in the characters’ gender, age, ethnicity, etc.? * Compare the text of this author to another text by the same author. Where does the author begin to implement similar strategies? Where are the speaking norms diﬀerent and what might be oﬀered by classical linguists such as Gumperz, Austin, Searle, Labov, and others. Most of their work focuses on face-to-face interaction and or recorded conversation and examines technical aspects, such as turn-taking, in smaller units of dialog. As noted in this introduction, the essays of this volume reﬂect the sense of SavilleTroike, who advocates with Hymes for recognition that language is socially contextualized (3).

8



the explanation? Is the social situation of the text diﬀerent or could the diﬀerence indicate that the author is in a diﬀerent community? Included in this step is the encouragement to compare diﬀerent manuscripts of the same text (mentioned above). Is there any diﬀerence? Could the diﬀerence reﬂect regional variation in speaking norms of the scribes? Is there a regional diﬀerence in literary convention? * Compare the text of this author with a version by another author. Do the characters of Erec created by Chrétien de Troyes speak the same way as the characters in the version authored by Hartmann von Aue? Which dissimilarity can be attributed to the diﬀerence between French and German? Which dissimilarity results from the varied styles of the authors otherwise? * Compare this text to versions oﬀered by authors later. Here the range can include an author in the later Middle Ages, e.g., Titurel by Wolfram von Eschenbach (ca. 1225) and Albrecht von Scharfenberg (ca. 1270), or centuries later, e.g., Tristan through the ages. This leads to considering speaking across the boundaries of genre. How does the same character speak in a courtly epic versus a love poem? Similarly, we may be led to consider speaking across the bounds of art form. How does the same character speak in a heroic epic versus an opera? Is the way a character speaks even part of the deﬁning characteristic of a genre or art form? The intent of these approaches is clear. Delineate the focus of the analysis. Collect the evidence. Establish the norm. Consider the signiﬁcance of the norm. Such examinations cover both synchronic and diachronic perspective, and the amount of work involved is signiﬁcant. But the results will shed light on some of the theoretical issues addressed above, and clarify consideration of the parameters of speech situations, events, and acts. The speech situation can include time, location, conditions of the space where the dialog occurs, the reason for the gathering of speakers, the relationship of the speakers to the location and to each other, etc. The event may be a particular kind of social interaction within the situation. The relationship of the speakers to one another, rules of politeness in general, the purpose of the interaction, etc. may also inﬂuence this. The speech act is the minimal unit of discussion or interaction between the participants, and may be a speciﬁc routine or ritualized form of speaking. As Hymes succinctly theorizes, the speech situation would be the party, the speech event would be a conversation during the party,



9

and the speech act would be telling a joke during the conversation (Hymes Foundations 52). My own examinations of medieval German literature have included this approach and intent,2 and some preliminary results based on those examinations can be oﬀered. 1. The indication of the speech community can be derived from a unit as small as a single word or a unit as large as an entire scene. Most students of the Middle Ages are aware that religion plays a signiﬁcant role in people’s lives. How is a sense of deity expressed in language? When does the word got ‘God’ even appear? In what combinations does the word appear? And how does medieval usage compare with modern usage? One combination is limited to medieval usage: durch got ‘through God’ literally, is replaced by the modern ‘By God!’. Some forms are similar to what is used today, e.g., got weiz ‘God knows’. An additional way of referencing the Judeo-Christian deity is with the term hêrre ‘Lord’. This term is also used to refer to one’s earthly ruler, as is done in the modern era. Of note is the extended phrase, hêrre trehtîn; Lexer informs us that this phrase hêrre trehtîn is used only to address God. One can see that even though the medieval speaker connected the spiritual and earthly rulers, language forms allowed for distinguishing between the two. Thus even a single word, such as got ‘God’, or a small unit hêrre trehtîn ‘Lord’, may indicate that the speaker belongs to a faith community. The examination of those phrases may be part of an examination of prayers. How do characters pray? How much of prayer is regulated by institutions such as the medieval church, and how much prayer is independent? Medieval literary women prayed (Cf. Clark’s discussion of devotional manuals for women), and how speciﬁcally their prayers diﬀered from those of men is one issue I have yet to consider. But I do know that when Enîte prays, she not only prays to God, but also to nature. It is noteworthy that the mother of Gregorious does not pray, in sorrow or in rage, after she is raped by her brother. When Isolde prays, her prayers show a maturation and character development as her 2 Most of my work has taken the form of presentations since 1992 at the Kentucky Foreign Language Conference and the International Congress on Medieval Studies. One of the papers on Enîte has been published.



10

prayers come to include beyond herself, someone else (Tristan), and eventually her whole society, reﬂecting Gottfried’s advocacy of a consciousness of the kingdom of God and the world at court. These examples illustrate that these characters share a sense of God in daily expressions as well as in speciﬁc speech acts. Some of that usage still exists today, some of it does not. It is also the case because religious behavior is so overtly governed by the authorities, that an examination of this kind of linguistic behavior needs to be conducted in tandem with medieval religious scholarship. As one looks at a word such as got, and is led to consider more ritualized speech, one can begin to see indication of a speech community, at least to the extent that the characters share a norm of speaking. 2. The conventions for speaking are implicitly indicated and explicitly articulated. It is reasonable to consider that the leaders and main characters will have some ability to speak appropriately and eﬀectively, e.g. Schîonatulander recognizes how well Gahmuret speaks (Titurel 55, 1–3). The court leaders are people who command the conventions for speaking. But the good speaking is not just a talent, it is a skill that is taught. Thus mentors will also counsel, instruct, characters on how to use language, e.g., Giburc tells her ladiesin-waiting how to speak to their knights (Willehalm 247–248, 2), and more famously, Herzeloyde, Gurnemanz, and Trevrizent all guide Parzival in how to speak, that is to say, they explicitly articulate the conventions of speaking to Parzival. Furthermore, authors will also describe ways of speaking, and with that, oﬀer a sense of what is appropriate and what is not. Keie criticizes Gawan of complaining like an old woman: “sus solten clagen altiu wîp” (in this way an old woman would complain Parzival 298, 13–14). Old men fare better, as we see when Titurel is described: “sît sprach er in alter” (at that point he spoke in old age Titurel 3). Giburc is praised for her competence, indeed, for being able to speak like a man: “manliche sprach das wîp” (Willehalm 95, 3). Isolde speaks “in megede wis” (in the way of a maiden Tristan 11937). The parents of the maid sacriﬁcing herself for Heinrich consider their daughter’s plea and marvel at the talk of a child (“die Zunge im Munde des Kindes” (the tongue in the mouth of the child Der arme Heinrich 874). Kai upbraids Iwein for boasting (Iwein 803–81). These phrases indicate that even the



11

medieval authors recognized that people speak in certain characteristic ways, some of which were praised and others which were criticized. The authors could include these scenes presumably because the authors could count on an audience sharing a sense of appropriate and inappropriate speech. It is also the case that an author will name a kind of speaking directly. In Tristan, Gottfried describes diﬀerent forms of conversation, and thus we read for: a. beating around the bush: der umberede was vil (11950) b. mutual talk: diu rede was under in gerade (11956) c. pillow talk: siner bettemaere mit ir pﬂac (14028) d. telling love-tales: triben ir senemaere (17184) e. debate and discussion: si beredeten und besageten (17187). Such phrases make it clear that at least this author was conscious of ways medieval people spoke. This “talk about talk”, which describes speaking and is not intended as metalanguage per se, warrants further attention. 3. Speech can be a means of reinforcing the system of courtly and questionably even religious values, since the characters who speak well are often virtuous in other ways. Giburc stands and eloquently addresses the court: “mit zuht si sprach” (with training she spoke Titurel 306, 2). The maiden in Der arme Heinrich exceeds the boundaries of good training (“si brach ir zuht und ir site” 1302) when she shouts in her rage. Plippalinot speaks “mit triuwen” (with loyalty Parzival 557,1). Sigune’s monolog persuades her father and for that she is characterized as speaking “mit wîplicher güete” (with wifely goodness/the compassion of a woman Titurel 36, 3–4). 4. The use of dialog can indicate the degree of membership in a community. Several examples may be quite obvious. Parzival’s entire development as a character and eventual initiation into the Grail community are paralleled by his acquisition of language skills (Parzival ). Giburc and Rennewart make similar transitions (Willehalm). The argument could be made that these characters do develop in the modern sense of that word, to the extent that they at least change their behavior as they become integrated into a new society. (This is elaborated on in my own chapter in Part One.) What is signiﬁcant



12

is that these three characters in particular move into a society, namely the court, which may be viewed as a speech community. The characters need to learn how to use language appropriately and eﬀectively in the new environment. The speech community exists already, and as the characters are integrated, their transition reveals to readers the parameters of speech usage. Just as interesting are the characters whose bidialectalism/bilingualism enables them to move comfortably between two or more cultures. Perhaps most famous might be Tristan, but notorious examples include Kyot and Cundrie (Parzival ), while less famous might be Willehalm. The point here is that the medieval authors were able to write about these situations because that was what was going on in the society. There were social circles, there were diﬀerent language areas. While clearly the Crusades made crosscultural contact a reality for many, it was not limited to Crusade participants. The people in the Middle Ages, including the authors, probably had more exposure to diﬀerent cultures than we otherwise might consider. 5. There are forms of speech used for particular occasions. It is clear that speech situations, events, and acts exist in medieval literature as they do in contemporary societies. The suggestion here is to examine these particular occasions. Situations marking life transitions may be the easiest to treat. Comments made in birth scenes, e.g. Belecane, baptisms, e.g., Feireﬁz, weddings, e.g., Erec and Enîte, and even death, e.g., Titurel, would warrant attention. How do the comments of literary characters on trial compare with actual court records, and can a similar examination of knighting ceremonies be conducted? It may be that these scenes only indicate that these occasions are diﬀerent from every day life. But on the other hand, such speech events have been shown by modern scholars to be signiﬁcant to culture in general, and it may be that medievalists could contribute to that scholarship. 6. Some forms of language may be used by everyone in the society, while other forms are used by only particular characters. My own work indicates that, for example, everyone in the German medieval world gets to complain: men and women, the old and the young, the powerful and the powerless. Similarly, everyone,



13

or almost all kinds of people, gets to pray, and that custom seems to extend to even invoking the gods of nature. Everyone can initiate a conversation, but my examination of Tristan reveals that men do so more frequently than women, and that men who start a conversation come from a broader base than do the female conversation initiators. A tradition among the women includes having a conﬁdant; Gottfried’s text portrays one woman talking with another woman about a problem, and Gottfried himself notes and esteems this way women speak (Tristan 1199–1208). Of interest would be to compare such a situation with a public revelation of a similar problem (especially given the dominance of the public nature of courtly life), to say nothing of the whole issue of gender-based mentoring. If one chooses to go beyond the spoken word, there is a way for women to laugh, and women are able to use crying to convince an audience. Last but not least, only adults use four-letter words; I have not found any examples of children swearing.3 7. The value of establishing a norm can be seen when examining a deviation from the norm. Maybe the most famous example here is the unusual silence imposed on Enîte by Erec. And we all remember that Parzival’s status as a tyro includes not minding his table manners: “einen guoten cropf er az” (a good container full he ate Book III 132, 2) contrasts sharply to the ability of his half-brother Feireﬁz to conduct appropriate dinner conversation (Book XV, 766, 20–22). A parallel situation exists for Rennewart (Willehalm).4 I would comment here that we modern readers need to remember our own norms when examining the literature. I once read a

3 I would like to thank Dr. Classen for his comment that the maiden in Der arme Heinrich swears (“dô huop sî ein schelten” Der arme Heinrich 1329; cf. 1357–8 and 1361). Indeed, I would interpret this as further advocating that the audience recognize her as more than a child, since that her parents also consider it impossible for a child to speak so wisely (867–874). 4 Rules of speaking during meals have drawn the attention of modern linguists. Readers are directed to Blum-Kulka, and even Hoyle. Some comments on this issue in the German medieval world are made in the last chapter of Part One in this volume.



14

paper that explored, in the absence of the simple “I love you”, the various ways medieval lovers conveyed their sentiments; afterward I was asked by one colleague why I thought anyone in the Middle Ages should say “I love you” (ich liebe dich) to begin with, rather than all the other phrases I had found. It is also the case that looking at speaking may lead us to consider other forms of communication, and thus we could consider when characters write, sing or gesture.5 8. The medieval authors and their audience may constitute a speech community as well. Medieval authors frequently establish themselves as participants in a conversation. One means is to simply address a force operant in the text: “Oh death”, “Oh love”, etc. More importantly, another means is to address the reader/listener: “you will hear of a tale . . .”. While this may be so commonplace as to escape our notice, it is one of the mechanisms employed by authors to engage an audience. Another similar mechanism is evident when the author identiﬁes him/herself, and thereby creates rapport with the audience. It may be that the author is identiﬁed as a peer or member of the same social circle, as is often the case in Minnesang (Heinrich von Morungen, Burkhard von Hohenfels, etc.). It may also be that the author identiﬁes him/herself as an authority on a subject and thereby commands the attention of the audience, as does Reinmar von Hagenau.6 The investigation of this aspect of dialog is interesting because it gives such rich perspective on the role of the author, and obviously, when the author steps outside of the text, the additional “voice” can allow for irony.7 But viewing the text as the locus for a conversation between the author and an audience can also give us technical indication on how people spoke in general in the Middle Ages. What kind of titles is used? How else is social distance created? What was the social position of the author in the society?

5 One example of body language sustaining the interest of medievalists and modern linguists has been the gaze. 6 See the selections in Neumann. 7 See the work of Vitz.



15

Two ﬁnal comments on these guidelines and preliminary results are in order. The ﬁrst is that even a casual critic may question the value of such a literary approach for modern readers. The response has to include referencing Heritage’s discussion of ethnomethodology. Quoting a classroom conversation, Heritage argues convincingly that readers identify and understand the signiﬁcance of the conversation partly on the basis of the readers’ familiarity with classroom scenes (Heritage 281). Some of our students, and indeed some of us scholars, may be missing valuable information because we are not familiar with medieval scenes. How many modern readers confess to a priest the way Gregorious does, to say nothing of speaking with a hermit uncle the way Parzival does with Trevrizent? A fuller consideration of the dialogs and their settings can only improve our understanding of these texts, and from that, our understanding of the society in which the texts were produced. The second comment is that the contributors of this volume oﬀer these essays not as trained anthropologists and linguists, but as medieval literary scholars. In addition to the caution I oﬀered in the ﬁrst part of this introduction, I will alert readers that the contributors cite much more literary criticism than I have here in this introduction. It is of note that such an approach to literature as suggested in these essays works in tandem with, and not against, the grain of traditional scholarship oﬀered by other medieval scholars.8 Examinations of medieval literary dialogs will lead to more information about the medieval society and the artistic competence of the medieval authors. The intent is to investigate the ways characters speak in the literature to determine the existence of a speech community in the Middle Ages. The essays oﬀered in this book are broad in scope, and therefore divided into two sections. Part One contains papers treating the role of speaking in the Middle Ages in general. The ﬁrst chapter oﬀers one illustration of the signiﬁcance of spoken language in the early Middle Ages. Both the religious and secular authorities attempted to monitor speech, and Bettina Lindorfer treats documents from both 8 One can easily see the connection between the material oﬀered here and the work of Wertheimer, Schnell and others. Wertheimer’s elucidation of medieval business communication is both a signiﬁcant contribution to social history and a complement to the work of linguists such as Drew and Heritage. Schnell’s treatment of non-literary texts could similarly be as valuable for modern linguists as it is for medievalists. Even in this volume, Schutz’ work complements Searle’s work on the nature of promises.

16



spheres and posits these as precursors to Early Modern documents. Lindorfer thus provides us with external, conscious societal attention paid to the power of spoken language. In the second chapter, Laurel Broughton treats the three levels on which conversation functions within a Chaucerian tale, discussing Boccaccio’s original dialog and then Chaucer’s. The third chapter by Albrecht Classen illustrates how the conversational communication between couples in several lesser known German mæren (novella) indicates the complexity of medieval marital relations. The last chapter of Part One is my own paper, in which I demonstrate how the language use of three German characters parallels their integration into courtly society. In Part Two, the chapters focus on speciﬁc aspects of speaking. Andrea Schutz discusses the relationship of between Chaucerian men and women, focusing on the power of a promise. She elaborates on the power of a promise, as well as on the diﬀerence in the way the three characters perceive that speech act. Tom Shippey clariﬁes the impact of the use of dialect by a literary character, and in that process, reveals Chaucer to be using diachronic linguistics with great intent and skill. Carol Harvey follows suit, showing the use of dialect, but she focuses on the accuracy of literary interpretation stemming from the attention paid to such use. Her description of the diglossic situation in French literature is more synchronic than Shippey’s, but equally enlightening. The ﬁnal chapter by Lourdes Albuixech also treats the accuracy of literary interpretation. She investigates the presence of verbal insults in a Spanish medieval drama, and argues that only when one understands that contemporary use of insults, can one fully appreciate the full skill of the playwright. These chapters illustrate the conscious eﬀort of medieval authors to treat speaking with intent. Beyond the historical documents, the literary dialogs reveal extant speech norms. These papers treat texts in several languages, including English, French, German, Italian, Latin, and Spanish. Readers are thereby encouraged to see that such primacy of speech was extensive and not limited to one language, one culture, or one literary tradition. The contributors also examine various genres, including drama, epic narrative, prose, and poetry. The papers focus on a panoply of speakers, spanning individuals, classes of people, audiences in a text, and listeners/readers outside the text. Each contributor in this volume takes a diﬀerent tact in establishing the connection between the speakers of the dialog and their society. While such breadth may be initially problematic to



17

readers, much beneﬁt will also become clear. Readers will be led to appreciate the skill of the medieval authors in reﬂecting realistic speaking norms. This broad range of texts and perspectives prevents making deﬁnitive statements about many issues; rather than consider any assertion by a contributor as too particular, readers should pursue the suggestions made here and analyze other familiar texts. Ultimately, the intent of the contributors is to contextualize the use of speech within society during the Middle Ages. These chapters include material based on papers read at conferences, and in particular, at the International Congress on Medieval Studies at Kalamazoo, Michigan. The material includes new interpretation of texts. The contributors oﬀer these chapters with a sense of collegiality to readers interested in medieval life, literature, and languages. Our intent is to pursue the nature of speaking in the medieval era, and we oﬀer a ﬁrst step in Speaking in the Medieval World. We hope these essays will encourage further scholarship.

Works Cited Albrecht von Scharfenberg. Jüngerer Titurel. Ed. Werner Wolf. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1955. Austin, John L. How to do Things with Words. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962. Bach, Kent, and Robert M. Harnisch. Linguistic Communication and Speech Acts. Cambridge, The MIT Press, 1979. Bauman, Richard and Joel Scherzer. Explorations in the Ethnography of Speaking. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1974. Blum-Kulka, Shoshana. Dinner Talk: Cultural patterns of sociablitity and socialization in family discourse. Mahwah, N.J.: L. Erbaum Assoc. Publishers, 1997. Clark, L. A. “Constructing the Female Subject in Late Medieval Devotion.” Medieval Conduct. Eds. Kathleen Ashley and Robert L. A. Clark. Medieval Cultures 29. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001. 160–182. Classen, Albrecht. “Schweigen und Reden in Hartmanns von Aue Erec.” Erec ou l’ouverture du Monde Arthurien: Actes du Colloques de janvier 1993 à Amiens. WODAN 18. GBM 3 (1993): 25–42. Drew, Paul and John Heritage, eds. Talk at Work. Interaction in institutional settings. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Fowler, Roger. Linguistics and the Novel. London: Methuen & Co., Ltd., 1977. Garrioch, David. “Verbal Insults in Eighteenth-Century Paris.” The Social History of Language. Eds. Peter Burke and Roy Porter. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. 104–119. Godsall-Myers, Jean E. “Enîte’s Loss of Voice When She Speaks from the Heart. Speculum Medii Aevi 2–3 (1996): 57–67. Gottfried von Strassburg. Tristan und Isolde. Ed. Friedrich Ranke. Frankfurt am Main: Kristandt KG, 1969. Groos, Arthur. “Dialogic Transpositions: The Grail Hero wins a Wife.” Perceval/

18



Parzival. A Casebook. Eds. Arthur Groos and Norris J. Lacy. Arthurian Characters and Themes 6. New York: Routledge, 2002. 119–138. Gumperz, John J. Discourse Strategies. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1982. Hartmann von Aue. Der arme Heinrich. Ed. Helmut de Boor. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag GmbH, 1972. ——. Erec. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1972. ——. Gregorious. Ed. Hermann Paul. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1973. Heritage, John. Garﬁnkel and Methodology. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1984. Hoyle, Susan M., and Carolyn Temple Adger. Kids talk: strategic language use in later childhood. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Hymes, Dell H. Language in Culture and Society. New York: Harper & Row, 1964. ——. Foundations in Sociolinguistics. An Ethnographic Approach. Philadelphia Press: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1974. Kloss, Heinz. “Types of Multilingual Communities: A Discussion of 10 Variables.” Explorations in Sociolinguistics. Stanley Lieberson. Bloomington: Indiana University, 1966. 7–17. Labov, William. Sociolinguistic Patterns. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1972. Lexer, Matthias. Mittelhochdeutsches Handwörterbuch. Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1872–78. McGoneghy, Patrick. “Women’s Speech and Silence in Hartmann von Aue’s Erec.” PMLA 102 (1987): 772–83. Middle High German Conceptual Data Base. Klaus M. Schmidt, founder. Margarethe Springeth, executive director. Ulrich Müller, patron. MHDBDB.sbg.ac.at/servlet/ App. June 30, 2002. Milroy, Lesley. Language and Social Networks. Baltimore: University Park Press, 1980. Neumann, Friedrich. Deutscher Minnesang (1150–1300). Ditzingen: Reclam, 1981. Person, Raymond F., Jr. Structure and Meaning in Conversation and Literature. Lanham, M.D.: University Press of America, Inc., 1999. ——. “In Conversation with Johah: Conversation Analysis, Literary Criticism, and the Book of Jonah.” JSOT Supplement Series 167. Scheﬃeld Academic Press, 1996. Romaine, Suzanne, ed. Sociolinguistic Variation in Speech Communities. London, Edward Arnold, 1982. Saville-Troike, Muriel. The Ethnography of Communication. 2nd ed. New York: Basil Blackwell Ltd., 1989. Schnell, Rüdiger. Frauendiskurs, Männerdiskurs, Ehediskurs. New York: Campus Verlag, 1998. Searle, John. “The classiﬁcation of illocutionary acts.” Language in Society 5:1–23. Shippey, Thomas A. “Listening to the Nightingale.” Comparative Literature 22 (1970): 46–60. Sussman, Linda. The Speech of the Grail. New York: Lindesfarne Press, 1995. Tannen, Deborah, ed. Gender and Conversational Intraction. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. ——. “Silence as Conﬂict Management in Fiction and Drama: Pinter’s Betrayal and a Short story, “Great Wits.” Conﬂict Talk: Sociolinguistic Investigations of Arguments in Conversations. Ed. Allen D. Grimshaw. Cambridge University Press, 1990. 260–79. ——. You Just Don’t Understand. Women and Men in Conversation. New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1990. Taylor, Talbot J., and Deborah Cameron, eds. Analysing Conversation. New York: Pergamon Press, 1987. Thoran, Barbara. “Dui ir man verrâten hât zum problem von Enîtes schuld.” Wirkendes Wort 4 (1975): 255–268. Traugott, Elizabeth Closs, and Mary Louise Pratt. Linguistics for Students of Literature. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1980. Vitz, Evelyn Birge. Medieval Narrative and Modern Narratology. Subjects and Objects of Desire. New York: New York University Press, 1989.



19

Weise, Günter. “Literary Dialect and Earlier African-American English.” Form, Function, and Variations in English. Studies in Honour of Klaus Hansen. Eds. Uwe Carls and Peter Lucko. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1999. 183–92. Wertheimer, Molly Meijer, ed. Listening to their Voices. The Rhetorical Activities of Historical Women. Columbia, S.C.: University of South Carolina, 1997. What every Medievalist should know. James Marchand. Also Stephen M. Carey. www.artsci.wustl.edu/~smcarey/WEMSK.html. Wolfram von Eschenbach. Parzival. 2 vols. Ditzingen: Reclam, 1989. ——. Titurel. Ed. Karl Lachmann. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1926. ——. Willehalm, Titurel. Eds. Walter Johannes Schröder and Gisela Hollandt. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1971. Yonglin, Yang. “How to talk to the supernatural in Shakespeare.” Language in Society. 20 (1991): 247–261.

This page intentionally left blank

PART ONE

This page intentionally left blank

PECCATUM LINGUAE AND THE PUNISHMENT OF SPEECH VIOLATIONS IN THE MIDDLE AGES AND EARLY MODERN TIMES* Bettina Lindorfer

Tho we think our words vanish with the breath that utters them, yet they become records in Gods Court, are laid up in his Archives as witnesses either for, or against us.

This quotation from the treatise The Government of the Tongue1 demonstrates the importance of human speech, but even more importantly, it shows that attempts to discipline speech existed in the early modern era. In a later paragraph the author suggests that speech from its inception and in its very nature is sinful and that it can even be called ‘the source of all our other depravation. Original sin came ﬁrst out of the mouth by speaking, before it entred in by eating. The ﬁrst use we ﬁnd Eve to have made of her Language, was to enter parly with the temter, and from that to become temter to her husband’ (7).2 What kinds of speech does this treatise classify as punishable or as abuse of language? The table of contents is subdivided into ten chapters of ‘vices of tongue’: atheist speaking, slander, mendacious calumny, half-truths, mocking lampooning speech, ﬂattering speech, boasting or bragging, permanent complaining, self-aggrandizing speech, and dirty jokes. These and similar speech acts, the treatise argues, are sinful, meaning in the ﬁrst instance sinful before God. Sins that go unpunished in this world will have dire consequences for society * An earlier version of this essay was presented at the International Congress on Medieval Studies in Kalamazoo, Michigan, on May 4, 2001. I would like to thank Andrea Bodrogi for her help with the manuscript. 1 The text was ﬁrst published in English in 1667 [anonymous]. A German translation Die Bezaehmung der Zunge is from 1745. My citations refer to the original edition, here p. 6. 2 To make a connection between speech and eating is not an original notion of this treatise but a continuation of the medieval dicourse of treatises such as De lingua (1250, attributed to Robert of Sorbon): ‘Creacio lingue est ad gustandum et sermocinandum’. Robert himself refers to Gregory the Great and Aristotle’s De Anima (2nd and 12th books; cf. Casagrande and Vecchio 148ss.).

24

 

as a whole and for the individual sinner in the next world. As early as late classical Roman times, in a codiﬁcation of the Roman law by Justinian called Corpus iuris civilis, there is a ban on blasphemy whose justiﬁcation is the fear of the wrath of God, which can cause famines, earthquakes and epidemics.3 The list of speech abuses from the seventeenth-century treatise I mentioned at the beginning of this paragraph is part of long tradition of ‘lingua-texts,’ which are texts that discuss the ethics of everyday speech (cf. Bogner). This list leads us back to the medieval preoccupation with sins of the tongue, which culminated in the mid-thirteenth century. From the fourteenth through the seventeenth century, the medieval systems of speech abuse are taken over with no substantive changes in their theoretical underpinnings (cf. Christin Condamnation 49). Instead, treatises from this era continue, sometimes copying verbatim, medieval treatises on speech abuse without any great innovations. My paper will show that during the early modern period treatises on government of the tongue belong to a discourse directed at the observation, standardization and, if necessary, penalization of deviant forms of verbal behaviour. In terms of content, that is to say, regarding the sins themselves, their order, and their evaluation, these treatises are intimately connected with the various medieval systems of sins of the tongue. By comparison with their medieval precursors, however, the later treatises, sermons, and other texts on the government of the tongue play an entirely diﬀerent role from the end of the ﬁfteenth century onward. Rather than merely organizing speech violations into theoretical and theological classiﬁcations, the later texts aim toward putting reﬂections on good verbal behaviour into practice. One can argue, then, that ‘punishments of the tongue’ in the early modern age translate into action that which two hundred years previously had existed in only a phantasmagoric or virtual way: in texts, frescos, and so forth that depicted God’s punishment in the

3 If not otherwise indicated, all translations into English are mine. This argument, from novel 77 of the Justinian code (‘propter talia enim delicta fames, terrae motus & pestilentiae ﬁunt’) was widespread until the eighteenth century. Thus, Maximilian I refers in 1495 explicitly to this paragraph when he justiﬁes harsh punishments for blasphemy; further, later examples of references to this argument are the town laws of Bern in Switzerland (cf. Schwerhoﬀ 267) and Jean Bodin’s concept of witches as the devine punishment for blasphemy (cf. Christin Condamnation 76). It is the jurist Feuerbach who in 1804 argues vehemently against the punishment of blasphemy as part of this tradition and thus begins the decline of this line of argument.

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

25

infernal torments. It is the intervention by authorities, the creation of new laws and decrees regarding speech, that grants the condemnation of bad speech a diﬀerent social meaning in the later centuries. I consider the issue of speech violations from three diﬀerent ways, which also serve to structure this article. The ﬁrst of my three perspectives is purely textual: I examine the medieval tradition of sins of tongue as a background for the governing of speech in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The notion of speech violations as sins culminates in the early thirteenth century (roughly 1190–1260). In this ﬁrst section, I will call attention to one text in particular that highlights the most radical point of view from this period: the Summa de vitiis et virtutibus (Summa of Vices and Virtues; before 1250) by the Lyonese Dominican Guglielmus William Peraldus. In the second section, I consider the historical, sociopolitical and legal background to the issue of speech abuse. The third section of my discussion focuses on the (later) historical practice of the actual punishment for speech violations and reﬂects on their links with medieval sins of the tongue. In this part I discuss whether special punishments or penances existed for verbal oﬀenses and, if so, what these punitive consequences reveal about contemporary conceptions of language and of the tongue as speech organ par excellence. In this context, the question arises of whether mutilation of the speech organs merely served as a spectacle of deterrence or whether there were practical, magical explanations for cutting out body parts (tongues) to correct bad speech. Before I begin the central discussion, however, I would like to pose a preliminary question. Why is it of interest to consider the question of punishments for speaking in unaccepted ways at all of interest? The subject of sins of tongue in the Middle Ages and of popular speech oﬀenses in the early modern period is a good starting point for an inquiry into the historical importance of human speech and language in everyday life. I propose four criteria for considering the status of ordinary language. Firstly, how important in a given historical period is the level to which everyday speaking is elevated (in whatever domain, the holy or theological, the scientiﬁc or the political) and does everyday speaking appear at all, for instance, in theological texts? Secondly, what could one do wrong when speaking, what are the oﬀenses called and in what detail are they considered? Thirdly, are these mistakes punishable by norms or by law? Finally, if those punishments are indeed carried out, is the execution

26

 

of the punishment systematic, or, when execution of the punishment is a seldom occurrence, does it only have a deterrent function? The following areas provide the context for my investigation in language history for punishments of verbal oﬀenses: punishments for speech acts (such as insult, slander or blasphemy), punishments for not respecting decrees of silence (linguistic taboos, rules of communication), as well as punishment for the use of a minority language (such as Occitan or Breton in French history, Sorbian in Germany, Spanish or Chinese in the USA). In considering a history of disciplining everyday human speech or ordinary language, I hope to demonstrate a few instances of the changing historical sensitivity for the spoken word. An understanding of the tradition of verbal sins is a crucial theoretical background in research regarding the occidental ‘government of the tongue.’

I. Sins of the Tongue—the Textual Basis The emphasis on sins of tongue is a characteristic element of Jewish maxims, although old oriental prayers, as well as some of the Hellenistic period, warned against such sins as well. In the Old Testament, the Psalms, the Books of Job, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes all deal with them. James 3:2–12 and Matthew 4:1–4 are the main points of reference in the New Testament. As part of this long tradition, sins of tongue are selected as a central topic for preachers’ handbooks at the end of the twelfth century: these sins required a speciﬁc place within their systems.4 For example, in Alan of Lille’s Summa de arte praedicatoria (Summa of preaching), at the end of the twelfth century, a separate chapter is dedicated to the three sins of garrulousness, lying and slander. Peter the Singer, however, tries at the same time to establish order by distinguishing among vitium linguae (garrulousness) between the sins against God, those against one’s neighbour and those against oneself. The preacher Radolfus Ardente writes a whole treatise entitled De moribus linguae (On using the language/the tongue, 12 chapters) within his Speculum universale. The Lyonese Dominican Guglielmus Peraldus, however, takes the most decisive step in conceptualizing sins of tongue as a separate problem in his Summa de

4

My principle source here is Casagrande and Vecchio.

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

27

vitiis et virtutibus. From the second half of the thirteenth century on, when copies of the text circulated outside the Dominican order as well as within it, this Summa is one of the most frequently referenced penitential handbooks after the fourth Lateran Council. There must have been many circulating copies (in very diﬀerent degrees of faithfulness)5 of this Summa, because in the Parisian Bibliothèque Nationale alone there are about 50 manuscripts of this text from the thirteenth century. But the inﬂuence of this handbook went far beyond the thirteenth century. By the seventeenth century, the Summa had been printed all over Europe (in 1571, for example, in three editions, and in 1668 in four editions; see Dondaine 187–189). It is not surprising, therefore, that Albertanus of Brescia in his Art of Speaking and Being Silent, Brunetto Latini in his Li Livres dou Tresor, Erasmus in Lingua and even Dante in the Divine Comedy all refer, explicitly or implicitly, to the Summa de vitiis et virtutibus. In the second part of his Summa, the section about the vices (vitiis; this section was probably written in 1236), Peraldus seems to be treating the vices in an entirely traditional manner. He writes one chapter about the evil in general and then seven chapters about the seven deadly sins, also known as the vices. The order of the vices is already astonishing ( gluttony, lechery, avarice, sloth, pride, envy, wrath),6 but it is even more amazing that Peraldus’s book does not end with these vices. Having treated the seven traditional vices, Peraldus introduces the sins of the tongue in a separate, eighth chapter with the terse justiﬁcation that they somehow remained: ‘Ultimo inter peccata dicendum est de peccato linguae quia istud peccatum remanet post alia peccata’ (‘The last of the sins about which we should talk is the sin of the tongue, because this sin remains after the other sins’ 2.911). What at ﬁrst glance appears to be a simple addition turns out to have decisive consequences for the system of sins and vices. Although lists of verbal sins already existed (in Paris in the 1230s, for instance; cf. Wenzel 137), until Peraldus, no one had ranked them on a par

5 Wenzel ‘The Continuing Life of William Peraldus’s Summa Vitiorum’ shows that there have been on the one side many true copies, but on the other side also many cut or alterated versions circulated. 6 The ususal order, according to Gregory the Great, is superbia (pride) on the ﬁrst and most important place (the narcisistic vice was supposed to generate all others), followed by invidia (envy), ira (wrath), accidia/tristitia (sloth), avaritia (avarice), gula (gluttony), luxuria (lechery). ‘At the latest by the 12th century’ this heptad had won out against Cassian’s octad of deadly sins (Newhauser 190).

28

 

with the deadly sins (the vices). On the contrary, verbal sins were customarily subsumed under the traditional vices. Peraldus never speaks of vitium linguae, but he suggests with his additional chapter that verbal sin is of enormous importance, ascribing to it the status of a deadly sin. We will see that this fundamental change to the usual system would not remain unchallenged by later scribes.7 Peraldus, a man of his time, considered speech a central theme. This was the main reason for his additional chapter: ‘Since God distinguished humans by endowing their tongue with the potential of speech, he judges them primarily by how they use it’ (2.371–76). He also alludes to imminent divine punishment: ‘That is why a wicked tongue could destroy a whole country’ (2.474). His text functions here as a ‘“para-rhetorical” manual’ (Blythe 121) that refers to speaking just not at the higher levels of discourse (ecclesiastical and courtly speech), but in an everyday context as well. Peraldus subdivides his eighth chapter into three parts: vigilance of the tongue, the twenty-four sins themselves and the ‘remedies’ against them.8 The twenty-four sins are blasphemia, murmur (complaining), peccati defensio (excusing sin), periurium (wrongful swearing, false oaths), mendacium (lying), detractio, adulatio (ﬂattery), maledictio (slander), convicium (wrangling, violent censure), contentio (strife, controversy), derisio (scorn), prauum consilium (false counsel), peccatum seminatium discorias, peccatum bilinguium (hypocrisy), amantium rumores, iactantia (boasting), secreti revelatio, indiscreta comminatio (indiscriminate threatening), indiscreta promissio (false promising), verbum otiosum (idle word), multiloquium (too much talking), turpiloquium (foul talk), scurrilitas/iocularitas (vulgar joking/inappropriate laughter) and taciturnitas indiscreta (remaining silent when one should speak; see Blythe 121–122). As Casagrande and Vecchio have shown, the importance of Peraldus’s twenty-four sins of tongue for the tradition of the sin treatises can be demonstrated by the number of texts that refer to it as the authority in this question. Later texts often tacitly corrected various weak points of Peraldus’s description, speciﬁcally the absence of a hierarchy of the verbal sins, but above all the delicate relation between 7 There is a tacit reworking of Peraldus’s system in certain copies that otherwise follow Peraldus literally. The scribes conserved, for instance, Peraldus’s twenty-four sins of the tongue precisely, but they redistributed the sins among the usual seven vices (Wenzel 152). 8 It is important to mention that the remedies are not punishments but advice (to be silent; to live in monastic isolation, and so on).

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

29

vice (deadly sin) and sin. The anonymous Oxford treatise De lingua (On the tongue, 1250) assigns all of the sins of tongue (exactly twentyfour of them) to the deadly sin of the gula (gluttony). This solution is not only more elegant, it also reestablishes the number of vices as sevenfold, the system prevailing since Gregory the Great. By distinguishing between gula ‘in tasting’ ( peccato in gustu) and gula ‘in speaking’ (in loquela), De lingua oﬀers a response to the traditional notion that eating and talking reinforce each other.9 Later writing on the sins of language saw a qualitative leap: Alexander of Hales’ Summa theologica (1250) subdivides the seven deadly sins into thinking, speaking and doing (with reference to Petrus Lombardus’s Sentences or Augustine’s Contra Faustum). In this conceptualization, the traditional order of seven deadly sins is respected while the sins of speaking (Alexander names 12) simultaneously occupy a separate space.

II. Sociopolitical perspectives Nowadays all this reworking and re-systematizing of evil seems curious, but what was its implication at the time? What role did these texts play in the middle of the thirteenth century? And what kind of sociopolitical function could one attribute to the writing of the Lyonese Dominican? I would like to describe these texts in two opposite contexts. On the one hand, Peraldus’s Summa was written against the background of struggles with heretics, and on the other hand, this and similar texts became relevant in the political arena. From the beginning of the twelfth century, heresy was the main problem of the oﬃcial church. The two main heretical sects, the Cathari (who in southern France were called ‘Albigensians’) and the Waldensians, began to grow into genuine ecclesiastical institutions. In its ﬁght against the heretics, the oﬃcial church tried its utmost to take control by using words (sermon and confession), wars (the Albigensian crusade) and even the Inquisition. The call for a crusade against the Albigensians by Pope Innocent III (1209) had devastating consequences for the culture and the 9

De lingua refers (as does Robert of Sorbon) to St. Gregory’s narrative about the rich Epulone who make the plea to Abraham that he be given relief from the hellﬁre by cooling his tongue, as well as to Isidor of Sevilla’s very curious etymology of ‘lingua’ (alloying food and sounds). Hugo of Victor also noted that an excess of nourishment (aﬄuentia ciborum) always accompanished an excess of words (inundatio verborum).

30

 

language of southern France. The destruction of the courts resulting from this intervention meant an abrupt end to the Troubadour lyric, because the old Occitan courts were the natural sphere of this literature. In the longer term, this destruction also led to the decline of the Occitan language (cf. Cichon 10f.). The political consequence was an enormous growth of the power of the French royalty at the same time. Incidentally, this ﬁrst crusade against a Christian country passed through the town of Lyon, of which Guglielmus Peraldus was the archbishop some years later. The foundation of the Dominican order and its sanction by the Pope in 1215 was a result of this ﬁght against the heretics, so the Pope appointed the Dominicans to be the primary executors of his second important measure after the Albigensian war (until 1229) and the Saint Inquisition (from 1232). The Dominicans shared the function of primary inquisitors in Germany, France, Languedoc, Provence, southern and northern Italy with the Franciscans. In addition to these more spectacular actions, the ‘cultivation of speech’ in the mendicant orders, most historians agree, played a large part in the victory over the heretics. This is because the Dominicans and Franciscans asserted argumentative superiority in their public disputes with the heretics. This superiority in debate was grounded in the scholastic education of the mendicants. Scholastic argumentation was (along with public penances) ‘the most powerful means of instilling conformity’ (Mansﬁeld 5). The ‘discovery of the word as a weapon in the ﬁght against heretics and unbelievers’ in the thirteenth century posited by Wieland (130) must be ascribed for the most part to the mendicants, for whom morally correct speaking was simultaneously a duty and a pedagogical goal. For mendicant spiritual welfare, the word is the best means. Their emphasis on sermon and confession marks a new climax in attention to everyday verbal behaviour, an emphasis that was sanctioned by the fourth Lateran Council in 1215. The Council’s resolutions were in this regard of central importance, because they regulated the (verbal) behaviour of all Christians (confession at least once a year; communion at Easter).10 As Newhauser concludes: ‘Certain forms of oral speech (preaching, confession) . . . had gained a new cultural prominence in the wake of the fourth Lateran Council’ (Newhauser 197). These ‘sensitive indicators of change in the cul10 Dinzelbacher 96–100. In detail see the third chapter ‘The Publicity of Private Penance’ in Mansﬁeld.

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

31

tural and historical surroundings’ (ibid.) may have led Le Goﬀ to designate the thirteenth century as the ‘great century of the new spoken word’ (‘grand siècle de la parole nouvelle’ cited in Casagrande and Vecchio 115). Le Goﬀ points to a new importance of the spoken word as demonstrated by the attention paid during the thirteenth century to the verbal behaviour of the society as a whole, attention that was raised by the mendicants and by the rising lay culture. In classical antiquity only the orator was considered in this regard, he argues, and until the thirteenth century only the monks’ verbal behaviour was of any interest, but now everyday speech of all Christians became a central theme (Le Goﬀ Préface 15). This is the background for the new boom of treatises on the sins of the tongue during the ﬁrst half of the thirteenth century, and it also explains why every great theologian granted everyday speech violations a place in his system of sin. On the other hand, our treatises themselves must be seen as a theoretical background for political action when one considers the new turn of legislation against blasphemy, ‘this gravest of all the sins of the tongue’ (Craun 162) that King Louis the IX (Saint Louis) introduced after his unsuccessful crusade into the Holy Land (1248–54). The works dealing with the ban of blasphemy in France are uniﬁed in their contention that as part of the great ordinance of 1254, which brought forth a politics of moral order in France, the royal laws against blasphemy for the ﬁrst time predicate much crueler punishments than those of the church.11 (In contrast to the harsh royal legislation, the church delayed implementing mutilating punishments until the sixteenth century, when ‘Every dastardly word against God, the Blessed Virgin and the Saints’ was penalized (cited in Le Goﬀ Ludwig der Heilige 189). In the eyes of this ‘King of the word’,12

11 Cf. Hildesheimer 66. King Louis’ moral reform legislation was repeatedly reworked in France until the eighteenth century: in a more moderate way by Louis XII in 1510, by François I in 1514; by Henri II in 1546, by Louis XIV in 1651 and 1666; in a particularly cruel way in 1572, 1581, 1594, 1617, 1631 and in 1681 by Louis XVI. (This last was the harshest of all, for here the punishment of the piercing the tongue was predicated from the ﬁrst blasphemous word on, and the accused received no trial or other opportunity of defense, whereas in former times this occured only after the fourth blasphemy; cf. Belmas 15.) According to Belmas, 18 edicts against blasphemy were proclaimed in France between 1510 and 1594 (in contrast to only two in the fourteenth century and four in the ﬁfteenth century). 12 (Le Goﬀ and Schmitt 262). There are various possible reasons for this attribution. Louis IX’s biographers have noticed linguistic characteristics peculiar to the

32

 

blasphemy was one of the ‘blackest sins’ which were to be punished, at least in repeated oﬀenses, by mutilation of the lips, tongue or even teeth (208). One might cynically observe that for the ﬁrst time, French royal jurisdiction took the people’s speech violations seriously. In this way, Louis’ punishments only translated into action the discussions of sinful speaking in preachers’ handbooks and treatises.13 One must ask whether rogue speech had really become a bigger problem since the twelfth century or whether this was only a invention of the authorities. But there is no non-speculative answer. It is important not to mistake the theological sources for the historical reality (cf. Christin Condamnation 43). While there was undoubtedly an increase at the end of the 15th century in measures taken against verbal deviance—Christin speaks of a ‘rupture in the attitude toward blasphemy’ (Condamnation 48)—which demonstrates that more attention was now being paid to speech by the authorities, this attention does not necessarily mean at the same time that the behaviour itself changed. It means that people were now more likely apt to be conscious of talk, since uses and abuses of speech aﬀected their social standing and relation to the authorities. The important legal historical point is that ordinances and treatises against speech abuse were not part of the original medieval list of vices or of early law. The ordinances were invented in the thirteenth century in the French kingdom and from the end of the ﬁfteenth century they were applied to other European towns and regions as well. Although people’s speech behaviour may not have changed, the threat of certain types of speech to social order and the power base of the authorities had increased, hence the passage of new laws with their prohibitions and punishments. At the end of the ﬁfteenth century there was a renewed theological attentiveness to speech violations and legal measures against them. Once more theologians begin to complain in their sermons and treaking and his wife. The fact that the French language was now reaching its pinacle as the international language of culture alongside Latin may also be relevant here (Le Goﬀ Ludwig der Heilige 454 and 821). 13 The king had very good contacts with the Dominican mendicants. Perhaps the most important one was with the Dominican Vincent of Beauvais, who played ‘a fundamental role in the dissemination of Peraldus’s system’ (of seven vices and one sin of the tongue) (Casagrande and Vecchio 28), and who also wrote also texts for the education of the royal children including De eruditione ﬁliorum regalium (1260–1263, cf. Le Goﬀ Ludwig der Heilige 358).

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

33

tises about an increase in diverse verbal slips, about their growing diﬀusion and about the ineﬀectiveness of the legal sanctions. It is commonplace in the literature of the early modern era to foretell of terrible punishments for the whole community in this world and for the sinner in the next world. Singular systems of sins of the tongue, however, were no longer the center of attention. The primary issue was to achieve, in the here and now, control over the spoken word and to enforce its proper performance (Christin Du solt 82). Confession contributes to the tightening of this process, but it is not the cause. The new thematisation of sins of the tongue diﬀers in two points from the medieval one. Firstly, the sociohistorical status of the spoken word was now entirely diﬀerent: the printing, reception and diﬀusion of vernacular languages in commerce, administration, literature and even theology led to a expansion of language—including the divine word—which must have been a thorn in the ﬂesh of the contemporary theologians. ‘In view of the greater availability of the Divine Word (thanks to translations, to the lower book prices, or an increased number of copies) and in view of the invasion of the religious ﬁeld by non-professionals, those contemptuous of blasphemy were pursuing a vanished dream of a well ordered discourse’ (Christin Condamnation 64). With its innovations in media and technology, the early modern age thus reproduced in material form an expansion of the word that both heresy itself and the Christian lay culture which combatted heresy had provoked.

III. Historical Punishments for Unbridled Tongues In his book on speaking and silence in medieval literature, Volker Roloﬀ writes about ‘punishments of tongue’ in the legal judgements of the era: As far as the theme of ‘vitia lingua’ is concerned . . ., silence is nearly always the advice oﬀered . . . The potential of sinning through idle and excessive words leads to precepts of silence in the monasteries. The eﬀect of an apparently magic and primitive psychology, which transfers the responsibility for the spoken word onto the sense organs (tongue, mouth, lips), is evident in this preventive closure of the tongue, but in punishments of tongue as well, which play an important role in the medieval legal judgements (consider the punishments for insults, blasphemy, swearing and cursing . . .) (Roloﬀ 43).

34

 

One must be careful not to be deceived by Roloﬀ ’s use of the expression ‘punishment of tongue’ in the most literal sense (he refers to Jacob Grimm’s Deutsche Rechtsalterthümer). Although the passage in Grimm to which Roloﬀ is referring indeed enumerates mutilating punishments (‘8. cutting lips; 9. cutting tongue; 10. branding; 11. breaking oﬀ teeth’ Grimm II: 297), on careful examination one observes that there the expression ‘punishment of tongue’ does not appear. Moreover, the mutilations Roloﬀ mentions do not punish exclusively verbal oﬀenses: only for ‘cutting tongue’ does Grimm speak of verbal oﬀenses.14 The point is that the expression ‘punishment of tongue’ is neither in the books indicated by Roloﬀ nor in other standard books of medieval criminal law. Unlike in medieval argumentation, the notion of actual punishment of tongue was mentioned in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century sermons and treatises by preachers and moralists. Thus the Jesuit preacher Jeremias Drexel announced in Mainz 1616 a ‘Zungenstraﬀ in der ewigen Pein’ (‘punishment of tongue in eternal torment’) in ‘a bestseller of the seventeenth century’ (Bogner 13), and Wenceslaus Bergmann’s book Punished Sins of Tongue. Proof Against the Everywhere Existing Atheists, Epicurians and Scorns of These Times That There is a God (Bestraﬀte Zungen Sünde, 1678) was published in several editions. But even if the expression ‘punishment of tongue’ is not a medieval one, the historical punishments for exactly the oﬀenses described in treatises on sins of the tongue require an explanation. Which came ﬁrst, the texts or the historical practice? It is probably impossible to know whether the theological texts merely justiﬁed an historical reality or whether they oﬀered the decisive impulses for bringing about that reality. The fact that blasphemy was interpreted until the eighteenth century as an attack on the honour of God and that it was linked immediately in the legal systems to slander or calumny as an attack on the honour of one’s neighbour (Schwerhoﬀ 254) indicates that treatises on sins of the tongue had a great inﬂuence on at least the penal system. The basis of this argumentation could be a subdivision of

14

The problem is that crimes and punishments are treated separately by Grimm. The two subjects are not cross-referenced, so that it is diﬃcult (most of the time, it is actually impossible) to know what kind of oﬀense receives which speciﬁc punishment. It is notable, however, that Grimm tersely adds that these crimes and punishments exist ‘more in the tales and legends than in the laws’.

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

35

sins common since the time of Peter the Singer. Peter classiﬁed sins of the tongue into three groups: those against God, those against one’s neighbour and those against ourselves (cf. Casagrande and Vecchio 23). The lasting success of this classiﬁcation shows appropriate it was, and this was demonstrated further by the extensive article on ‘tongue’ in Zedler’s Universal-Lexikon of 1750 and by the treatise The Government of the Tongue quoted in the introduction of this chapter. But what did the people actually say? The clerks are often strangely silent about the actual blasphemous expressions. Historians have often explained the absence of these expression in sources by pointing out that there was a magical power attributed to the words when they were pronounced. By repeating and, even worse, by placing them permanently in oﬃcial documents, one might have feared their infective powers. This idea of infection by bad words was taken seriously: early modern clerks who had to record verbal oﬀenses accurately as part of their job often employed a protective formula.15 Historians report of simple remarks during medieval times that reinforced the unpronounceable character of the oﬀensive expression, noting that blasphemous words were ‘neither to be written down, nor to be pronounced’ (‘nit ze schribende noch ze nennende’ in Straßburg 1359; cf. Schwerhoﬀ 270). Even if it was ‘a horror to think of them much less write down’ (Allen 222), there are rare documents, which describe the consequences for blasphemers, name the actual verbal behaviour and even name the forbidden words. These documents reveal that cursing and swearing about the sexual organs of God and the Blessed Virgin were common speech violations. Schwerhoﬀ oﬀers a litany of obscene curses, in which the similarsounding euphemism ‘bockis’ or ‘Botz’ substitutes for ‘Gott’. It seems that the regulations of the ﬁnes and other consequences for blasphemy in the town charters of Frankfurt, Zurich and Freiburg describe the precise consequences for uttering more harmless expressions such as bockis bard (bock’s beard), bockis nase (bock’s nose) in contrast to 15 Articles 181–189 of the Carolina (1532) describe the task of the clerks in interrogations, which was to ‘make a written record accurately, variously and properly’ (‘eygentlich, underschiedlich und ordenlich auﬀschreiben’). Aside from wordings such as ‘salvo honere’ (without insulting the honour), ‘salva reverentia’ (without reverence) and so forth, abbreviations such as R.I.S.N.D.D. (‘renier le Saint Nom de Dieu’, to deny the Holy Name of God) were supposed to prevent one from granting these words even greater power (cf. Belmas 27). Sabean has studied such ritual wordings, which early modern clerks used as a means of social distancing and of puriﬁcation from scatological, blasphemous, and otherwise oﬀensive words.

36

 

scatological and sexual ones such as bocks scheis (bock’s shit) or knodelloch (dumpling hole) or bockis mere (bock’s concubine) (271–272). Because punishment by God was too long in coming,16 the authorities took measures to punish in this world. These measures were a hint of the Judgment that, it was imagined, would take place in the next world. They oﬀered ‘a theater of terror’ (van Dülmen), which cast its shadow on even the ‘real’ (stage) theatre of the Enlightenment.17 The main characteristic of the ritual of punishment (Strafritual ) was that it was public: the public was an integral part of a penalty that was intended to reﬂect the crime committed (Spiegelstrafe). This ceremony of punishment, which had been held since the eleventh century, portrayed to the public the oﬀensive deed and did not compensate for any damage caused to the victim. The public audience were supposed to re-experience the deed with their own senses (Schild 262–263). Mutilations and so-called ‘punishments of honour’18 were supposed to reﬂect the monstrosity of the oﬀense itself: So the legal punishment for false oath was the loss of the thumb or of the whole hand by which he had sworn the false oath; some charters also dictated the loss of the tongue, by which he had spoken. Blasphemers and slanderers also had their tongues pulled out (Schild 262, my italics).

The body of the oﬀender was thus reduced to ‘a corporal stage for the theater of justice’ (Schild 273). The principle of reﬂection can be found not only in many German town charters, but throughout Europe, where from the end of the eleventh century mutilation of tongue and lips was supposed to reﬂect verbal oﬀenses. The statute of the town of Pisa sentenced those who committed false witness to 16 I am disregarding here popular stories of the blasphemers who, having uttered oﬀensive words holy ones, suddenly die with their black tongues sticking out (cf. Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens, articles ‘Lüge’, ‘Fluch’, ‘Meineid’). 17 ‘The parallel between the eﬀect of tragical theater and public execution became a topos in the eighteenth century, when an explanation for the paradoxical pleasure in observing terrifying things was sought’ (Zelle 77). At the end of the eighteenth century the theater of justice was over, and a certainty of punishment replaced cruelty (95). 18 Ehrenstrafe (honour punishment) is a later notion, from the nineteenth century. One example of such a punishment was the use of the stone to represent slander, shame, or evil language, which had to be carried by (mostly) women for having slandered or insulted others. It was a punishment that was supposed to demonstrate a loss of honour by the oﬀender (the origins of this ritual are probably in ecclesiastical penance). According to Künßberg this punishment was executed between 1412 and 1748, while Stoeber describes one case as early as the middle of the thirteenth century in France.

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

37

piercing of the tongue by a hook, by which the oﬀender was also dragged through the town (Kaufmann 1762f.). ‘Stones of shame’ (mostly ﬁxed on the pillory of the community), masks of shame and special clothing pointed out the loss of the oﬀender’s honour. The question of how long the stigma of these rituals lasted, however, remains controversial. This question is not relevant to mutilation (corporal punishment), since in that case the body is marked for good, not in an arbitrary way. The reﬂective characteristic of mutilating punishments diminished in their enormous cruelty in the twelfth and thirteenth century. Mutilations increasingly represented the oﬀense’s monstrosity but did not illustrate the way the deed happened. ‘[Now] only the legal correlation between misdeed and horriﬁc penalty was to be expressed in a perceptible way’ (Schild 264). In this period the penalty was not supposed to reﬂect or mirror the misdeed itself, but just to indicate that the misdeed was a terrible one. For the comprehension of the late medieval penal system, however, it is important to keep in mind that various alternative consequences for the same oﬀense existed side by side, including penances, corporal punishment and even making amends to the victim (Willoweit 224f.). Mary Mansﬁeld has shown that long after the thirteenth century, at least in France, dramatic public humiliation survived the advent of the Scholasticism. Mansﬁeld is refuting here the traditional opinion that in the later Middle Ages ‘private form[s] of penance’ (that is, ‘heavy penalties of fasting, alms, or money redemptions for each crime according to ﬁxed tables: the tariﬀs’) ‘began to evolve, and . . . came to replace the public rite’ (Mansﬁeld 2). Step by step a public penal system began to develop, but for a long time diﬀering interpretations of penance, punishment and expiation existed side by side. In medieval Latin, one word, penitentia, could mean both the sinner’s saving contrition and the satisfactory penalty imposed by the priest. (. . .) Public penance (. . .) was normally only half voluntary, as much a punishment imposed as a sacriﬁce assumed, as much a lesson to the populace as redemption for the individual, as much reconciliation with church and neighbor as reconciliation with God (16–17).

In studying cases of executed punishments that were actually carried out, we are often confronted with dubious references. This is why many historians question the reality of mutilating punishments or they interpret the eﬀect of deterrence as more important than the punishments themselves. Could these cruel punishments have

38

 

been common practice in the history of penal jurisprudence? And were the cruelest punishments even ever really carried out, or were they just carried out in eﬃgy?19 On the one hand, the laws prescribed various forms of mutilation of organs as punishment for acts such as blasphemy, perjury and repeated swearing. The town charter of Regensburg decreed that the punishment for blasphemy or swearing false oath was extraction of the oﬀender’s tongue (‘dy zung an einem haken das den nakch ausziehen’) and ﬁxing it on the pillory. On the other hand, on could avoid corporal punishment by paying a ﬁne. Moreover, there are indications that legislation on crime was not the same as the actual legal judgements on crime and even less similar to execution of punishment.20 A central problem that confronts the historian of speech violations is the paucity and, where they are to be found, the deﬁciency of available sources. The German historian Schwerhoﬀ surmises that the Regensburg charter ‘could hardly have be realized’ (Schwerhoﬀ 264). And with regard to early modern France, Françoise Hildesheimer doubts ‘the reality of the punitive measures, whose spectacular and exemplary character without a doubt compensated for the breadth of the holes in the mesh of repression’.21 Laws and the punitive measures they prescribe seem on the one hand to have been ‘simply ignored’, but on the other hand there are cases on record in which blasphemers were actually sentenced. According to Susanna Burghartz, 73% of blasphemous cases in the town Zurich, Switzerland between 1376 and 1385 were really punished, but mostly by ﬁnes (Burghartz 134–137 and 267–269; cf. Schwerhoﬀ 263). This oﬀense was pursued without complaint, one notes, by the authorities. It is a fact 19 This is much the same as in the aﬀair of the Chevalier de La Barre, in whom Voltaire took much interest. Here the friend of La Barre, D’Etallonde, has been punished in eﬃgy. La Barre himself was sentenced to have his tongue cut oﬀ, but the punishment was not executed (Hertz 1887). 20 This is suggested for example, by the encyclopedia Zedlers Universal-Lexikon in the middle of the eighteenth century. A voluminous article about the tongue speaks of its physical characteristics, ‘its moral use’, and so forth. At the end of the article the lexicographer gives indications of punishments for those who had abused their tongue in a paragraph entitled ‘Judicial treatment of the tongue’. Here he writes that blasphemers would ‘have their tongues cut out of the throat’, be ‘penetrated with an awl, or nailed on the pillory’. The validity of his description is, however, compromised when he admits that these punishments had already ‘in some places [been] abolished’. 21 Hildesheimer 67. The same results are cited in Laingui 44, n. 191 and in Cohen (287) for the late Middle Ages in France.

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

39

that punishments against blasphemers and those who swore were genuinely carried out and that the oﬀenders were subject not only to ﬁnes, but also to punishments of honour, corporal punishments, and even (though rarely) death. Gerd Schwerhoﬀ enumerates cases of harshly punished blasphemy in the region of southern Germany from the middle of the fourteenth century. In 1357 Knoepfelin der Stubekneht had to swear that he would not come back to town (Straßburg) and his tongue was cut out. In 1368 Heinrich der Swertfurb was pilloried in Augsburg for ‘evil speech against God and Maria’ and ‘after that his tongue was cut out of the throat and he was banned from the town’. This is also the way that Ulrich Gleissenhammer’s tongue was cut in Nürnberg in 1465, which was also a punishment for blasphemy. In 1507, Max Behr’s tongue was cut out in Rothenburg ob der Tauber on a pillory, and he was branded with a hot iron on his forehead and chased out of town. (Schwerhoﬀ 263). Late medieval penitential handbooks, Peraldus’s Summa de vitiis in particular, focused on the tongue as an apparently responsible and independent organ22 that could not be integrated into the traditional catalogue of evil. A similar kind of mystiﬁcation and demonization of the tongue is practiced in late medieval (and early modern) systems of punishment and penance, regardless of whether they were ﬁctional consequences of those texts or whether the texts themselves were themselves justiﬁcations for an already existing practice. The slitting, slicing, boring, cutting and tearing out of the tongue treats this organ as if it itself independently committed the verbal misbehaviour. Two contradictory interpretations are possible. Are these injuries to the tongue symbolic acts in which the body is only used as a reﬂective surface, a corporal stage for the theater of justice, most importantly setting an example for the public? Or is the punishment, as I have suggested, the stigmatization of the organ, in that it was regarded as a responsible and independent organ of which a body in need of puriﬁcation? So are we seeing an act of deterrence, in which the characters are merely accusing parts of the body—tongue, 22

From at least 1657, when a book on Hebrew pronunciation by F. Mercurius van Helmont appeared, it was known that the tongue was not the only organ involved in producing sound. The central function that the tongue played in the argumentation in the ‘governor of the tongue’ [or tongue-tamer: Zungenbezähmer] was supposed to have been a result of exclusively theological reasoning.

40

 

eye, heart, hand—of leading them astray and for which the audience of the punishing act is the public? Or is this view of the body as a set of singular parts a component of a magical ceremony in which the organs really are considered guilty? In his theory of the ‘mirror stage’ Jacques Lacan posits a fragmented body (corps morcelé ) of uncontrollable members. For the psychoanalyst, the child discovers at approximately 6 months of age her own image in the mirror. This discovery of something wriggling uncontrollably in the mirror has, according to Lacan, great consequences, since in identifying herself the child regards the image as the ego and receives in that way a formative image of herself. Could the tongue thus be a coded symbol for the body which cannot be controlled? As it is said in James 3:8: ‘But no man can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison’.

Works Cited Allen, Richard Martin. Crime and Punishment in Sixteenth Century Reutlingen. Ann Arbor, Mich.: University Microﬁlms International, 1980. Bächtold-Stäubli. Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens. 10 vols. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1927–42. Belmas, Elisabeth. “La montée des blasphèmes à l’âge moderne du Moyen Âge au XVII e siècle.” Injures et blasphèmes. Ed. Jean Delumeau. Paris: Imago, 1989. 13–33. Bergmann, Wenceslaus. Bestraﬀte Zungen Sünde zu sonderbahren Beweiß wider die überal sich häuﬃg ﬁndenden Atheisten, Epicurer und Spoetter dieser letzten Tage. Dresden: Melchior Berg, 1678. Die Bezaehmung der Zunge entworﬀen von dem Verfasser der die ganze Pﬂicht des Menschen geschrieben hat. Aus dem Englischen uebersetzt. Mit einer Vorrede von Herrn Christian Gottlieb Joecher. Berlin: Haude, 1745. Blythe, Joan Heiges. “Sins of the Tongue and Rhetorical Prudence in ‘Piers Plowman’.” Literature and Religion In the Later Middle Ages. Philological Studies in Honor of Siegfried Wenzel. Ed. Richard G. Newhauser and John A. Alford. Binghamton, NY: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1995. 119–42. Bogner, Ralf Georg. Die Bezähmung der Zunge. Literatur und Disziplinierung der Alltagskommunikation in der frühen Neuzeit. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1997. Burghartz, Susanna. Leib, Ehre und Gut.Delinquenz in Zürich Ende des 14. Jahrhunderts. Zürich: Chronos, 1990 Casagrande, Carla, and Silvana Vecchio. I peccati della lingua: Disciplina e etica della parola nella cultura medievale. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1987. Christin, Olivier. “ ‘Du solt nit schweren bey Sein Namen’. Matériaux pour servir à l’histoire du blasphème (1450–1550).” Bulletin de la Mission historique française en Allemagne 1. part in 29 (1994/1996): 56–67 and 2. part in 30 (1996): 67–85. ——. “Sur la condamnation du blasphème (XVI–XVII siècles).” Revue de l’église de France LXXX (1994): 43–64 Cichon, Peter. Einführung in die okzitanische Sprache. Bonn: Romanistischer Verlag, 1999.

PECCATUM LINGUAE

     

41

Cohen, Esther. “ ‘To Die a Criminal for the Public Good’: The Execution Ritual in Late Medieval Paris.” Law, Custom and the Social Fabric in Medieval Europe. Festschrift for Bryce Lyon. Ed. Bernard S. Bachrach. Kalamazoo: Western Michigan University, 1990. 285–304. Craun, Edwin D. “ ‘Inordinata locutio’: Blasphemy in Pastoral Literature, 1200–1500”. In: Traditio. 39 (1983): 133–162. Dinzelbacher, Peter. Hoch- und Spätmittelalter. Handbuch der Religionsgeschichte im deutschsprachigen Raum. Vol. 2. Paderborn: Schöningh, 2000. Dondaine, Antoine O.P. “Guillaume Peyraut. Vie et oeuvres.” Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum. 18 (1948): 162–236. Drexel, Jeremias. Zungen Schleiﬀer oder Brinnende Weltkugel von bösen Zungen angezündet. Trans. of the Latin under the title Orbus Phaeton [1628]. Munich: n.p., 1631. Government of the Tongue. By the Author of the Whole Duty of Man. 5th impression, 1677. At the Theater: Oxford, 1667. (Attributed to Dorothy Pakington or Richard Allestree.) Grimm, Jacob. Deutsche Rechtsaltertümer. Ed. Andreas Heusler and Rudolf Hübner. 4th edition. Leipzig: Mayer & Müller, 1992. Hertz, Eduard. Voltaire und die französische Strafrechtspﬂege im 18. Jahrhundert. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Aufklärungszeitalters (1887). Aalen: Scientia, 1972. Hildesheimer, Françoise. “La répression du blasphème au XVIIIe siècle.” Injures et blasphèmes. Ed. Jean Delumeau. Paris: Imago, 1989. 63–81. Kaufmann, E. “Spiegelnde Strafen.” Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte. Vol. 4 Berlin: Schmidt, 1990. 1762–1763. Künßberg, Eberhard Freiherr von. Über die Strafe des Steintragens. Breslau: Marcus, 1907. Lacan, Jacques. “Le stade du miroir comme formateur de la fonction du Je.” Ècrits. Ed. François Wahl. Paris: Seuil, 1949. 93–100. Laingui, André. “La sanction pénale dans la droite français du 18.–19. siècle.” La peine-punishment. Receuils de la société Jean Bodin pour l’histoire comparative des institutions. 3e partie: Europe depuis le XVIII e siècle. Bruxelles: De Boeck, 1989. 37–52. Le Goﬀ, Jacques. Ludwig der Heilige. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 2000. ——. “Préface” of Les péchés de la langue. Discipline et éthique de la parole dans la culture médiévale. Traduit de l’italien par Philippe Baillet. Paris: du Cerf, 1991. 11–15. Le Goﬀ, Jacques, and Jean-Claude Schmitt. “Une parole nouvelle.” Histoire vécue du peuple chrétien. Bd. 1 De la clandestinité à la chrétienité. Toulouse: Privat, 1979. 257–279. Mansﬁeld, Mary C. The Humiliation of Sinners. Public Penance in Thirteenth-Century France. Ithaca and London: Cornell UP, 1995. New Life. Holy Bible. New International Version. 4th impression. London: Bible Society, 1991. Newhauser, Richard. The treatise on vices and virtues in latin and the vernacular. Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 1993. Peraldus, Guglielmus. Summa vituum ac vitioru Guilhelmi Peraldi Episcopi Lugdunentis de ordine predicatorum. Paris: Regnault, 1512. Roloﬀ, Volker. Reden und Schweigen. Zur Tradition und Gestaltung eines mittelalterlichen Themas in der französischen Literatur. München: Fink, 1973. Sabean, David Warren. “Soziale Distanzierungen. Ritualisierte Gestik in deutscher bürokratischer Prosa der Frühen Neuzeit.” Historische Anthropologie 4 (1996): 216–233. Schild, Wolfgang. “Verstümmelung des menschlichen Körpers. Zur Bedeutung der Glieder und Organe des Menschen.” Erﬁndung des Menschen. Schöpfungsträume und Körperbilder 1500–2000. Wien: Böhlau, 1998. 261–281. Schwerhoﬀ, Gerd. “ ‘Blasphemare, dehonestare et maledicere Deum’. Über die Verletzung der göttlichen Ehre im Spätmittelalter.” Verletzte Ehre. Ehrkonﬂikte in gesellschaften des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit. Ed. Klaus Schreiner and Gerd Schwerhoﬀ. Köln: Böhlau, 1995. 252–278.

42

 

Stoeber, Auguste. Notice historique sur Le Klapperstein ou la pierre des mauvaise langues, suivie de quelques mots sur la lapidation. Colmar: Decker, 1856. van Dülmen, Richard. Theater des Schreckens. Gerichtspraxis und Strafrituale in der frühen Neuzeit. 2nd impression. München: Beck, 1985. Wenzel, Siegfried. “The Continuing Life of William Peraldus’s ‘Summa vitiorum’.” Ad litteram. Autoritative Texts and Their Medieval Readers. Ed. Mark D. Jordan and Kent Emery, Jr. Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1992. 135–163. Wieland, Karin. Worte und Blut. Gender Studies. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1998. Willoweit, Dietmar. “Gewalt und Verbrechen, Strafe und Sühne im alten Würzburg. Oﬀene Probleme der deutschen strafrechtsgeschichtlichen Forschung.” Die Entstehung des öﬀentlichen Strafrechts. Bestandsaufnahme eines europäischen Forschungsproblems. Ed. Dietmar Willoweit. Köln: Böhlau, 1999. 215–238. Zelle, Carsten. „Strafen und Schrecken. Einführende Bemerkungen zur Parallele zwischen dem Schauspiel der Tragödie und der Tragödie der Hinrichtung.“ Jahrbuch der deutschen Schillergesellschaft 28 (1984): 76–103. Zedler, Johann Heinrich. Grosses Vollständiges Universal-Lexikon (1750). Bd. 64. Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1961/64. Reprint.

HE CONQUERED AL THE REGNE OF FEMENYE: WHAT CHAUCER’S KNIGHT DOESN’T TELL ABOUT THESEUS* Laurel Broughton

By telling the initial Canterbury tale, Chaucer’s Knight inaugurates what can be seen as an extended conversation among the pilgrims. The story of Palamon and Arcite, based largely on Boccaccio’s Teseida, introduces many of the themes, among them the nature of love and the role of chivalry, that reappear in subsequent tales and resonate throughout the individual prologues and links between tales. Much of this conversation gains meaning from what Chaucer leaves unsaid, as well as what his characters actually say. Examining the opening of “The Knight’s Tale” in comparison with its source gives a clear example of how the unspoken parts of the conversation color our understanding of what actually gets said. This examination shows us conversation at work on three levels: ﬁrst, the modes in which Boccaccio’s Hippolyta and Theseus address each other and their followers; second, the absence of this conversation from “The Knight’s Tale” and our understanding of Theseus’s speeches in the light of that absence; and third, the implications of that absence in the larger conversations between the Knight and his fellow Canterbury pilgrims and between Chaucer and his audience. In “The Knight’s Tale,” the narrator repeatedly characterizes Theseus as a “noble conqueror” and presents him as the champion of women. In the ﬁrst action he takes in the tale, Theseus avenges the wrongs of the Greek women who greet him on his return from Scythia, who are mourning that Creon will not let them bury their dead. He pays heed to their verbal appeal, dashing oﬀ immediately to destroy Thebes before setting foot in Athens. This shows Theseus responding to the needs of women: they can depend on him. He appears as a purveyor of justice, a model of chivalry. * An earlier version of this essay was presented at the International Congress on Medieval Studies in Kalamazoo, Michigan, on May 4, 2001.

44

 

But Chaucer doesn’t tell about what Theseus did before his return to Greece. Instead, he gives a general statement, that Theseus “conquered al the regne of Femenye” (866),1 and then goes on to tell us what he isn’t going to tell us, a conscious use of occupatio, condensing all of the ﬁrst book of the Teseida into eleven lines: And certes, if it nere to long to heere, I wolde have toold yow fully the manere How wonnen was the regne of Femenye By Theseus and by his chivalrye; And of the grete bataille for the nones Bitwixen Atthenes and Amazones; And how asseged was Ypolita, The faire, hardy queene of Scithia; And of the feste that was at hir weddynge, And of the tempest at hir hoom-comynge; But al that thyng I moot as now forbere. (875–85) [Certainly, if it were not too lengthy to listen to, I would have told you fully how the realm of Scythia was conquered by Theseus and his knights; of the great battle on that occasion between the Athenians and the Amazons; how Hippolyta, the fair, brave Queen of Scythia, was besieged; of the feast at their wedding; and of the tempest at their home-coming. But all those things I must now let pass. (19)]2

In addition to this list of ﬁve things he must now forbear, Chaucer silently insinuates another list: those things the Knight doesn’t tell us he’s not going to tell us, among them: the original assertion of the “regne of Femenye,” Theseus’s decision to invade Scythia, his initial humiliation, and subsequent, less-than-chivalrous excavation under the walls of the Amazon city. Thus, while making him to appear the noble champion of women’s causes, Chaucer undercuts Theseus by drawing our attention to what he leaves unsaid, a reminder that he has just defeated an army of women. By looking at Chaucer’s main source, we see the battle between Theseus and Hippolyta as more than a skirmish between the sexes. It becomes a battle about the deﬁnition of chivalry itself, between chivalry construed as a pragmatic means to an end and as an ethical code of behavior. This battle is deﬁned as much by the ways in which Theseus and Hippolyta 1 This and all subsequent references to The Canterbury Tales are taken from The Riverside Chaucer, ed. Benson et al., (Boston: Houghton Miﬄin, 1987). 2 This and all subsequent translations are taken from Geoﬀrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, trans. R. M. Lumiansky (New York: Holt, Rhinehart and Winston, 1948).

      

45

address their followers and their ongoing correspondence as it is by the actual armed encounters. To get a clearer sense of what Chaucer doesn’t tell, we can turn to Boccaccio’s Teseida. Robert Armstrong Pratt tells us that Chaucer owned this work, although his copy probably did not include Boccaccio’s glosses (82–88). Boitani states that Chaucer “became addicted to Boccaccio’s poem” (72).3 The opening occupatio indicates that Chaucer expected his audience to know the outline of the Theseus story. As David Anderson points out, Chaucer deliberately depends on allusion and “prepared his original audience to understand the allusions of his narrative structure without recourse to bookish glosses” (213). This use of allusion was a hallmark of medieval ways of speaking and thinking. Douglas Kelly reminds us, “Diﬀerent voices sing the same song. Not only do diﬀerent authors proﬀer diﬀerent versions of a single story, but each individual author must negotiate among the many voices heard in order to arrive at a new version” (xi). We can assume that Chaucer, having his source at hand, made deliberate choices when retelling the story of Theseus. What he chooses not to tell becomes as telling as what he tells. The tension between what Chaucer alludes to but doesn’t tell, and those elements that he totally omits, embodies not only the tension between the sexes as played out in Theseus’s war with the Amazons, but a more subtle tension between possible readings of “chivalry” and what constitutes knightly behavior. We see this in Boccaccio’s recounting of the addresses made by Hippolyta and Theseus to their followers and in the correspondence between the duke and the queen.

Hippolyta and Theseus address their followers Boccaccio gives the ﬁrst spoken words of the Teseida to Hippolyta. After she discovers Theseus’s plan to invade Scythia, she makes a long speech (13 stanzas) in which she incites the Amazons to withstand the foe. First, she reminds them of their intent to remain independent, free from servitude, and of their commitment to “perform manly, rather 3 Boitani suggests that Chaucer acquired this manuscript either during his ﬁrst visit to Italy in 1373, or from Italian merchants or friars at an undetermined date. He also questions Pratt’s assumption that Chaucer’s copy of the Tesseida had no glosses (72, 113–06).

46

 

than womanly deeds” (1.24).4 She then deﬁnes Theseus’s motives: “You have heard that great Theseus is planning to attack us, deeming us troublesome because we are not satisﬁed with remaining subject to men and obedient to their whims like other women” (1.27). Here she clearly identiﬁes the battle as one of gender issues, a deﬁnition that will surely resonate with her audience. After entreating them to muster all their “courage, wit and strength against this man,” (1.28) she reminds them of the extreme measures they took to ensure their freedom, a freedom now threatened by the Argive ships. Her rousing exhortation is designed to inspire her warriors to withstand the invasion: Do not spare courage here, ladies, do not stint arms, or bravery, do not fear death for the sake of honor. Consider what would be the consequences of energetic action on the one hand or of fear on the other. You are not now confronted with inﬂicting death on fathers or sons who might move you to pity, but on a hostile people who are odious to you. Rekindle within you that bold spirit which animated you that night when each of you employed unprecedented cruelty against fathers or sons. May there be no one here who refuses to share the common lot, if she values the power of the gods. Let mercy ﬁnd its uses elsewhere, for here I order it put to death in every wise woman. (1.32–33)

Her rhetorical strategy succeeds: each and every Amazon oﬀers herself, “even to the death” (1.36). After this initial call to arms, Hippolyta addresses her women on two additional occasions. Both speeches occur at crucial junctures in her conﬂict with Theseus, the ﬁrst when Theseus begins his siege of the Amazon castle, the second when Hippolyta realizes that Theseus has breeched the walls and the Amazons have no alternative but surrender. When Theseus takes the shore and besieges the castle, Hippolyta tells her women: “We are well supplied with the necessities of life. If we want to be clever in the way we guard it, this land is stronger than any bold knight who might be able to get near it, and perhaps we might make him repent of doing so with a wretched death. Once they have come this far and seen our daring, they will go away in defeat” (1.87). While she attempts to inspire conﬁdence, she 4 This and all subsequent references to the Teseida are taken from Giovanni Boccaccio, The Book of Theseus, trans. Bernadette Marie McCoy (New York: Medieval Text Association, 1974). For an edition in Italian, see Giovanni Boccacci, Teseida delle nozze d’Emilia, edited by A. Limentani (Milan: Mondadori, 1992). The text also appears online at www.ilbolerodiravel.org.

      

47

also reminds the Amazons of what they have to lose: “If you have ever loved freedom, therefore, if your honor has ever been dear to you, show your integrity now. Show your courage and valor now to the one who approaches your city with the intention of dragging us out of it” (1.88). Hippolyta’s ﬁnal speech to her women shows a marked change in tone from the previous two. Rather than attempting to rouse their courage and urge them on to valorous deeds, she sees her responsibility now to reconcile them to their defeat and to keep them alive. She begins by acknowledging that their defeat is the will of the gods, a judgment resulting from their rebellion against their men: You see clearly, ladies, to what a pass the gods have brought us, and not unjustly. If the husband, brother, son, or father we each killed were here now, Theseus would never have dared to enter our harbor. Because they are not here, however, he has assailed us, as you see, and still lays siege to us. Venus is angry with us with just cause, and along with her friend Mars shows him her favor. She has given him such power that he commands all the land around our besieged city against our will. (1.116–17)

She then presents the alternatives, to ﬁght or to surrender and makes her recommendations: It seems to me that to say we will do battle with him is a very foolish idea, since we all know that he and his people are bold and proud. If we still remember it well and we want to admit the truth to ourselves, we tried that not very long ago and were sorry for it in less than an hour. More than this, he has the help of the gods, who consider us enemies, on his side. We have seen clearly that neither prayers, nor vigils nor toils, nor physical force, nor prudent action have been able to save us. We should now be begging his favor, if we want him to leave us alive. I consider it much better advice to surrender ourselves to him who, from what I hear, bears the honor and and prize for earthly valor. It will not be a disgrace for us to be conquered by such an excellent man, since every man realizes that we are women, and so we are, and that he is the duke of Athens. (1.119–21)

Her words indicate that she has learned a hard lesson: women need men. Although she acknowledges defeat in this speech, she uses the same logical and rational mode of address that she has used in her earlier speeches. Her somber tone introduces a new element, that of pragmatic realism. It is better to surrender to Theseus and stay alive than to be slaughtered by his men in battle. However, her last lines contain more than a hint of irony because we know that she

48

 

knows this “excellent man” (1.121) has achieved his victory outside the understood codes of warfare, a knowledge she has articulated in her correspondence with Theseus. Her ways of speaking to her women show us not only Hippolyta’s intelligence, but her innate sense of courtesy and her strength as a leader. Although she is pressed to the limits, she retains a cool, calm tone and always addresses her women with respect. In contrast to Hippolyta, Theseus speaks to his men only once and addresses his ﬁrst words, not to them, but to Mars and Minerva. Only after he has vocalized his prayer does he speak to his troops, who have not fared well in the ﬁrst skirmish. Rather than praising them, as Hippolyta does the Amazons, he berates them: “Ah, disgrace of the Argive people, where has your great courage gone? Is your strength so worthless that weak women put you to ﬂight? Then go back to your homes, where your strength has remained behind, and let your women come here” (1.61). Intending to provoke his men to a show of strength, Theseus impugns their manhood. He continues, “Flee this place, contemptible ones, since Mars gives more help to women than to you. Be stripped of your armor and let them be clothed in it to whom it is better suited. Would it not have been better for you now to have suﬀered the pangs of death with honor than to retreat shamefully and allow girls to advance?” (1.63). His rhetorical strategy inverts that of Hippolyta, but he also meets with success, as Boccaccio reports: “And they were so goaded by shame at the words of the proud Theseus, that they became eager and bold” (1.68). Never during their conﬂict do Theseus and Hippolyta speak face to face. Theseus initiates conversation with Hippolyta, sending envoys (surrogate tongues) to the queen to inform her of his intent and to suggest that she accept his conditions. Boccaccio does not quote her response, but reports that she “inveighed against him bitterly for what he had already undertaken to do, rebuking him for meddling in the aﬀairs of another state outside his own realm. In fact, if she could, she would make him repent it speedily” (1.45). Boccaccio does show us Theseus verbalizing his response, “It cost this woman little to answer like this. But I shall certainly disabuse her of her error, if I am not mistaken” (1.46). But the Amazons prove more than worthy opponents. Theseus’s siege drags into months and the only way he can bring it to an end is to excavate under the castle walls. At this point Boccaccio creates an exchange of letters between Hippolyta and Theseus, letters that present contrasting views of war-

      

49

fare and “chivalry” and the battle moves beyond gender conﬂict to a discussion of the ethics of war. Hippolyta opens her letter by professing not to understand Theseus’s motives for invading her country. She asserts a discrepancy between Theseus’s honorable reputation and his actual behavior: I certainly do not know the reason for all this, for I have never oﬀended you. I am not Medea, who wanted to poison you out of envy. On the contrary, your valor, when it was discussed, I do not know how frequently, pleased me. I had a great desire to see you and even wanted to make your acquaintance, so much did your excellent prowess please me. But now I see the opposite eﬀect of your valor as I consider your latest undertaking and think that I am suddenly outraged without having committed a fault and without giving you cause to doubt me in any way. (1.102–03)

At this point, Hippolyta’s letter cuts to the heart of her conﬂict with Theseus, accusing him of dishonorable conduct: You have not be behaved like a knight who takes up a just war against an equal. But like some treacherous cheat, you have suddenly assailed my country, and like a shameful and wicked warrior, you never considered, if my heart is not mistaken, that to make war on women and win a victory is more to the shame than the glory of the victor. You ought to be ashamed of this, if you are the son, as you claim, of good Aegeus. You ought not to attack my walls with your artillery. Those who wanted to test my strength already repent, since none of my girls has ever made a poor showing, but all of them are bold, gallant, and nimble. But now you have sounded out your might and, if you reﬂect, you have found it useless. So you have found other ways underground to have me safely in your prison. To tell the truth, it will not work, for an excellent corrective has already been applied. Furthermore, ﬁghting in dark places is neither the craft nor the art of a good warrior. (1.104–06)

Hippolyta uses strong words here, calling Theseus a “treacherous cheat,” “shameful and wicked warrior” who works “underground,” “ﬁghting in dark places.” She paints the picture of dishonor and Theseus’s actions, as presented by Boccaccio, show her to be correct in her assessment. Theseus’s words aﬃrm Hippolyta’s position. His spoken response to his lords barely disguise his scorn: “How lucky I am! I have saved my life, thanks to this lady who scolds me and then dismisses me so that my fame may ﬂourish among the peoples roundabout in my lifetime” (1.108).

 

50

His written response is short and pragmatic: What shames us is to have our people killed and chased from their lands. On the other hand, it does us great honor to take up arms in wreaking vengeance. It does not shame our hearts, either, when we seek to dig a path underground, because we intend to humble your pride. We do, however, what a good warrior is accustomed to do, that is we take advantage so that our own men may be saved the more readily and the enemy vanquished. Soon you will see us within the conﬁnes of your city, not as a friend certainly, unless you surrender to us at once, but killing you and cutting you down. (1.110–11)

To makes sure she gets the point, he shows her messengers the excavations, about to topple the city walls. Theseus defeats the Amazons only by means of subterfuge. He literally undercuts them.

The Knight’s Theseus The Knight, in retelling the Teseida, chooses to the omit conversations between Theseus and Hippolyta, yet reminds his audience of the major events in their conﬂict. In doing this, he seems to create a Theseus who is noble and chivalrous. His contribution to the larger conversation of The Canterbury Tales is in part the deﬁnition of that conversation’s parameters, particularly the discussion of “gentilesse [nobility of character],” so clearly deﬁned by the old wife in “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” (1109–227). As Haller (67) points out, of those who participate in this discussion, only the Knight, by virtue of class and profession, can pretend to any authority on the subject of nobility. Thus his tale, while initiating the debate, also provides a subtle benchmark against which to measure other contributions. His personal and professional investment make the epic mode used by the Knight suitable to his subject and suggest the motives for the Knight’s characterization of Theseus.5 The duke, “of chivalry the ﬂower” (982) by the Knight’s telling, moves from one who triumphs in battle to one who verbally negotiates a settlement. By starting his story in the middle of Boccaccio’s Book Two and brieﬂy alluding to events in Book One, the Knight puts a sympathetic, positive spin on Theseus. He rights the wrongs of the grieving women, and he proclaims himself to understand love’s pain (1815). But by 5

Both Anderson (193–21) and Haller develop this idea in greater detail.

      

51

calling attention to those things he’s not telling us, the Knight provides, without articulating it, the background against which we see his version of Theseus. His use of the word “chivalrie” in conjunction with Theseus provides an interesting lens through which to view the noble conqueror and his previous history. Twice within the space of fourteen lines, the Knight pairs “chivalrie” with “Femenye”: What, with his wysdom and his chivalrie, He conquered al the regne of Femenye . . . (865–66) ........................... How wonnen was the regne of Femenye By Theseus and by his chivalrye. . . . (877–78)

The Knight reminds us not only of Theseus’s previous history, he plays with his audience’s expectations of chivalry. The Riverside Chaucer glosses chivalry as used in line 878 to mean “knights.” Loose translation: The land of Amazons was won by Theseus and his knights. The Riverside Chaucer doesn’t gloss this word at line 865. However, the Middle English Dictionary (MED) gives as its fourth deﬁnition of “chivalrie”: “Warfare; a warlike enterprise; also, dominion through conquest; (b) warfare as an art; skill or prowess in warfare, valor; (c) a feat of arms; an exploit” and cites Line 865 of “The Knight’s Tale” as an example of the (b) deﬁnition. Loose translation: with his wisdom and his skill/prowess in warfare, he conquered the land of the Amazons. But we also hear echoes of the MED’s ﬁfth deﬁnition, which calls chivalrie “the ethical code of chivalry, comprising allegiance (honor), valor, generosity, courtly manner or any one aspect of it; chivalry, chivalrousness” and cites numerous examples from Chaucer, including “The Knight’s Tale,” 2106 and 2184 to support this deﬁnition. Although Boccaccio oﬀers no direct commentary on the letters between Theseus and Hippolyta, his construction of this correspondence between them shows these two deﬁnitions to be in conﬂict with each other and with Theseus’s actions. Hippolyta accuses Theseus of violating the code of ethics embodied in chivalry. Theseus maintains that a good leader uses whatever means available to save his men and defeat the enemy. By his deﬁnition, he exercises skill and prowess. But his skill manifests itself in digging, not in actual combat. By Hippolyta’s deﬁnition, he cheats. By not telling of this conﬂict, the Knight aims to construct Theseus as a paragon of chivalric values. His immediate introduction of the mourning Argive women underscores this characterization, as he describes Theseus’s reactions:

52

  This gentil duc down from his courser sterte With herte pitous, whan he herde hem speke. Hym thoughte that his herte wolde breke, Whan he saugh hem so pitous and so maat, That whilom weren of so greet estaat . . . (952–56) [The kind Duke, ﬁlled with pity, dismounted when he heard them speak. He thought that his heart would break when he saw these ladies who once had ranked so high and were now so pitiable and poor. (20)]

Not only is Theseus tender of heart, he becomes the champion of the wronged. Within the space of the next 100 lines, the Knight calls him “noble conqueror” (998), “worthy duke” (1001), and tells us that “hoom he rit anon/With laurer crowned as a conquerour (1026–27)” [he rode home immediately/crowned with laurel as a conqueror (22)]. But his allusion to the earlier conﬂict with the Amazons creates for his audience the tension between the Theseus he constructs and the Theseus of the Teseida. While the informed audience sees the Theseus the Knight presents, it remembers Boccaccio’s Theseus, who promises to kill and cut down (1.111) the Amazons—the ultimate result of an unprovoked attack and less-than-noble battle tactics. This tension extends to include the speech with which the Knight endows Theseus and the Knight’s commentary on Theseus’s words and actions. Beginning with the siege of Thebes, the reader sees a large discrepancy between the words Theseus speaks, the laudatory epithets the Knight continuously assigns to him, and his actual actions. As the tale progresses, this gap narrows, but does not disappear, leaving the possibility for divergent readings of Theseus’s character. The Knight’s Theseus speaks ﬁrst when he encounters the Argive women (904–11), a short query asking who they are that so disturb his homecoming. In this encounter, the Knight condenses Boccaccio’s account, omitting Theseus’s entry into Athens and the rousing speech he makes to his knights, using language that echoes that of Hippolyta to her Amazons, as he leads them into battle (2.44–48). Instead, Theseus encounters the women before arriving home and immediately hastens to Thebes to avenge their wrongs. The Knight describes Theseus’s response: Thus rit this duc, thus rit this conquerour, And in his hoost of chivalrie the ﬂour, Til that he cam to Thebes and alighte Faire in a feeld, ther as he thoughte to ﬁghte.

      

53

But shortly for to speken of this thyng, With Creon, which that was of Thebes kyng, He faught, and slough hym manly as a knyght In pleyn bataille, and putte the folk to ﬂyght; And by assaut he wan the citee after, And rente adoun both wall and sparre and rafter . . . (981–90) [So this Duke, this conqueror, rode forward with the best knights in the world in his army, until he came to Thebes. There he dismounted in the middle of the ﬁeld in which he planned to ﬁght. But to be brief—he fought with Creon, King of Thebes; killed him in knightly fashion in open battle; put his followers to ﬂight; then took the city by assault; and tore down all the walls, pillars and rafters. (21)]

This act shows Theseus operating within the ﬁrst deﬁnition found in the Teseida, that of pragmatic warfare. Not only does he destroy the city of Thebes, tearing down walls, beams and rafters, he condones pillaging the dead: To ransake in the taas of bodyes dede, Hem for to strepe of harneys and of wede, The pilours diden bisynesse and cure After the bataille and disconﬁture. (1005–08) [After the battle, the pillagers began their work of ransacking the heap of dead bodies to strip them of their equipment and clothing. (21)]

Here the Knight echoes his source, but soon diverges as this plundering leads to the discovery of Palamon and Arcite, still alive in the pile of bodies. Boccaccio’s Theseus shows and speaks pity for these all but dead cousins: He considered having them both put to death, for he hesitated to let them go, lest they perhaps should prove troublesome to him. Then he said to himself, “I would commit a great sin, for there is nothing treacherous about them.” And he decided in his own mind that it would be best to keep them in prison. He commanded the prison guard at once to watch them carefully and to do them honor. (2.97–98)

The Knight’s Theseus sends them “To Atthenes, to dwellen in prisoun / Perpetuelly—he nolde no raunsoun” (1023–24). [He at once sent them to Athens to be kept perpetually in prison—he would not allow them to be ransomed (22).] The Knight follows up on this action with more epithets: “whan this worthy duc hath thus ydon, / He took his hoost, and hoom he rit anon / With laurer crowned as a conquerour”

54

 

(1025–27) [When the worthy Duke had done this, he immediately rode homeward, with all his army, crowned with laurel as a conqueror (22).] The articulated destruction and plunder of Thebes resounds against the unspoken siege of Scythia. The Knight details what would have happened had Hippolyta resisted, but instead of dying in battle like Creon, she like the Theban cousins, is a prisoner of war for life, as is her sister Emily, who sparks love and rivalry in Palamon and Arcite. While the Knight uses words in praise of Theseus, his description of the duke’s actions show at this point little concern for mercy or the consequences of battle for those who survive. He still equates chivalry with prowess and victory. Theseus’s ﬁrst major speech comes when he discovers Palamon and Arcite ﬁghting in the grove. Seven years have passed since their imprisonment: Arcite, released, has served Theseus in the disguise of Philostratus; Palamon has just escaped from prison. The Knight again truncates his source. In the Teseida, Emilia discovers the two in battle (5.77–82). The Knight short-circuits the action by having Theseus discover them. Theseus proposes to show them no mercy, saying that their own confession has damned them (1743–47), but when Hippolyta and the women in her party begin to weep, he reconsiders, saying in an undertone: Fy Upon a lord that wol have no mercy, But been a leon, bothe in word and dede, To hem that been in repentaunce and drede, As wel as to a proud despitous man That wol mayntene that he ﬁrst bigan. That lord hath litel of discrecioun, That in swich cas kan no divisioun But weyeth pride and humblesse after oon. (1773–81) [Fie upon a lord who has no mercy, but is like a lion both in word and deed, just as much toward a man who is repentant and fearful as toward one who is proud and contemptuous and continues his error. That lord has little discretion who can see no diﬀerence between such cases, but judges pride and humility similarly. (34–35)]

These words indicate a change in direction for Theseus, a change not found in the corresponding section of the Teseida. Although he began his speech invoking Mars, the god of war (1747), Theseus

      

55

now turns to the god of love, citing the persistence of Palamon and Arcite in their love for Emily as one of love’s “miracles,” Lo heere this Arcite and this Palamoun, That quitly weren out of my prisoun, And myghte han lyved in Thebes roially, And witen I am hir moral enemy, And that hir deth lith in my myght also, And yet hath love, maugree her eyen two, Broght hem hyder bothe for to dye. Now looketh, is not that an heigh folye? Who may been a fool but if he love? Bihoold, for Goddes sake that sit above, Se how they blede! (1791–1801) [Consider Arcite and Palamon, who were freed from my prison and who might have lived royally in Thebes; they knew that I was their mortal enemy and that their death lay within my power. And yet love has, in spite of their foresight, brought them here to die. Now, look, isn’t that great folly? Is there any true fool except one in love? Look, for the sake of God who sits on high, how they bleed! (35)]

For this “high folly” Theseus forgives the cousins, but turns to his old ways for a solution to the dilemma: Palamon and Arcite are each to bring a hundred knights in a year’s time to ﬁght for Emily. His words may be of love, but his actions aﬃrm war. Also crucial to this speech is another omission on the part of the Knight. His Theseus refers to love’s pain (1815) without deﬁnition. Boccaccio’s Theseus alludes to his abduction and ravishing of Helen of Troy, for which he was forgiven and which motivates his forgiveness of Palamon and Arcite: However, since I once fell in love and committed follies for love, it is very pleasing to me to pardon others. For I have received pardon many times, not on account of my deeds, but through the mercy of him whose daugher I once stole. And so you can be certain of my pardon. (5.92)

While this confession provides motivation for forgiveness, it shows Theseus as a repeat oﬀender against women, in violation of the code of “chivalry.” It also represents a second instance, although more subtle, in which the Knight neglects to provide information about Theseus that might detract from the noble image he is trying to build. But unlike the omissions that open “The Knight’s Tale,” this

56

 

one goes unremarked, although it would have resonated for some of the Knight’s fellow pilgrims as well as for the larger audience. The Knight provides little speech for Theseus at the tournament. Instead he gives us commentary, positioning Theseus among the divine:6 Duc Theseus was at a wyndow set, Arrayed right as he were a god in trone. The peple preesseth thiderward ful soone Hym for to seen, and doon heigh reverence, And eek to herkne his heste and his sentence. (2528–32) [Duke Theseus sat in a window seat, dressed like a god on his throne. The people immediately crowded there to see him, to honor him, and also to listen to his commands and his instructions. (48)]

Rather than giving voice to “his heste and his sentence,” the Knight puts Theseus’s instructions in the mouth of the herald, who declares Theseus’s will that no blood be shed and that weapons will be limited: The lord hath of his heigh discrescioun Considered that it were destruccioun To gentil blood to ﬁghten in the gyse Of mortal bataille now in this emprise. Wherfore, to shapen that they shal not dye, He wol his ﬁrste purpos modifye. No man therfore, up peyne of los of lyf, No maner shot, ne polax, ne short knyf Into the lystes sende or thider brynge; Ne short swerd, for to stoke with poynt bitynge, No man ne drawe, ne bere it by his syde. Ne no man shal unto his felawe ryde But o cours with a sharpe ygrounde spere . . . (2537–49) [This lord has decided with his usual excellent judgment that it would be a foolish waste of noble blood to ﬁght as if in mortal battle in this tournament. Therefore, to avoid all deaths, he has modiﬁed his ﬁrst plans. Consquently, no man, upon threat of death, may bring or send into the lists any sort of arrow, poleax, or short knife; nor may anyone draw or carry by his side a short sword with a sharp point. No man shall ride against his opponent more than once with a sharply ground spear . . . (48).] 6 As the notes in The Riverside Chaucer point out, Chaucer created this analogy rather than borrowed it. The corresponding passage in the Teseida reads: “Most magniﬁcent Theseus, clad in regal dress, came forth among these people and was received by them with the greatest veneration. With his noble and comely bearing and most pleasant countenance, he looked upon them all . . .” (7.100).

      

57

The crowd greets this thoughtful concern: “God save swich a lord, that is so good / He wilneth no destruccion of blood!” (2563–64) [God save a lord that is so good that he desires no deaths of noble knights! (48)]. The tournament becomes a mock war, a game in which the defeated are brought to a stake until the leader of one side be captured. But all participants may “with long swerd and with mace ﬁghteth youre ﬁlle.” (2558). [Fight your ﬁll with long swords and maces (48).] Boccaccio’s Theseus proclaims these rules himself (7.10–13). The Knight, elevating Theseus to a god, distances him from this clemency by having someone else speak the actual words. But both texts show a progression in Theseus’s thinking from the pragmatics of doing what one must to achieve victory to a more controlled use of force to settle disputes. Despite his concern, Theseus witnesses a bloodbath, as the Knight describes: Out goon the swerdes as the silver brightej The helmes they tohewen and toshrede; Out brest the blood with stierne stremes rede; With myghty maces the bones they tobreste. He thurgh the thikkeste of the throng gan threste; Ther stomblen steedes stronge, and doun gooth al, He rolleth under foot as dooth a bal; He foyneth on his feet with his tronchoun, And he hym hurtleth with his hors adoun; He thurgh the body is hurt and sithen take, Maugree his heed, and broght unto the stake . . . (2608–18) [. . . out came the swords bright as silver to hew and hack the helmets. Out rushed the blood in thick red streams; bones were crushed by mighty maces. One knight tried to thrust through the throng at its thickest; the strong horses stumbled, and down went everyone. One knight rolled underfoot like a ball; another, afoot, thrust with his sword; and one crashed to the ground with his horse. One man was wounded in the body, and then captured in spite of all he could do, and led to the prisoner’s stake. (49)]

The discrepancy between Theseus’s articulated desire and reality makes the rules for the game appear disingenuous to the audience. Surely a man with Theseus’s experience would know the eﬀect of sword and mace. The sounds of the game play out in the audience’s ear against the sounds of real battle articulated by the Knight in his descriptions of the siege of Thebes and resonate against his reminder of the siege of Scythia. Although the rules seek to control destruction, the actual game spills blood and the true moral imperative remains prowess and victory.

58

 

The Knight oﬀers, as resolution to the tale, Theseus’s last speech in which he urges Emily and Palamon to put oﬀ their mourning and unite Thebes and Athens by marrying.7 (2987–3093) This long speech (106 lines) derives in part from Boccaccio and in part from Boethius.8 He talks about the First Mover creating the chain of love, the ability of man to shorten but not to lengthen his life, the mutability of creation, and the need to turn sorrow to joy. While the overall eﬀect of the speech is one of consolation and wisdom, it, like the other speeches Theseus makes, stands apart from the actual circumstances it attempts to address. Theseus opens this speech using elevated language, the discourse of faith, not war: The Firste Moevere of the cause above, Whan he ﬁrst made the faire cheyne of love, Greet was th’eﬀect, and heigh was his entente. Wel wiste he why, and what therof he mente, For with that faire cheyne of love he bond The fyr, the eyr, the water, and the lond In certeyn boundes, that they may not ﬂee. (2987–93) [Our ﬁrst creator brought into being the beautiful chain of love, with a high purpose and intention. He knew well why he did this and what he hoped to accomplish, for with that fair chain of love he placed within bounds, so that they might not ﬂee, ﬁre, air, water and land. (55–56)]

This language of divine love takes the audience back to Theseus’s words on human love, spoken in the grove to the battling Palamon and Arcite (1785–825). By articulating the First Mover’s actions and intent, Theseus associates himself with the divine, underscoring the Knight’s description of the duke sitting in his window, “enthroned like a god” (2528). The Knight seems to be developing Theseus’s character from one who puts all his faith in warfare to one has a deeper understanding of eschatological concerns. This development appears to progress as Theseus continues, saying that the same Mover 7

Note that while in the Teseida Theseus promotes the marriage of Palamon and Emily within days of Arcite’s death (12.3), the Knight gives us to understand that years have passed before this union takes place (2977). 8 See Riverside Chaucer, notes “The Knight’s Tale,” lines 2987–3083 for the parallels to Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy. This speech has occasioned a wide range of critical commentary. See Riverside Chaucer, notes to “The Knight’s Tale,” lines 2987–3083, and Kempton 246–47 for summaries of this debate.

      

59

Hath stablissed in this wrecched world adoun Certeyne dayes and duracioun To al that is engendred in this place, Over the whiche day they may not pace, Al mowe they yet tho dayes wel abregge. (2995–99) [. . . has allotted to each person and thing created on this wretched earth a certain length of days beyond which they may not go, though they may shorten their time. (56)]

Theseus may be indulging in gentle irony here, given the number of days he has “abridged” for those who have fallen under his sword. Like the oak, the stone, the river, and the town he goes on to mention, all things in nature wax and wane, and come to their ultimate end. For this reason, Theseus says, Thanne is it wysdom, as it thynketh me, To maken vertu of necessitee, And take it weel that we may nat eschue, And namely that to us alle is due. And whoso gruccheth ought, he dooth folye, And rebel is to hym that al may gye. (3041–46) [Thus it is wisdom, it seems to me, to make a virtue of necessity and accept that which we may not avoid, especially that which comes to us all. And whoever grumbles is foolish and a rebel against the creator, who directs everything. (56)]

These words, strongly echoing Teseida 12.11, might well have been said by Boccaccio’s Theseus to Hippolyta. Their marriage, like that of Emily and Palamon, “makes virtue of necessity.” Those who love Arcite, he continues, should not mourn him for he has departed “with duetee and honour / Out of this foule prisoun of this lyf ” (3060–61). [has left the foul prison of this life with duty and honor (57).] He concludes by saying they should make sorrow into joy through the marriage of Palamon and Emily. Theseus’s reference to the “foul prison of this life” from which death has freed Arcite, takes on greater signiﬁcance when one considers that Theseus himself has created the “foul prison” inhabited not only by Arcite and Palamon, but that inhabited by Hippolyta and Emily who became prisoners of war after the invasion of Scythia. The elevated language of this speech and the quasi-theological sentiments expressed tempt the reader into seeing Theseus as a wise and just arbiter. Certainly the Knight intends him to be seen this way and has put in his mouth words that can be construed as articulating

60

 

the concept of chivalry deﬁned by Boccaccio’s Hippolyta. From the Knight’s point of view, Theseus embodies and expounds both the pragmatics of ﬁghting and the ethical code of behavior. But there still exists a gap between the words and the actions. The Knight tells us that Theseus’s resolution stems from a “parliament:” Thanne seemed me ther was a parlement At Atthenes, upon certein pointz and caas; Among the whiche pointz yspoken was, To have with certein contrees alliaunce, And have fully of Thebans obeisaunce. (2970–74) [Then, I think, a parliament was held in Athens to discuss certain questions. Among the questions raised was the formation of alliances with certain countries, and the supervision of conquered Thebes. (55)]

The Knight’s use of the passive here indicates that Theseus does not necessarily control this assembly. The audience remains ignorant of who convenes this gathering and why. Theseus himself tells Emily of her marriage to Palamon, that “this is my fulle assent, / With all th’avys heere of my parlement . . .” (3075–76) [here is my decision, reached with advice of my parliament (57)]. While he appears to make a judgment based on an ethical code comprised of the consolatory concepts he aﬃrms in his speech, he, in fact, acts out of political expediency. His parliament has determined that Thebes needs supervision. What better way to accomplish this than by uniting Thebes and Athens through the union of Palamon and Emily? The Knight’s Theseus avoids the gender issues overtly confronted by Boccaccio’s Theseus and Hippolyta. He accomplishes this by reducing Hippolyta and Emily to almost total silence.9 However, although he does not face the gender conﬂict openly, his silencing of Hippolyta’s voice becomes another means by which the Knight asserts what he believes to be the proper hierarchical structure, with Theseus the noble conqueror lording it over women who are seen, but not heard. While the Knight silences the strong voice of Boccaccio’s Hippolyta, Chaucer creates strong women in other tales who become part of the larger conversation introduced by the Knight. Griselda and Custance speak little but assert their strength by enduring. The Wife of Bath, as a pilgrim and member of the Knight’s immediate audience, speaks to many of the issues raised by “The Knight’s Tale.” 9 Emily speaks her prayer to Diana, (2296–2330). Throughout the rest of the tale she and Hippolyta communicate by weeping.

      

61

Most particularly, the old wife in “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” addresses the uncourteous, unchivalric accusations leveled at her by her new husband, delivering to him a long sermon on “gentilesse [nobility of spirit]” (1109–1227) much as Boccaccio’s Hippolyta reminds Theseus of the chivalric code of ethics. In the resolution of “The Knight’s Tale,” actions speak louder than words. Theseus takes pragmatic action to unite Thebes and Athens. This expediency allows him to use Emily as a bargaining chip to seal an alliance, just as he used her earlier as a tournament trophy. The silences of Hippolyta and Emily reverberate against the selected silences of the Knight himself: the siege of Scythia and the ravishing of Helen. The Knight, by creating these silences, opens the questions of nobility, codes of behavior and individual roles within those codes that will occupy his fellow pilgrims as they develop their own tales.

Chaucer and his audience Behind Theseus and the Knight we hear the voice of Chaucer the pilgrim and behind the narrators within layers of narrative stands Chaucer the poet, the ventriloquist speaking through each of these voices. He makes the choices of said and unsaid, creating the complex structure of what sounds and what echoes in his audience’s ear. Stephanie Trigg identiﬁes Chaucer’s immediate audience as “friends and fellow poets, sharing the poet’s sensibilities and frames of reference” (xxi).10 We can assume that this immediate audience would have been familiar with Boccaccio’s work, possibly through the sharing of Chaucer’s copy. As John Gamin suggests, Chaucer “could count on enough intelligent avant-garde readers connected with the court to allow his experiments to succeed with those who would appreciate them, and yet not oﬀend those who would not notice them” (58).11 That the story of Theseus was current in Chaucer’s time is witnessed by Gower’s telling of Theseus and Ariadne in 10

11

Trigg further deﬁnes Chaucer’s immediate audience: Poems such as Lenvoy de Chaucer a Scogan, Lenvoy de Chaucer a Bukton and Truth, with its envoy to Sir Philip de la Vache, seem to conﬁrm that apart from the grander court occasions about which we can only speculate on the basis of his more extensive narrative ﬁctions, Chaucer customarily read or presented his work to members of a group of male professionals whose mobile social background and unstable political prospects were similar to his own (30). As quoted by Trigg (31).

62

 

Confessio Amantis (5.5231–5495). Chaucer himself tells this earlier history in The Legend of Good Women, portraying Theseus as a self-interested cad who uses Ariadne to escape from the Minotaur, marries her and then abandons her. Like the Knight’s Theseus, Chaucer gives us a Knight who cuts both ways. On the one hand, we see him in “The General Prologue” as a veteran of campaigns in which he may well have played a mercenary role (51–66). On the other hand, the narrator tells us “he was a verray gentil parﬁt knight” (72) [he was a true and perfect gentle knight (4)]. By putting the tale of Palamon and Arcite in the mouth of the Knight, Chaucer creates ambiguity in the character of Theseus, an ambiguity that parallels that in the construction of the Knight himself, who is, as Laura Hodges points out, “worthy, but bismottered” (27). Chaucer knows this and his allusions suggest that he expects his audience knows this as well. By subtracting and subtly altering parts of his source, Chaucer allows the Knight to construct a Theseus who appears noble and positively inclined toward women. But by reminding us of what he will not tell, Chaucer leads us to question Theseus as the champion of women and the exemplar of chivalry. By undercutting the walls, Theseus undercuts his honor, and by not telling us, but reminding us, Chaucer undercuts Theseus and in undercutting Theseus, he undercuts the Knight as well. The result leads to no clear resolution, but a number of possible, conﬂicting readings, readings that shape the larger conversation of The Canterbury Tales on the nature of truly noble behavior.

Works Cited Anderson, David. Before the Knight’s Tale. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988. Benson, Larry, ed. The Riverside Chaucer. 3rd ed. London: Macmillan, 1987. Boccaccio, Giovanni. The Book of Theseus. Trans. Bernadette Marie McCoy. New York: Medieval Text Association, 1974. Boitani, Piero. Chaucer and Boccaccio. Oxford: Society for the Study of Medieval Languages and Literature, 1977. Chaucer, Geoﬀrey. The Canterbury Tales. Trans. R. M. Lumiansky. New York: Holt, Rhinehart and Winston, 1948. Gamin, John. “Chaucer, Boccaccio, and the Anxiety of Popularity,” Assays 4 (1987) 58. Haller, Robert S. “The Knight’s Tale and the Epic Tradition.” The Chaucer Review 1 (1966) 67–84. Hodges, Laura F. Chaucer and Costume. Woodbridge, Suﬀolk: Boydell and Brewer, 2000.

      

63

Kelly, Douglas. The Conspiracy of Allusion. Leiden: Brill, 1999. Kempton, Daniel. “Chaucer’s Knight and the Knight’s Theseus: ‘And Though That He Were Worth, He Was Wys’.” Journal of Narrative Technique 17 (1987) 237–58. Pratt, Robert Armstrong. “The Knight’s Tale.” Sources and Analogues of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Ed. W. F. Bryan and Germaine Dempster. New York: Humanities Press, 1958, 82–105. Trigg, Stephanie. Congenial Souls. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002.

This page intentionally left blank

GENDER CONFLICTS, MISCOMMUNICATION, AND COMMUNICATIVE COMMUNITIES IN THE LATE MIDDLE AGES: THE EVIDENCE OF FIFTEENTH-CENTURY GERMAN VERSE NARRATIVES Albrecht Classen

The ancient conﬂict, or rather tensions and attractions, between the genders has almost always been the topic of literary discourse. This seems to be the case especially in the late Middle Ages, when the fundamental transformation of society, by and large the replacement of the nobility through the urban citizenry, also required an in-depth renegotiation and reestablishment of moral, ethical, erotic, sexual, and also social and personal issues within the polarity of the two genders (Bachorski; Classen Whatever happened to Courtly Love; Kemper; Schnell Liebesdiskurs). The world of courtly literature in the twelfth through fourteenth centuries more or less projected a fairly straightforward relationship between the courtly lady and the knightly lover. Especially the latter experiences many challenges, including personal failures in wooing his beloved, but eventually he overcomes all of them and wins his lady’s love (Baldwin; Bumke, vol. 2, 503–82; Newman; Schnell Liebeskonzeption).1 This is routinely the outcome of courtly romances, whereas courtly love poetry rarely—with the very tenuous exception of the dawn song—suggests any happy solution (Müller). By contrast, in the world of late-medieval verse novella, the relationship between the genders seems to be rife with conﬂict, deception, betrayal, violence, but at times it is also a matter of intense emotional and physical intimacy (Anderson, Dallapiazza Minne, and Nøjgaard). This conﬂict is mostly determined by language strategies, such as persuasion, argumentation, and rhetorical illusions. Not surprisingly, both Boccaccio’s Decameron (ca. 1350) and, in its wake, Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptameron (1547, ﬁrst printed in 1558), but 1 An interesting case of an early break-up of this idealized scenario can be found in Mauritius von Craûn (ca. 1220); not surprisingly, this verse novella has fascinated scholarship for a long time as it represents the downfall or perhaps disrupture of courtly culture at large; see the commentary and bibliography in Reinitzer’s edition.

66

 

also Geoﬀrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (before 1400), Franco Sacchetti’s Trecentonovelle (ca. 1392–1400), and Giovanni Sercambi’s Croniche di Lucca (1368–1424) (Herrero Salgado; Kay; Wolter), are mostly built upon the idea that the genders have diﬀerent ideas of, approaches to, values of, and dreams about eroticism and love, leading to severe conﬂicts and strife (Classen Witz, Exempel ). All these authors also indicate that men and women seem to communicate in diﬀerent manners and perceive their world from quite distinctive perspectives. In other words, according to Boccaccio, Sacchetti, Chaucer, and Marguerite, among others, the relationship between the genders is quintessentially determined by strife and conﬂict resulting from miscommunication, and the literary forum serves as a staging ground for both sides to discuss and to explore the impact of social and linguistic norms, values, and ethics on love (Classen Love and Marriage and the Battle; Classen Love and Marriage in Late Medieval German Lyric Poetry). Many other collections of late-medieval verse novellas—many of them anonymous—but also many verse romances such as the anonymous The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnell from 1450 ( Jost Wedding; Sands), a direct parallel to Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, also focused on this complex issue, as it seems to have exerted the highest appeal to the contemporary, mostly urban audience which obviously struggled hard with issues of public morality, marriage, virtue, and social integration of both genders (Cramer; Karnein; Lewis 276–95). Subsequently, I will examine how late-medieval German authors have portrayed the signiﬁcant role of communication as a determining factor for the well-being of married couples, and to what extent love and language are intimately intertwined in the world of late-medieval German literature. Let me begin with a few general questions of timeless nature that will be our general guidelines throughout the subsequent investigation. There would be hardly any doubt regarding the fact that the sexes do diﬀer from each other, indeed, as has recently been suggested by John Gray in his popular book on Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus (Gray).2 But where do these diﬀerences lie, and in what way do they reveal themselves in the day to day situation? How do men and women interact with each other? What are their communica2 See the homepage: http://www.marsvenus.com/cgi_bin/link/home/index.html?id= 67QnrvIV. The literature on the topic of the modern marriage is endless, see the bibliography there.

   

67

tive strategies and individual skills in establishing a functioning community involving both men and women? How do men and women interact with each other in times of conﬂict, and how do they overcome diﬀerences in opinion and approaches to concrete situations? Do men and women pursue gender-speciﬁc communication, and does the institution of marriage, if of a happy and balanced nature, supersede communicative organizations outside of the bounds of marriage? What support-groups exist for both genders within a given society (Burger and Kruger, Dinshaw)? Undoubtedly, these and similar questions have the same relevance for our present times as for past societies, even if the culture-speciﬁc responses probably diﬀered considerably (Dallos; Landis; Scanzoni). The gender relationship in the Middle Ages was just as much a reﬂection of power constructions and the result of public or private negotiations as today (Cornuälle; Williams). In other words, all of these concerns do not reﬂect new issues and problems, but instead address fundamental conﬂicts or diﬃcult relationships between the genders which have, throughout times, found historically speciﬁc responses leading to concrete social constructs of various power distribution and varying personal relationships (marriage, family, government) characteristic of individual societies (Bennewitz and Tervooren). To claim that all men fall under one category, and women under another, as some modern psychologists tend to argue (Gray), or to suggest that human emotions, sentiments, morals, and ethics always stayed the same, as some anthropologists have claimed (Duerr), promises only temporary explanation and blinds us to the complexities of gender relations within all societies of all epochs. To me it seems very misleading to identify gender as solely socially conditioned, or constructed (Butler, Bodies; Butler, Gender Trouble), but we certainly need to study the interaction between the genders from a social and social-linguistic perspective. To explore this issue further, here I will examine a selection of late-medieval verse novellas in order to gain an understanding of how some ﬁfteenth-century writers reﬂected upon this situation and how they perceived the intricate gender relationship from their male point of view. Primarily, my investigations will focus on late-medieval German verse narratives because they oﬀer signiﬁcant insights into more or less real life experiences during that time period as perceived both by the various authors and also their audiences (Cartlidge; Howell). We do not know whether women also composed verse novellas (Middle High German: mæren) and whether they contributed

68

 

to the public debate regarding the gender relationships, if we disregard, for the time being, the chapbooks by Eleonore of Austria and Elisabeth of Nassau-Saarbrücken (Classen Die leidende und unterdrückte Frau; Classen Women). We may assume, however, that these mæren appealed to the general audience, as indicated by the fairly large numbers of manuscript and print copies (Grubmüller Novellistik). In Heinrich Kaufringer’s “Die Suche nach dem glücklichen Ehepaar,” written in 1464 and preserved in only one manuscript (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, cgm 270; in this essay, all the Kaufringer tales are cited from Grubmüller’s Novellistik), a rich burgher displays great displeasure with his wife because of her excessive concern to save money and to restrict his own extravagant hospitality and eagerness of entertaining friends at home. Although the couple enjoys wealth and reputation, happiness and friendship, the wife is vehemently opposed to his generosity and spend-thrift attitude, whereas he hates her avarice: “darum was si im gehas,/wann sie vil karkhait an ir het” (39f.; he hated her because she was very miserly; Grubmüller Novellistik 770) (Fischer; Grubmüller; Haug; Heinzle Altes; Heinzle Boccaccio; Johnson and Steinhoﬀ; Schnyder Abenteuer; Schnyder Frauen und Männer). At one point the husband feels so much frustration that he decides to leave his wife and to explore the world on a search for a marital couple that enjoys full happiness as he wants to ﬁnd out whether the marital ideal has ever been materialized, or whether his own grievous marriage represents an exception. In the prologue to the verse novella, the narrator underscores that husband and wife should be one body and one soul, and that a true marriage will transform both man and woman into full partners in all their deeds, thoughts, and wishes: si süllen also sein veraint, was ir ains mit willen maint und im ain wolgefallen ist, so sol das ander ze der frist auch sein gunst darzuo geben. das haist wol ain raines leben und ist ain rechte ee zwar. (9–15) (they should be uniﬁed in such a manner that if one of them wants something and aims for it, then the other should agree with it as well right away. This is called a perfect life, and an ideal marriage).3 3

This and all other translations here are mine.

   

69

Does such happiness exist, however, and would the search for this ideal couple make sense in the ﬁrst place (Classen Happiness)? The husband at least believes in this possibility, though he does not seem to ﬁnd it in his own marriage, and goes on his quest obviously with the intention to compare and contrast his seemingly miserable life with that of two people happily joined in conjugal love. Tragically, it seems, the male protagonist does not succeed in his quest for a long time and is about to abandon it when he ﬁnally comes across such a couple who appears to meet all his expectations. As soon as his host learns of his perception, however, he reveals the full truth about their relationship to him, as he has his wife drink her daily wine late at night out of a grisly cup that consists of a human skull. The husband had made this cup after having killed the cleric with whom his wife had committed adultery; and the nightly ritual serves as a regular reminder of her failure to live up to her marital oath. The protagonist continues with his search and is lucky a second time, as he encounters another couple that appears to be happily married and to enjoy public respect and honor. Once again, however, a hidden truth mars this impression as the guest has to learn only too soon. This time the wife had been guilty of an excessive libido and an inability to control her sexual desires. Frustrated with her committing endless acts of adultery, the husband had taken an innocent but physically strong peasant as prisoner and made him to a sex slave for his wife. Obviously, at this point she has still not maintained her urges and cannot be satisﬁed by her husband. But instead of robbing him of his honor publicly, she is now able to ﬁnd her own pleasure together with the peasant in the secrecy of her house. Consequently, all the children, only seemingly the result of a happy marriage life, were conceived by the peasant to the great chagrin of the duped husband: “das ist mir ain grosse pein,/wann si des pauren alle sind,/was ir hie secht meiner kind” (442–45; this gives me great pain because all of my children whom you see here have the peasant as their father). This report proves to be quite disturbing as we may deduce that the husband is impotent, whereas she is the victim of nymphomania. To the world, however, the couple appears as happy and self-content, whereas in reality they suﬀer from a tragic mismatch. He would not have captured and enslaved the peasant for his wife if he did not know of his own physical failure or perhaps even handicap. But instead of being content with the solution which he has found for his wife, every time she goes to the peasant he feels hurt and knows

70

 

only too well that his honor is being increasingly tarnished: “so ist mein ere vast versert/gar haimlich und gar leise” (420f.; my honor is badly hurt, very secretly and quietly).4 His alleged happiness and marital bliss turn out to be deceptive, as in reality both husband and wife live quite separate lives; she is totally consumed by her sexual desires, whereas he is secretly ﬁlled with shame and disgrace. As the protagonist has yet to learn, the husband could not control his wife who openly went about her business of ﬁnding sexual partners outside of her marriage: “mein er ward mir auch entrant” (392; my honor was taken away from me). Being a descendant of the richest and most noble family in the city (384–86), she maintained her independence and disregarded her cuckolded husband whom everybody despised for his weakness (394f.). The latter has to give more attention to the peasant than to his wife so as to keep his sexual interest in the latter awake and hence to protect his screen for his honor. Nowhere do we hear of any communications between the couple, instead they live their separate lives. Whereas she is completely given in to satisfying her personal pleasure, he struggles all the time to preserve the public appearance of an honorable marriage. In truth, however, this marriage is entirely in shambles and without any hope of repair. Subsequently, the cuckolded husband advises his guest quickly to return to his own wife because he has neglected her for too long. The guest, our protagonist, should be content with this little failing on her part, as long as she stays loyal to him (454). In fact, the search for the ideal marital couple would prove in vain, as there are no wives and husbands who can live together without ever starting a ﬁght: niemant ist als gar volkomen. Der tiefel säet den samen sein Zwischen der wirtlüt gern ein, Das es selten mag bestaun, Sie müessen oft ain zwaiung haun (462–66) (nobody is all that perfect. The devil likes to sow his seed among the married people, so that it hardly ever can be that they do not have a ﬁght).

4 Whereas Grubmüller Novellistik, ignores the adverb “vast” and translates: “Meine Ehre wird dabei/heimlich und im stillen verletzt” (791), the line really reads, in English: “My honor is badly hurt . . .” “vast” means ‘strong,’ ‘tight,’ ‘near,’ ‘strong,’ ‘violent,’ ‘fast,’ and ‘very.’ See Lexer 264.

   

71

In other words, marriage emerges as a battleground where the two genders easily enter a verbal ﬁght for no speciﬁc reasons. Strife and conﬂict are almost inherent in marriage, but as long as husband and wife love each other and maintain an open, constructive communication, the gender conﬂict does not undermine their life together. As soon as the protagonist returns home and has been warmly welcomed by his wife, he accepts her way of life as he recognizes her as: “erber und auch rain” (478; virtuous and chaste). Often he thinks about the horrible cases he had been confronted with and no longer ﬁghts with his wife, because their life, as it is, proves to be neither disgraceful nor shameful, and he is rather willing to tolerate her criticism of his generosity (wastefulness) than to enter another relationship that would only lead to much worse scenarios. Undoubtedly, Kaufringer reveals a number of subtle misogynous concepts and depicts the wife as a servant to her husband, who enjoys unrestricted freedom in managing his own life and in punishing her if she does not obey his commands and requests (Dallapiazza Modelle; Karant-Nunn; Schröter). Some of the women portrayed here appear extremely lustful and are easily disappointed by their husbands’ sexual potency. On the other hand, some of the husbands are criticized as well for their overly demanding attitudes and wastefulness, couched in the notion of generosity. One of the men reveals a terrible desire for revenge and will never allow his wife to forget her transgression, transforming the evening ritual of drinking wine out of the skull to a perpetual punishment for his wife; the other man cannot satisfy his wife sexually and resorts to a primitive form of sex slavery to hide his wife’s alleged nymphomania. Nevertheless, several important points can be made with regard to the relationship between the genders. Obviously, marriage proves to be a very complicated, diﬃcult form of cohabitation, and these diﬃculties result from a severe inability to fully communicate with each other. Men and women do not easily manage to form a good partnership if their basic principles tend to diﬀer and clash with each other to the detriment of a happy married life. The narrative’s fundamental issue rests in the ideal of such a happy marriage, but this ideal does not seem to be completely realizable. The protagonist, however, realizes that he and his wife share most values and norms, except in matters pertaining to money and how to spend it: “ich haun dahaim ain weib gehiur;/die ist in dem willen mein./es dunkt

72

 

uns baide guot sein,/was unser aintweders tuot” (310–14; at home I have a dear wife who fulﬁls my will. We both accept whatever the other one is doing). Yet in light of this high goal, the wife’s miserliness is described as a minuscule shortcoming, if that at all, and her husband begins to tolerate her in her own, idiosyncratic way. As we learn from the prologue, the novella idealizes the harmonious sharing of all things within marriage. If one of the two enjoys and wants to have something, the other should accept that and go along peacefully (9–15), implying a signiﬁcant agreement between them in terms of substance and communication. Undoubtedly, Kaufringer’s narrative primarily addresses a male audience as it outlines clear strategies for husbands how to cope with their wives and admonishes them not to expect a perfect marriage. Revealingly, the protagonist speaks with the husband in each couple and never inquires about the woman’s perspective. All three wives are depicted as subject to vice or moral shortcomings, whereas the husbands’ failures—and these deﬁnitely also surface—are diﬃcult to observe and seemingly not existent. However, Kaufringer also addresses female listeners since he presents them with warning examples for them of what actions and words to avoid in marriage as to secure a harmonious life with their husbands (Classen Mord ; Friedrich; Schnyder Abenteuer; Stede). His advice for them implies that they stay away from adultery, try to avoid ﬁghting and complaining, allow their husbands to enjoy their lives within limits, and to make every eﬀort to establish agreements with their men. A fairly grotesque narrative, “Die drei Mönche zu Kolmar,” by an unknown late fourteenth- or ﬁfteenth-century author (“Niemand”), provides important conﬁrmation for our observations, even though the moralistic impetus at ﬁrst sight seems to take a diﬀerent direction. A young married woman is pestered by three monks, who all want to make love with her as a penance for her confessions. Being a loyal and chaste wife, she is deeply ashamed and embarrassed at their harassment (attempted rape) and seeks a subterfuge (Robertson and Rose; Saunders). As soon as her husband ﬁnds out her predicament, he assists her in devising a strategy to get rid of all three monks who eventually die because of their evil intentions. Each of them is called in to see the wife separately, and as soon as each has given his money as payment for her sexual gratiﬁcation, the hidden husband starts banging at the wall, pretending to be suddenly return-

   

73

ing from a journey. The frightened monks hastily jump into a container with boiling water and are scalded to death.5 Certainly, the author’s main interest lies in the grotesque development of the second half of the narrative.6 The husband, who tries to get rid of the corpses, hires an unsuspecting young scholar to carry them to the Rhine river and dump them in the water. But each time the scholar returns to demand his salary, he is told that the dead monk has returned and needs to be transported back to the Rhine before the scholar can be paid. Eventually, all three corpses have been discarded, and when the young man is ﬁnally on his way to the couple’s house, he encounters another monk, a completely innocent bystander, so to speak, who is on his way to Vespers. Thinking that the corpse has returned once again, the scholar grabs him, beats him up and throws him into the river as well, thus killing a fourth monk out of ignorance and due to his superstition, prodding the narrator to comment that often the innocent ones have to pay for the evil deeds of the guilty ones—a highly critical statement from an ethical and religious point of view (Millet). “Die drei Mönche zu Kolmar” aims for the audience’s entertainment and teaching, but it is built upon black humor which gains particularly negative connotations because we are told that such misunderstandings and misdeeds happen every day, bringing misfortune upon the “unschuldic” (392; innocent).7 For our purpose, however, the marital relationship needs to be explored in greater detail. Although we are not told about the husband’s age, a brief allusion to his wealth and the loss thereof might indicate that he is an older man. On the contrary, his wife is barely twenty years old and possesses outstanding beauty. Nevertheless, she displays a very pious attitude and is not at all an easy prey for the lusty monks, but rather feels deeply mortiﬁed and afraid of their propositions (54–56). At the same time that she displays considerable 5 Quoted from Grubmüller Novellistik, 874ﬀ.; for a commentary, see 1300ﬀ. The morbid element ﬁnds many precedents and parallels in world literature, such as in the lay “Eliduc” by Marie de France, in various fabliaux, and some Oriental and Hebrew narratives, see Grubmüller Novellistik 1302–04, but he does not mention this parallel. 6 Grubmüller Groteske, presents many examples of grotesque elements in latemedieval verse narratives, but only determines the grotesque as an expression of the chaos dominating late-medieval life; for a theoretical discussion of the grotesque in art history, see Kröll. 7 A similar, also very unusual case of medieval black humor can be found in Classen Tristan als Mönch.

74

 

intelligence and manages to withdraw from the dangerous situation for a while, she still needs her husband’s help to fend oﬀ the monks. The narrator is very clear about it: “dô wollte sî deheinen man/dan ir wirt aleine/ân valsch und âne meine” (136–38; she did not want any other man but her husband alone, without any deception and lying), emphasizing traditional values and ideals so relevant for a harmonious urban community. Nevertheless, when the husband returns home and ﬁnds his wife crying in her bedroom, she is at ﬁrst trying to hide her misery and wipes away her tears. He insists, however, on her telling him the truth, which she eventually does because he knows that something is amiss (152f.) and she cannot deny it. Instead of ﬁghting with her and accusing her of being guilty herself, the husband immediately proves to be understanding and supportive and calms her down with his assurance that he would help her out of this problematic situation: “es wirt guot rât!” (165; you will get good advice). The couple obviously reaps the beneﬁts of good communication between each other, since he expresses his concern about her and she trusts him enough to reveal her plight to him without fearing negative consequences (155–160). His thinking is, however, not quite altruistic, as he takes into consideration that the monks might help him to regain some of his lost wealth: “möht ich ez wider gewinnen,/des wil ich hiut beginnen” (163f.; if I can regain it, I want to start today). Subsequently, husband and wife realize a murderous plan, much to the narrator’s approval who goes so far as to characterize the young wife as “diu guote vrouwe vil gemeit” (182; the good and beautiful wife) and emphasizes that she obediently carried out his requests (184). Not only does she masterfully play her role in the deadly game in which the couple kills all three monks, but she also participates actively in the removal of each corpse so as to make room for the next suitor. Subsequently, the wife disappears in the narrative background, but even this cameo appearance provides us with enough information about the relationship between the couple. The husband and wife are able to discuss even such problematic issues as the various confessors’ attempts to seduce the wife and to oﬀer her money for her sexual favors. The wife is adamantly opposed to the idea of adultery, especially because the monks want to pay her money in return for complying with their wishes. The husband is very concerned about her well being and immediately inquires about her psychological torment when he catches her crying. Although

   

75

she hesitates a while to reveal the truth to him, she ﬁnally informs him about all details and then fully collaborates with him to gain the monks’ money and to kill them. Ironically, here we are presented with an almost ideal married couple, but their close cooperation leads to multiple murder. Nevertheless, behind the grotesque scene of triple-murder we observe a surprisingly agreeable pair, whose happiness is threatened by the monks, and who defend themselves successfully through close cooperation in words and deeds. The narrative does not fully condemn the couple’s actions; instead it charges the monks with having “versuochet ungewonlich spil” (399; tried such unusual game) which led to their death: “des sol man in den schaden lân” (402; they deserve the damage). The judgment of the actions is notably secondary to the attention paid to the marital cooperation even in such an extreme situation. The Nuremberg poet Hans Rosenplüt explored the same issue in his verse novella “Vom Pfarrer, der zu fünfmaln starb.”8 Curiously, even here the narrative focus does not rest on the marital issue at all; instead we are confronted with a morbid, grotesque tale of a poor priest who is accidentally killed by a shoemaker who was trying to repair the priest’s boot in a great hurry. Knowing of his innocence, but afraid of being falsely accused of murder, the shoemaker, upon his wife’s advice, places the priest’s body back on the horse and leads him into a ﬁeld of oats. A farmer ﬁnds the priest the next morning and throws a stone at him, thinking that the priest deliberately wants to rob him of his property. When the corpse falls down, the farmer believes that he has killed him, but together with his wife he hides the priest until the next night and then places him at the gate of a neighbor. In the morning this neighbor rushes out of his house, only to be surprised by the seemingly alive priest. After several failed attempts to talk with him, and getting irate, the man violently opens the gate, which makes the priest fall down. This man now also believes that he has committed manslaughter, but his wife ﬁnds a solution to get rid of the corpse, as they place it in the baking trough of their neighbor, the priest’s sacristan, taking away almost all the dough and pressing some of it in the dead man’s mouth. Finally, the sacristan, also advised by his own wife, places the priest in front of the altar in the village church, and during mass an old 8 Quoted from Grubmüller Novellistik, 898ﬀ.; for a commentary, see 1307ﬀ.; see also Reichel.

76

 

woman, trying to kiss the priest’s vestment, pulls his body away which then falls on her and kills her. Although the priest’s body has already turned cold and stiﬀ, nobody understands the circumstances of his actual death. Consequently the community buries him quickly and does not inquire any further, which Rosenplüt comments with the macabre prayer, “got laß uns allen wol geschehen” (308; may God have mercy with us). The humor of this curious tale consists of the ﬁvefold death that the priest experiences, but a truly relevant aspect reﬂecting social conditions at that time comes through anyway. Four times the wives step in to help their husbands removing the corpse “nach der weiber ler” (305, according to the wives’ advice), and all of them are supposed to be praised by the audience for their intelligence in handling this matter, irrespective of the rather dubious moral or ethical standards employed here. The shoemaker rushes to his wife, desperate for her help, and she immediately devises a strategy to remove the body without leaving a trace linking her husband to the assumed murder. As soon as the farmer has “killed” the priest, he also runs to his wife; who at ﬁrst sharply rebukes the priest for his hypocritical behavior of preaching against theft whereas he himself is doing it, and then recommends to bring the corpse in and hide it until dust would set in. The neighbor’s wife acts the same way, also highly critical of the priest and only thinking of how to protect her husband and their common existence. She even takes a more active role in placing the corpse in the sacristan’s baking trough and setting it up so as to convey the impression as if he had suﬀocated while stealing the dough. The narrative clearly emphasizes the wife’s role as the main strategist, her intellectual skills, and her planning which solves the problem for the husband: “einen multern mit teig die frau ersach,/wann sie des morgens solten pachen./die frau gedacht: ‘es wirt sich machen.’” (192–94; the wife saw a trough with dough, as they were planning to bake the next morning. The wife thought: ‘that’s the way how to do it’). The sacristan’s wife also proves her intelligence and comes up with a good plan how to get rid of the corpse: “die frau im pald ein rat do gab” (264; the wife soon gave him an advice). The husband does not hesitate to accept her proposal, carries with her the dead priest to the church, puts on his vestment, and rings the bell for vespers: “seiner frauen volget er do” (276; he followed his wife). In fact, all the wives emerge as the truly intelligent, courageous, and sharp-witted characters. In contrast, the husbands panic when

   

77

they are confronted with the corpse, thinking that they have killed the priest although this is not true at all (except, maybe, in the case of the shoemaker). Rosenplüt projects marital life as an important safeguard for happiness to which both husband and wife contribute on an equal level, providing advice, communicating openly about any problems concerning one or both of them, and assisting each other in every aspect. Whereas late-medieval literature often presents disturbingly misogynous opinions and attitudes, here the opposite is the case: the women rescue the men from embarrassing situations, even persecution, criminal indictment, and ultimately perhaps execution. The husbands immediately resort to their wives, as they apparently know that they can get good advice from them. As soon as the two have strategized their subsequent actions, they closely collaborate to realize their plan, e.g., the shoemaker and his wife: “do griﬀen sie den pfaﬀen an/und satzen in auf sein pfert gar wacker” (54f.; they grabbed the priest and placed him courageously on his horse). Several times one of the wives accuses the priest of wrongdoing which contradicts his own preaching, and thereby frees her husband from guilt feelings: “do sprach die frau: ‘so hab im das!/ laß dir darumb gar nit grausen./wes gieng der narr dann do umb mausen” (102–04; the wife said: ‘this is just right for him, do not feel afraid, why did the fool go stealing after all). This anticlericalism, voiced often enough by late medieval poets and writers (Dykema and Oberman), is even more noteworthy here, since it is a verbal strategy employed by the female speaker to decrease the guilt of her husband and thus free him also from the power of the church. For our purpose, however, Rosenplüt’s narrative also illustrates a very diﬀerent aspect, that is, the need for married people to conﬁde in each other, to support each other, to work out diﬃculties together, and to defend the other in times of need.9 Although the narrative emphasis does not rest on marriage as such, Rosenplüt strongly argues in favor of harmonious conjugal relations and demonstrates with his 9 By contrast, women who are not married and reject a dubious love relationship with a man, such as Criseyde in Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, are portrayed as true to themselves, constant in their actions, and defensive against male machinations. She oﬀers many signals (gestures, words, and actions) about her inner feelings, but they are improperly interpreted by the men surrounding her. Consequently, Criseyde only ﬁnds happiness once she has abandoned Troilus and entered a true love relationship with Diomede. Her communication with Troilus proves to be an utter failure, but not because she denied him his wishes, rather because he was not willing or able to understand the meaning of her signs; see Jost Criseyde.

78

 

literary examples how fruitful a functioning communicative community between husband and wife can be in a dangerous situation.10 Remarkably, the male poet Rosenplüt presents wives who stay calm during a crisis, and husbands who not only quickly resort to violence whenever they disagree with somebody’s behavior, but also ﬂy into a rage, use deadly weapons, and then, when they realize that they have committed a murder, panic, become desperate, and resort to their wives for advice and help. The small family unit, constituted by the core of husband and wife, emerges as the absolute ideal that is even supposed to extend to the world of the courts where it replaces the traditional courtly love concept. The communicative community between man and woman, though both are very diﬀerently constituted, provides the solid medium for both genders to share and enjoy each other.11 The anonymous verse narrative “Die Heidin” from the turn of the thirteenth to the fourteenth century provides additional evidence for this observation, even though its focus rests primarily on the love between a Christian Count Alpharius (745) and a heathen Queen Dêmuot (753).12 The latter is happily married to a highly esteemed, virtuous, and brave warrior and knight who excels in all military matters and displays the highest courtly characteristics a man can dream of: “bî sînen zîten über al/gap man im den besten schal” (7f.; at his lifetime he received the highest praise). Moreover, he not only stands out as a famous participant in tournaments, he also enjoys greatest respect from his people as a person and as a king: “der werde künec lobesam” (20; the honorable and praiseworthy king). The queen receives the same degree of public recognition as her husband, who loves her dearly (28). She in turn gives him much happiness and marital bliss: “sî was im ein wol gemachtez wîp,/mit zühten hielt sî iren lîp” (29f.; she was a wonderful wife for him, she payed great attention to her honor). The narrator almost gloriﬁes 10 The same observation can be made with regard to other urban poets such as the Nuremberg Hans Folz, see Janota. 11 Early attempts to express such ideals about married life can be found in Hartmann von Aue’s Erec and Iwein, in Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival and especially Willehalm, but above all in the anonymous Reinfried von Braunschweig, see Classen Ehelob. 12 Quoted from Grubmüller Novellistik, 364ﬀ.; for a commentary, see 1153ﬀ.; here I ignore the complex matter of four diﬀerent versions of the text and rely on Grubmüller’s editorial decision.

   

79

this woman and resorts to the image of gold in order to characterize her beauty, morality, and virtue. Whereas her husband proves to be an excellent knight, the queen commands outstanding musical abilities and knows well how to entertain her audience (36–45). The marital relationship does not suﬀer from any tension, any conﬂict between them, or any misunderstanding. Indeed, she not only loves him dearly and knows perfectly well how to comport herself as a queen and a lady, but also she never opposes his wishes and carries out all his commands in a calm and steadfast manner (46–50), yet without diminishing her self-respect and virtuosity, as the conclusion of the narrative indicates. In a way, we might call these two the absolute and unmatched ideal of all marital couples in the Middle Ages, as the king admits to himself: Sint dir got der guote hât ein reinez wîp gegeben, des maht du wol mit vröuden leben. ûf disem ertrîche weiz ich ir kein gelîche mînem reinen wîbe. von irem schœnen lîbe muoz ich der wârheit jehen: ich hân nie schœner wîp gesehen. sî tuot mir aller sorgen buoz (62–71) (Since the good God has given you an honourable wife you can well live in happiness. Here on earth I do not know any other woman as beautiful as her. As to her body I must confess, I have never seen a more beautiful woman. She frees me from all my worries).

The heathen king adds, however, that he must serve her as well in every respect (72) and sings a song of praise on her as the most loveable and admirable wife there is: Sî ist ein krône der tugent und ein schône der jugent, dar zu ein ûzerweltez vaz. wer büezet mir den kumber baz dan diu minneclîche macht mich vröudenrîche, daz mir leit wære, weste ieman disiu mære, daz si vollekomen ist sô gar. (81–89)

80

  She is the crown of all virtues and an image of youthful beauty, and also an exceptional treasure. Whoever helps me more in my sorrow than this loveable woman who gives me joy. It would worry me if anybody knew how perfect she is).13

Nevertheless, and here we might have identiﬁed the crux of the tale, the king husband decides not to communicate with her and to keep to himself how much he loves her, how much he admires her, and how perfect she is in his eyes, as he rightly fears that a male competitor might learn about this extraordinary woman and endanger his marital bliss. And indeed, the narrative focus comes to rest on the subsequent conﬂict as the Christian Count Alpharius also learns about this extraordinary pagan queen and determines to win her love at all costs. As in many courtly tales, the count travels to the foreign country and challenges the heathen king to a tournament in which neither of them carries oﬀ the victory. Both are ultimately praised highly by the people for their strength, skill, and ﬁghting power: “sie sint recken ûzerwelt/mit einander beide” (494f.; they are excellent heroes, both of them). The king feels humiliated by his opponent, however, and arrogantly wants to risk his life to defeat his challenger (“er begunde sich vermezzen,” 498), which his wife criticizes severely as she is afraid of losing her husband in the murderous joust. She appeals to him to listen to her advice and to abstain from further attempts in defeating the foreign knight. So far good fortune had been on his side, but it would not last forever, and if he were not to succeed, the count would kill him (502–10). Openly she admits that her love for him is her reason she wants to hold him back from further jousting (511f.), but this only increases his ire against the foreigner who seems to weaken his knightly reputation on his own turf, especially within his marriage. More resolved than ever to face death rather than to accept the fact the count cannot be defeated by him, the king sends his wife away and prepares for battle. Nevertheless, the queen does not give in so easily, turns to the Count Alpharius and begs him in the name of all ladies to spare 13 Christine de Pizan (ca. 1364–ca. 1430), in her Treasure of the City of Ladies or the Book of the Three Virtues, outlines many diﬀerent strategies for wives how to cope with their husbands. These always imply her submission under his patriarchal rule, but they also indicate many subtle measure for the wife how to carve out a niche for herself and to maintain her own identity within marriage, 62ﬀ. Christine emphasizes, above all, intelligent communication, carefully observed submissiveness, and yet also a sense of self-preservation, 70f.

   

81

her beloved husband’s life by granting him the victory, and promises that her blessing would be bestowed upon him for this good deed (540–46). The count immediately agrees to it, as he is in love with the queen, and she happily returns to her husband to bring him these welcome news, not knowing that she has thus hurt his chauvinistic feelings even more. The king is now even more determined to meet the count’s challenge, otherwise neither his men nor he himself would be worth anything within the world of chivalry: “und wirt er ab gestochen niht,/sô sîn wir alle gar enwiht” (583f.; and if he will not be thrown oﬀ his horse, we will count nothing). Unfortunately, Queen Dêmuot is proven right when the king’s best knights attempt to defeat the count and are either badly hurt or even killed. Suddenly it dawns upon the king that he owes his life to his wife who had been much wiser than he was: Er sprach: vil liebe vrouwe mîn, mîn lîp sol dîn eigen sîn. ich wil mich in dîne gnâde geben; dû hâst behalten mir daz leben, des wil ich immer danken dir (633–37) (He said: my very beloved wife, I hand over my life to you and submit to your power; you have saved my life for which I will thank you for ever).

Obviously, this man and woman display very diﬀerent behavior, the one type almost endangering the king’s life, the other characterized by circumspection and diplomatic aplomb. The wife had in vain tried to establish communicative links with her husband, and then had taken actions into her hands to avoid his foreseeable death in a joust with the count. The king ﬁnally realizes his own foolishness, begs for forgiveness, and begins to rely on the same strategies as those utilized by his wife, inviting the count to stay as a guest (639–43), not knowing, of course, that the latter’s purposes are entirely directed toward winning Dêmuot’s love. Interestingly, however, even when Alpharius has ﬁnally confessed his true intentions to her, switching from the respectful “vrouwe” and “ir” to the personal and intimate “dû” and “liebe vrouwe mîn” (805), she does not simply fall for him, but is instead deeply hurt at this insinuation to commit adultery which would rob her of all her public honor and respect. All her attempts to silence him and to spare her the pain are to no avail, so she threatens him to tell everything to her husband because she would never

82

 

give him her love: “ich wil es iuch tuon inne,/daz ir mîner minne/nimmer werdet teilhaft” (889–91; I let you know that you will never enjoy my love), and: “ich sage ez dem herren mîn,/welt ir mich nicht lâzen âne nôt” (911f.; I will tell my lord if you don’t stop bothering me). Among other arguments with which she ﬁghts against him, Dêmuot also emphasizes that she would rather accept her own death or commit suicide than ever consider loving Alpharius (1050f.). In contrast to the innocent wife in “Die drei Mönche”, who confesses to her husband that the monks had requested sex from her and thus reconﬁrms her open communication with her husband, here Dêmuot does not enjoy such an open exchange with the king and faces an endless series of problems all by herself. She threatens to reveal Alpharius’ wooing to her husband (910f.), and to reject him altogether, but never talks with the king about the danger for her honor. Soon after Alpharius’s departure, astonishing news of his incredible chivalric accomplishments reach the court, and the queen begins to feel torn between the love for her husband and a budding love for the Christian count.14 Eventually she invites him to return to her court and then gives him the choice between her upper and her lower part, in close parallel to such a debate issue in Andreas Capellanus’ De amore (ca. 1190).15 The decision proves to be a torturous one for the lover, but he eventually decides for the upper, and thereby also gains the upper hand in this struggle for control between them. He outsmarts the queen and forces her to stop communicating with her husband in a reasonable, rational manner. Her eyes should no longer look at him, her ears should stop listening to him, and her mouth should always say the opposite of what he wants to hear. In other words, the narrator focuses on the very issue which was the theoretical premise of our investigation. What happens in a marriage if the communication breaks down? How does one marriage partner react if the other refuses to talk or to interact in a reasonable manner? Also at stake are the questions whether the love between husband and wife can be sustained if they have nothing to say to each other, whether the relationship between man and woman 14 There are signiﬁcant narrative parallels between this scene and the conclusion of Mauritius von Craûn (ca. 1220/30), although Moriz has abandoned his mistress for good and does not ever return to her because of her harsh, perhaps even haughty behavior toward him. 15 Cf. Grubmüller Novellistik, 1156f.; Andreas Capellanus, The Art of Courtly Love, I, VI, 135–41.

   

83

within marriage is supportable, if the one seemingly ﬁghts against the other, and to what extent love and language (communication) are intimately linked to each other.16 Although Dêmuot willingly agrees to Alpharius’s demand, she does not understand that this will unravel her happy marriage: “diz bewart er mit listen,/sô daz sî von unschulden/mohte zu unhulden/komen wider iren man” (1606–09; he planned this trickily with the intention that she would lose, without her own fault, the favor of her husband).17 The consequences are disastrous for the married couple. When the king asks his wife in a friendly manner to eat with him, she replies: “wir suln mezzen/die vüeze ûf dem tische” (1632f.; we should measure our feet on the table). When he charges her of being drunk, she retorts that she would look out for strange things to happen (1637–39), and so forth. At ﬁrst the husband believes that she has lost her mind (1651), then he threatens her with severe punishments, and when he returns from a hunt and observes that she continues with her strange speaking behavior, he gives her a terrible beating and leaves her for a long time. This, however, convinces Dêmuot that the Count is a better lover, so she ﬁnally gives in, hands over the control of her lower part to him as well, and, after a week of lovemaking, ﬂees with him back to his country, where she converts to Christianity and marries Alpharius. When the heathen king learns of this tragic development, he bemoans his own destiny but is never able to regain his wife. In contrast to the traditional crusade epic in the vein of Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Willehalm, where the duped heathen husband follows the treacherous couple to Europe and tries to conquer his wife back with a mighty military force, in Die Heidin, the king does not do anything of this sort. Instead, he laments the profound loss of his happiness, sings a melancholy song of praise of her, and leads a life full of sadness: “der lebte dô mit sorgen/den âbent und den morgen” (1879f.; he lived with worries all evenings and mornings). Perhaps this is another indication of his inability to ﬁght for his wife and to live up to his own rank as a king. Signiﬁcantly, again the 16 Andreas Capellanus had conﬁrmed the essential role of this connection in his treatise; Gottfried von Strassburg, in his Tristan (ca. 1210), 199, added additional support when he has Isolde challenge her future lover Tristan with the linguistic riddle about lameir which troubles her. In fact, the entire world of courtly love is based on the premise of erotic discourse as the springboard for love, see Brown. 17 This aspect is fully discussed by Ziegeler 340–46.

84

 

religious conﬂict plays a role here only secondary to the role of the functioning communication within marriage as the basis for mutual happiness. The queen resisted all attempts of amorous seduction by the count until the latter gained control over the upper part of her body. Since the king could not understand her strange behavior and would not investigate her deliberate decision to act like a fool, when he resorted to violence, he thereby betrayed his own value system and thus lost her love and so his wife. Does it seem justiﬁed for the queen to leave her husband simply because of one outburst of violence? Did she not fully love him before the wooing of the count? Where did a ﬁssure open between the couple, making it possible for Alpharius to sow the seed of discontent and thereby destroy their marriage? To answer these questions, we need to consider several aspects of the narrative thrust and the underlying socio-historical message. Even though the king was initially portrayed as an ideal character, he only excelled in military accomplishments and never seemed to know how to handle words appropriately. As soon as the count appeared in his country and challenged him, the king was immediately prepared to risk his life to overcome the opponent. The wife’s approach was the very opposite of his, as she relied on negotiations and diplomatic interaction, and thus prevented her husband’s death at the hand of the Christian count. Later, when Alpharius has been called back by Dêmuot to discuss their relationship, the king seems to be absent for a long time. We never see him in any intimate situation with his wife, especially since he never seems to spend time with her, and does not listen to her advice. Although at the beginning she clearly loves him, at the end the count’s longterm plan is successful because his actions bring to light the king’s personal shortcomings and proﬁle him as a violent, short-tempered man who is no match for the highly reﬁned, communicative, and very sensitive lover. In short, words of love defeat acts of violence. This is not to say that the king does not have feelings. On the contrary, he is deeply grieved about the loss of his wife, but he tends to realize his mistakes too late and cannot remedy them in time. Whereas the count demonstrated enormous patience and skills in wooing the lady, the king proves to be the opposite, even though he is a loving husband and tries his best to oﬀer support and sustenance to his wife. This, however, turns out not to be enough, as he ultimately fails in living up to the fundamental courtly values and ideals, especially in face of the communicative challenge represented

   

85

by Alpharius’ wooing (Hufeland Der auf sich selbst zornige Gott; Hufeland Die mit sich selbst streitende Heidin, 7f.). Even though this scenario in Die Heidin considerably complicates the issue at stake in our investigation, namely, the question of how the relationship between the genders are evaluated and perceived by late-medieval authors of verse narratives, several signiﬁcant conclusions are possible. Husband and wife seem to enjoy a happy marital union, but both operate on very diﬀerent levels, and do not pursue an eﬀective communication. In the beginning, all diﬃculties between them are overcome by her outstanding skills in handling her husband even in problematic, chivalric situations, as she relies on diplomatic maneuvers and communicative strategies. This harmony is eventually broken up by the appearance of the count who successfully forces a wedge between the two and manages to pry her away from the king by means of his powerful words. His triumph results from his character strengths and ability to outsmart the queen in their love debate à la Andreas Capellanus. The narrative does not, however, condemn the husband, but rather emphasizes, particularly at the beginning, the endearment between husband and wife. Both are admirable characters, but the king fails the test of marital endurance when his wife is forced to play the fool against him, and so he turns violent not knowing that in reality he is destroying the basis for his own existence. Nevertheless, indirectly the ideal as projected here emerges as the honorable marital life where two diﬀerent people— the Count and the queen—successfully cooperate to join in their eﬀorts to achieve mutual love and happiness (Blank Paarbeziehung 77). Most of the late-medieval verse novellas (maeren) indicate that husband and wife experience problems in their marriage. These problems may result from his violence or foolishness, from her excessive sexuality or his impotence, from their mutual lack of communication, or from the disloyalty of either of the partners.18 The preponderance of this overarching topic in literary tales probably publicly read out loud and discussed during the late Middle Ages indicates the degree to which married life had become a topic of major concern, 18 This is also reﬂected in the endless number of ﬁfteenth- and sixteenth-centuries marriage treatises, poems, dramas, and sermons; see, for example, the anonymous Zwey hüpsche newe Geistliche Lieder/Das Erste/der Ehestand der ist Ehren währt. Das Ander/Zu Ehren wöllen wir singen/eim frommen Breutigam (Basel: Johann Schröter, 1603), Zentralbibliothek Zürich XXV, 1036.6; cf. Karant-Nunn 2000; in a forthcoming book I am examining a vast number of similar texts.

86

 

and the literary documents reﬂected upon the varieties of possible approaches. Many verse narratives are built upon traditional misogynous stereotypes, and a vast majority of them thematize the unbalanced sexual relationship between the genders. But practically all late-medieval verse novellas demonstrate that the fundamental problems are related to the problems connected with communication between men and women (Burghartz 286ﬀ.). Misunderstandings, deceptions, false promises and claims, fragmented discussions, inability to talk with each other openly, and many similar aspects prove to be the major issues in these texts. The implied humor, and the intended comedy heavily rely on these and similar issues illustrated by means of the literary presentation. One story illustrating such humor comes from the author considered at the beginning of this examination. In Kaufringer’s tale, “Der feige Ehemann,”19 a knight woos the wife of a rich Strasbourg citizen, and the husband intends to punish him for his adulterous desires. He and his wife agree upon a plan that is supposed to frighten the knight oﬀ for good. She invites him in one day while her husband is lying in hiding, ready to jump out at the decisive moment and threaten the opponent with a sword. All works well, but during a conversation with the wife, and already in the presence of the hidden husband, the knight illustrates his courage and superior strength, through a quick demonstration, which scares the husband out of his wits. Consequently, when the knight forces himself upon the wife, all her protests and screaming do not help, as the husband keeps quiet and waits until the knight has left the house. The husband tries to console her, not knowing why she had invited him in the ﬁrst place and then suddenly had refused to allow him to make love with her: “der ritter wolt si ze der frist/mit süesser red getröstet haun;/das was ir zuo dem tod getaun” (222f.; the knight wanted to console her with sweet words, but this mortiﬁed her even more). Once again, a major misinterpretation characterizes the situation, which is even aggravated by the husband’s cowardice. He defends himself, however, with the explanation that a little damage, i.e., her having been raped, could be accepted more easily than a big damage, i.e., his death at the hand of the knight (259–73). Nevertheless, the narrator comments that the husband really carried all the guilt 19

Quoted from Grubmüller Novellistik, 720ﬀ.; for a commentary, see 1269ﬀ.

   

87

because he should not have hidden and should have been ready from the beginning to defend his wife: er ist ain böser wartman, der es also sicht und hört, das man sein guot fraind betört, und den nit hilft aus der not. (288–91) (He is a bad watchman who sees and hears that his good friend is attacked but does not help him in his emergency).

Certainly, it would be an oversimpliﬁcation to read this or any of the other fourteenth- and ﬁfteenth-century maeren only as symbolic tales representing miscommunication, which in turn leads to radical clashes between husband and wife. Nevertheless, the narrators deﬁnitely present signiﬁcant cases where communication—mostly between the genders—either ﬂourishes or fails, and depending on the outcome of these acts of communication the marriage results in happiness for both partners or in misery and sorrow, mostly for the subjugated weak woman, sometimes also the cuckolded husband. Moreover, this genre deftly illustrates the complex nature of gender relations and their historical-cultural conditioning. In each of the tales the individual roles of men and women are renegotiated as regards to their power position within marriage and hence also within society. We are confronted with courageous and highly virtuous men and women, but also with the very opposite, as negative characteristics can be found among female and male protagonists. Thus, ultimately the late-medieval verse narratives emerge as signiﬁcant literary fora where the relationship between the genders are explored, discussed, examined, highlighted, criticized, and deﬁned. The focus, however, is on marriage as the essential staging ground where neither wealth nor physical strength matters in the ﬁrst place, but where the power over words, that is, communicative skills and the ability to establish community through language, does (Classen Witz).20 The same conclusions can be drawn from parallel texts such as Boccaccio’s Decameron, Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, or Marguerite’s Heptameron. By contrast, 20 Blank Ehelehren 203, assumed, based on his analysis of shrovetide plays, that the traditional arrangement of gender roles, with the husband as the absolute head of the family, was continued far into the ﬁfteenth century. Our analysis of a selection of verse narratives, however, indicates a much more complex situation. The situation for women became much worse only by the time the Protestant Reformation made its impact felt upon every aspect of sixteenth-century society, see Roper.

88

 

however, the German corpus, as examined here, proves to be more diverse and lacks an overarching narrative framework determined by an authorial voice. The fundamental questions, issues, and concerns, however, remain the same. There are, we might say, no easy answers, and the struggle between men and women obviously has continued until today. It would be advisable, then, if we can trust the literary statements, not to follow the simplifying models by modern marriage counselors such as John Gray, as the gender issue is not a matter of black-and-white contrasts (men versus women), but rather a highly complex phenomenon which requires constant and never-ending negotiations. Modern conditions aﬀecting the gender relations cannot be naively projected back into the fourteenth- and ﬁfteenth century, and the verse narratives discussed here can likewise not naively be used to explain modern problems aﬀecting men and women. Nevertheless, our literary analysis has indicated how much marriage was considered and continues to be understood as a highly complex form of cohabitation of man and woman. To achieve any kind of happiness and harmony within marriage required, as these authors suggest, excellent communicative abilities, an open mind for negotiations with the other person, and a considerable degree of tolerance for the partner’s idiosyncrasies, individual needs, expectations, abilities, and culture. In short, language proves to be the relevant instrument in creating a functioning marriage. The literary documents provide explicit illustrations for these observations, which might well be lessons for married partners still today (Weber). Considering the messages contained in these narratives, and the subsequent conclusions about how to achieve a happy marriage, small wonder that divorce rates in modern societies have reached staggering levels as individual communication skills seem to be at an all-time low. Perhaps, to end on a facetious note, modern couples should be recommended, before they get married, to read late medieval narratives as a preparation for one of the most challenging and demanding tasks facing both genders today. It might help them more than to read such stereotyping marriage guidebooks as the one by John Gray. After all, good literature has always provided the most complex insights into human existence (Classen Eroticism).

   

89

Works Cited Anderson, Flemming G., and Morten Nøjgaard, eds. The Making of the Couple. The Social Function of Short-Form Medieval Narrative. A Symposium. Odense: Odense University Press, 1991. Bachorski, Hans-Jürgen, ed. Ordnung und Lust. Bilder von Liebe, Ehe und Sexualität in Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit. Literatur Imagination Realität. 1. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag, 1991. Baldwin, John W. The Language of Sex. Five Voices from Northern France around 1200. The Chicago Series on Sexuality, History, and Society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994. Bennewitz, Ingrid, and Helmut Tervooren, eds. Manlîchiu wîp, wîplîch man. Zur Konstruktion der Kategorien ‘Körper’ und ‘Geschlecht’ in der deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters. Internationales Kolloquium der Oswald von Wolkenstein-Gesellschaft und der Gerhard-Mercator-Universität Duisburg, Xanten 1997. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 9. Berlin: Schmidt, 1999. Blank, Walter. “Ehelehren in mittelhochdeutscher Dichtung. Nürnberger Fastnachtspiele des 15. Jahrhunderts.” Liebe in der deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters. St. AndrewsColloquium 1985. Eds. Jeﬀrey Ashcroft, Dietrich Huschenbett, and William Henry Jackson. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1987. 192–203. ——. “Zur Paarbeziehung in deutscher Märendichtung. Sozialer Kontext und Bedingungen.” The Making of the Couple. The Social Function of Short-Form Medieval Narrative. A Symposium. Eds. Flemming G. Andersen and Morten Nøjgaard. Odense: Odense University Press, 1991. 67–87. Brown, Catherine. Contrary Things. Exegesis, Dialectic, and the Poetics of Didacticism. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998. Bumke, Joachim. Höﬁsche Kultur. Literatur und Gesellschaft im hohen Mittelalter. 2 vols. Munich: dtv, 1986. Burger, Glenn and Steven F. Kruger, eds. Queering the Middle Ages. Medieval Cultures 27. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001. Burghartz, Susanna. Zeiten der Reinheit. Orte der Unzucht. Ehe und Sexualität in Basel während der Frühen Neuzeit. Paderborn: Schöningh, 1999. Butler, Judith. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex”. New York: Routledge, 1993. ——. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. 10th Anniversary Edition. 1989; New York: Routledge, 1999. Capellanus, Andreas. The Art of Courtly Love. With Introduction, Translation, and Notes by John Jay Parry. Records of Civilization in Norton Paperback Editions. New York: W. W. Norton, 1969. Cartlidge, Neil. Medieval Marriage. Literary Approaches, 1100–1300. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1997. Christine de Pizan. Treasure of the City of Ladies or the Book of the Three Virtues. Trans. with an introduction by Sarah Lawson. London: Penguin, 1985. Classen, Albrecht. “Ehelob und Preis der Ehefrau in Reinfried von Braunschweig.” Seminar 37:2 (2001): 95–112. ——, ed. Eroticism and Love in the Middle Ages. 4th ed. New York: Forbes, 1999. ——. “Happiness in the Middle Ages? Hartmann von Aue and Marie de France.” Neohelicon XXV, 1 (1998): 247–74. ——. “Die leidende und unterdrückte Frau im Roman des 15. Jahrhunderts. Zur Verfasserschaft des frühneuhoch-deutschen Romans Pontus und Sidonia.” Seminar 29, 1 (1993): 1–27. ——. “Love and Marriage and the Battle of Genders in the Stricker’s maeren.” Neuphilologische Mitteilungen XCII, 1 (1991): 105–22.

90

 

——. “Love and Marriage in Late Medieval German Lyric Poetry and Prose Literature.” Orbis Litterarum 49 (1994): 63–83. ——. “Mord, Totschlag, Vergewaltigung, Unterdrückung und Sexualität. Liebe und Gewalt in der Welt von Heinrich Kaufringer.” Daphnis 29, 1–2 (2000): 3–36. ——, trans. and commentator. Tristan als Mönch: mittelhochdeutsch-neuhochdeutsch. Wodan. Ser. 1. Texte des Mittelalters 12. Greifswald: Reineke Verlag, 1994. ——. “Whatever Happened to Courtly Love? The Role of Love in Late Medieval German Literature, with Emphasis on the Volksbuch.” Fifteenth-Century Studies 20 (1993): 35–64. ——. “Witz, Humor, Satire. Georg Wickrams Rollwagenbüchlein als Quelle für sozialhistorische und mentalitätsgeschichtliche Studien zum 16. Jahrhundert. Oder: Vom kommunikativen und gewalttätigen Umgang der Menschen in der Frühneuzeit.” Jahrbuch der ungarischen Germanistik. Eds. Árpád Bernáth and Gunther Dietz. (1999): 13–30. ——. “Women in 15th-Century Literature: Protagonists (Melusine), Poets (Elisabeth von Nassau-Saarbrücken), and Patrons (Mechthild von Österreich).” Der Buchstab tödt—der Geist macht lebendig. Festschrift zum 60. Geburtstag von Hans-Gert Roloﬀ. Ed. James Hardin and Jörg Jungmayr. Vol. I. Bern: Lang, 1992. 431–458. Cornuälle, Heldris de. Silence. Trans. Sarah Roche-Mahdi. Medieval Texts and Studies 10. East Lansing: Colleagues Press, 1992. Cramer, Thomas. Geschichte der deutschen Literatur im späten Mittelalter. Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1990. Dallapiazza, Michael. “Modelle der Geschlechterbeziehung am Beginn der Neuzeit. Die Diskurse um Liebe, Ehe, Haushalt.” Jahrbuch der Oswald von Wolkenstein Gesellschaft 9 (1996/1997): 373–383. ——. minne, hûsêre und das ehlich leben. Zur Konstitution bürgerlicher Lebensmuster in spätmittelalterlichen und frühhumanistischen Didaktiken. Europäische Hochschulschriften. Reihe I: Deutsche Sprache und Literatur, 455. Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1981. Dallos, Sally and Rudi Dallos. Couple, Sex and the Politics of Desire. Buckingham: Open University Press, 1997. Dinshaw, Carolyn. Getting Medieval. Sexualities and Communities, Pre- and Postmodern. Durham: Duke University Press, 1999. Duerr, Hans Peter. Nacktheit und Scham. Der Mythos vom Zivilisationsprozeß. 1. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1988. Dykema, Peter A. and Heiko Oberman, eds. Anticlericalism in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Studies in Medieval Thought. 51. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1993. Exempel und Exempelsammlungen. Eds. Walter Haug und Burghart Wachinger. Fortuna vitrea 2. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1991. Fischer, Hanns. Studien zur deutschen Märendichtung. 2nd ed. Ed. Johannes Janota. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1983. Friedrich, Udo. “Metaphorik des Spiels und Reﬂexion des Erzählens bei Heinrich Kaufringer.” Internationales Archiv für Sozialgeschichte der Deutschen Literatur 21, 1 (1996): 1–30. Gottfried von Strassburg. Tristan. With the surviving fragments of the Tristran of Thomas. With an Introduction by A. T. Hatto. London: Penguin, 1967. Gray, John. Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus: a Practical Guide for Improving Communication and Getting What You Want In Your Relationships. New York: Harper Collins, 1992. Grubmüller, Klaus. “Das Groteske im Märe als Element seiner Geschichte. Skizzen zu einer historischen Gattungspoetik.” Kleinere Erzählformen des 15. und 16. Jahrhunderts. Eds. Walter Haug and Burghart Wachinger. Fortuna Vitrea 8. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1993. 37–54. ——, ed. with L. Peter Johnson and Hans-Hugo Steinhoﬀ. Kleinere Erzählformen im Mittelalter. Paderborner Colloquium 1987. Schriften der Universität-Gesamthochschule-

   

91

Paderborn. Reihe Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaft 10. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1988. ——, ed., trans., and commentator. Novellistik des Mittelalters. Märendichtung. Bibliothek des Mittelalter 23. Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1996. Haug, Walter. “Entwurf zu einer Theorie der mittelhochdeutschen Kurzerzählung.” Kleinere Erzählformen des 15. und 16. Jahrhunderts. Eds. Walter Haug and Burghart Wachinger. Fortuna Vitrea 8. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1993. 1–36. Heinzle, Joachim. “Boccaccio und die Tradition der Novelle. Zur Strukturanalyse und Gattungsbestimmung kleinepischer Formen zwischen Mittelalter und Neuzeit.” Wolfram-Studien 5 (1979): 41–62. ——. “Altes und Neues zum Märenbegriﬀ.” Zeitschrift für deutsches Altertum und deutsche Literatur 117 (1988): 277–296. Herrero Salgado, Felix, ed. Narraciones de la España medieval. Colección novellas y cuentos 37. Madrid: Novellas y Cuentos, 1968. Howell, Martha C. The Marriage Exchange. Property, Social Place, and Gender in the Cities of the Low Countries, 1300–1550. Women in Culture and Society. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1998. Hufeland, Klaus. “Der auf sich selbst zornige Graf. ‘Heidin IV’ als Manifestation der höﬁschen Liebe.” Gotes und der werlde hulde. Literatur in Mittelalter und Neuzeit. Festschrift für Heinz Rupp zum 70. Geburtstag. Ed. Rüdiger Schnell. Bern: Francke, 1989, 135–63. ——. “Die mit sich selbst streitende Heidin.” Dialog. Festschrift für Siegfried Grosse. Eds. Gert Rickheit und Sigurd Wichter. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1990. Janota, Johannes, “Liebe und Ehe bei Hans Folz. Von der Minnerede zum Lob der Ehe.” Liebe in der deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters. St. Andrews-Colloquium 1985. Eds. Jeﬀrey Ashcroft, Dietrich Huschenbett, William Henry Jackson. Publications of the Institute of Germanic Studies (University of London) 40. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1987, 174–91. Jost, Jean E. “Criseyde’s Signs and Gestures: The Conﬂict Between Words and Deeds.” L’immaginaire courtois et son double. Éd. Giovanna Angeli et Luciano Formisano. Pubblicazioni dell’ Università degli Studi di Salerno. Sezione Atti, Convegni, Miscellanee 35. Napels: Edizioni Scientiﬁche Italiane, 1991. 343–60. ——. “Margins in Middle English Romance: Culture and Characterization in Awntyrs oﬀ Arthure at the Terne Wathelyne and The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnell.” Meeting the Foreign in the Middle Ages. Ed. Albrecht Classen. New York: Routledge, 2002 (forthcoming). Karant-Nunn, Susan C. “Society, Women and the Family.” The Reformation World, Ed. Andrew Pettegree. London: Routledge, 2000. 433–460. Karnein, Alfred. Amor est passio. Untersuchungen zum nicht-höﬁschen Liebesdiskurs des Mittelalters. Ed. Friedrich Wolfzettel. Hesperides. Letterature e culture occidentali IV. Trieste: Edizioni Parnaso, 1997. Kay, Richard, ed. The Broadview Book of Medieval Anecdotes. Peterborough, Canada: Broadview Press, 1988. Kemper, Hans-Georg. “Hölle und ‘Himmel auf Erden’. Liebes-, Hochzeits- und Ehelyrik in der frühen Neuzeit.” Mittelalter und frühe Neuzeit: Übergänge, Umbrüche und Neuansätze. Ed. Walter Haug. Fortuna Vitrea 16. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1999, 30–77. Kröll, Katrin. “Der schalkhaft beredsame Leib als Medium verborgener Wahrheit.” Ibid. and Hugo Steger, eds. Mein ganzer Körper ist Gesicht. Groteske Darstellungen in der europäischen Kunst und Literatur des Mittelalters. Freiburg: Rombach Verlag, 1994. 239–94. The Lais of Marie de France. Trans. with an Introduction by Glyn S. Burgess and Keith Busby. London: Penguin, 1986. Landis, Paul. Making the Most of Marriage. Sociology Series. New York: Appleton Century Croft, 1965. Lewis, C. S. The Allegory of Love. A Study in Medieval Tradition. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1936.

92

 

Lexer, Matthias. Mittelhochdeutsches Taschenwörterbuch. 34th ed. Stuttgart: S. Hirzel, 1976. Mauritius von Craûn. Ed. Heimo Reinitzer. Altdeutsche Textbibliothek 113. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2000. Millet, Victor. “Märe mit Moral? Zum Verhältnis von weltlichem Sinnangebot und geistlicher Moralisierung in drei mittelhochdeutschen Kurzerzählungen.” Geistliches in weltlicher und Weltliches in geistlicher Literatur des Mittelalters. Eds. Christoph Huber, Burghart Wachinger, and Hans-Joachim Ziegeler. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2000, 273–90. Müller, Jan-Dirk. Minnesang und Literaturtheorie. Ed. Ute von Bloh. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2001. Newman, F. X., ed. The Meaning of Courtly Love. Papers of the First Annual Conference of the Center for Medieval and Early Renaissance Studies State University of New York at Binghamton March 17–18, 1967. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1972. Reichel, Jörn. Der Spruchdichter Hans Rosenplüt. Literatur und Leben im spätmittelalterlichen Nürnberg. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1985. Roper, Lyndal. The Holy Household. Women and Morals in Reformation Augsburg. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989. Robertson, Elizabeth, and Christina M. Rose, eds. Representing Rape in Medieval and Early Modern Literature. The New Middle Ages. New York: Palgrave, 2001. Sands, Donald B., ed. Middle English Verse Romances. 1966, 1988, 1991, 1993, New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1997. Saunders, Corinne. Rape and Ravishment in the Literature of Medieval England. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2001. Scanzoni, John. Designing Families. The Search for Self and Community in the Information Age. Thousand Oaks: Pine Forge Press, 2000. Schnell, Rüdiger. Causa amoris: Liebeskonzeption und Liebesdarstellung in der mittelalterlichen Literatur. Bibliotheca Germanica 27. Bern: Francke, 1985. ——. “Liebesdiskurs und Ehediskurs im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert.” The Graph of Sex and the German Text. Gendered Culture in Early Modern Germany. Ed. Lynne Tatlock. Chloe 19. Amsterdam: Editions Rodopi, 1994. 77–120. Schnyder, André. “Abenteuer, Liebe, Geld: Zu Heinrich Kaufringers Märe ‘Der zurückgegebene Minnelohn’.” Euphorion 91. 3–4 (1997): 397–412. ——. “Frauen und Männer in den Mären Heinrich Kaufringers. Zur Darstellung des Körperlichen und zur Konstruktion des Geschlechterunterschiedes.” Manlîchiu wîp. Zur Konstruktion der Kategorien ‘Körper’ und ‘Geschlecht’ in der deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters (Internationales Kolloquium der Oswald von Wolkenstein-Gesellschaft und der Gerhard-Mercator-Universität Duisburg, Xanten 1997). Eds. Ingrid Bennewitz and Helmut Tervooren. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 9. Berlin: Schmidt Verlag, 1999. 110–130. Schröter, Michael. “Wo zwei zusammen kommen in rechter Ehe . . .” Sozio- und psychogenetische Studien über Eheschließungsvorgänge vom 12. bis 15. Jahrhundert. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1985. Stede, Marga. Schreiben in der Krise: die Texte des Heinrich Kaufringer. Literatur, Imagination, Realität 5. Trier: WVT, 1993. Weber, Arndt. Aﬀektive Liebe als rechte eheliche Liebe in der ehedidaktischen Literatur der frühen Neuzeit. Eine Studie unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Exempla zum locus Amor Coniugalis. Europäische Hochschulschriften Reihe 1. Deutsche Sprache und Literatur 1819. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2001. Williams, Gerhild Scholz. “Konstruierte Männlichkeit. Genealogie, Geschlecht und ein Briefwechsel in Heldris von Cornwalls ‘Roman de Silence’.” Gespräche—Boten— Briefe. Körpergedächtnis und Schriftgedächtnis im Mittelalter. Ed. Horst Wenzel. Philologische Studien und Quellen 143. Berlin: Schmidt, 1997. 193–211. Wolter, Christine, ed. 50 Novellen der italienischen Renaissance. Taschenbibliothek der Weltliteratur. Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 1988. Ziegeler, Hans-Joachim. Erzählen im Spätmittelalter. Mären im Kontext von Minnereden, Bispeln und Romanen. Münchener Texte und Untersuchungen zur deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters 87. Munich: Artemis, 1985.

WITH A SILVER SPOON IN HIS MOUTH? WOLFRAM’S COURTLY CONTESTANTS* Jean E. Godsall-Myers

German medieval literature abounds with characters who confront language barriers and traverse through language communities. In some cases, the characters are outsiders who distinguish themselves in part on the basis of their linguistic competence (e.g., Tristan, Cundrie). In other instances, the characters are outsiders who become insiders, again on the basis of their language skills (e.g., Giburc). Within all descriptions is the connection between language, court membership, and courtly ideals. This connection has been the focus of scholarship over the last century; one need only mention the early work of Gustav Ehrismann, Duzen und Ihrzen im Mittelalter (1903/4), or the more recent books of Linda Sussman, The Speech of the Grail (1995) and Rüdiger Schnell, Frauendiskurs, Männerdiskurs, Ehediskurs (1998), and such articles as that one in which Volker Mertens described “ein echtes Herren-Gespräch” [a genuine men’s/lords’ discussion] in the Tierepik [animal epic prose] in 1994. In this chapter, I would like to compare the use of language of three characters created by Wolfram von Eschenbach. Parzival is the male protagonist of the text named for this character. This courtly epic recounts the experiences of Parzival as he pursues membership within the Grail society and eventually becomes king of the Grail. The remaining two are far less central to the respective texts, and in a comparable way, will receive less attention in this essay. The second character is from Parzival, and is Parzival’s half-brother, Feireﬁz. The third character is Rennewart, from Wolfram’s later text, Willehalm. This tale is also a courtly epic, recounting military conﬂicts between Christians and the heathen Saracens. Rennewart is a heathen and the brother of the female protagonist, Giburc, a convert to Christianity, and he ﬁghts for her husband, the Christian king

* This chapter is based on a paper read at the 36th International Congress on Medieval Studies in Kalamazoo, Michigan, May 3–6, 2001.

94

 . -

Willehalm.1 These three characters all progress in status from outsider to community insider, and their progression includes language skills. Their transformation includes adapting courtly ideals, as well as identiﬁcation with Christianity. As I compare the transitions of the characters, I intend to demonstrate that Wolfram’s attention to speaking is consistent and intentional. Furthermore, I hope to argue successfully that Wolfram’s depiction of the ways people speak contributes to his general assessment of medieval society. As these literary characters evolve from outsiders to insiders, they acquire new language skills, and as the literary characters evolve in status, readers also see the characters learning about the society, including courtly ideals and Christianity. In other words, these characters can be understood as entering a new speech community, and the literary text oﬀers insight into the speech and the nature of that community. The question posed in the title of this essay is part of an idiom in English, meaning born in wealth, but here it is used to suggest that these literary characters as speakers come into membership within the court on the basis of their language skills. It struck me that the idiom could be a possible rendering for the German medieval suezer munt [sweet mouthed]. The problem is that this German phrase is limited in its application, as far as I have determined superﬁcially, in that only women are described with it. But this one phrase is the tip of the iceberg. We note upon further investigation Wolfram’s artistry in focusing on speaking. Indeed, in Parzival, Wolfram oﬀers a wide range of characters distinguished by their speech, from the silent Antanor to the polyglot Cundrie. Scholars have noted Wolfram’s creative use of language, and here we see reinforcement for his carefully crafted portrayal of how characters speak. One proof of the attention Wolfram dedicates to spoken language is seen just in the variety of words Wolframs uses to describe speaking. There are roughly two dozen nouns used by Wolfram to describe ways characters speak. These include antwürte [answer], bâc [argument], baete [request], benediz [benediction], bete [request, prayer], crîe [battle cry], clage [complaint], eid [oath], gegenrede [reply], gespraeche [dialog], gruoz [greeting], jâmer [lamentation], maere [story], nôtrede [court plea], rat/raete [advice], rede [speech], ruome 1 Readers are directed to Gibbs and Johnson’s Medieval German Literature for concise scholarly discussion and summary for these Wolfram texts in particular and other medieval German texts in general.

      

95

[praise], segen [blessing], segen des taufes [blessing of the baptism], venje [prayer oﬀered while genuﬂecting], vrage [question], widerruoft [contradiction, refusal].2 A casual reader may not even note these, given that many are commonplace, but the point remains that the diversity existed, and the author intentionally chose diverse terms rather than just one or two. It should also be noted that the diversity transcends synonyms, and indeed pursuing the distinction between these items would yield interesting insight into potential speech acts and general verbal interaction in medieval society.3 When we turn to the three characters, we note that Wolfram’s crafting continues. A superﬁcial comparison reveals the basics. All three are of noble birth and all three lose their parents early in life. Each has a distinct facial mark, alerting readers to the body location for speech: Parzival has no beard (reinforcing his image of youthful innocence), Feirefez is motley, and Rennewart has a beard (as a result of a kiss from Alyze). Each engages in frauendienst, i.e., combat for the sake of a woman. Each rejects the Christian God on one level, and similarly, each accepts Christianity on one level or another. In contrast, their language skills and use of language, i.e., their communicative competence (Hymes 75), vary. Parzival makes the transition into the Grail community as a native speaker and as a Christian, but he needs to learn how to use language appropriately nonetheless. Feireﬁz is a bilingual heathen, whose great command of courtly conventions of speaking is evident just prior to his conversion to Christianity. Rennewart also makes tremendous strides towards acceptance into the foreign Christian and courtly circles, but he is not as successful as either one of his counterparts. The development of Parzival is described by Wolfram in the greatest detail, and as such will be the foundation for considering the other two. Parzival’s youth includes language issues. He is the lad who is moved to silence upon killing a bird with his arrow, the boy whose greeting elicits laughter from the knights, the young son who learns from his mother to greet the world. 2

The translations for these and other lexical items are from Lexer. Readers of the Middle High German text will also see that Wolfram includes more than two dozen verbs describing speaking. The diversity and even accuracy sometimes is an issue in standardized versions or translations; Wolfram’s sprach [spoke] appears in Spiewok’s rendition as rief [shouted]. One example of a modern treatment of lexicon is by Domes, cited below. A broader treatment is oﬀered by Bumke (Courtly 82–88). 3

96

 . -

His encounters with women reveal a progression of communicative competence. A brief example is found in the interaction Parzival has with Jeschute. His meeting the woman in her tent (129, 27) almost precludes conversation, and is a sharp contrast to his wellcrafted confession to her and Orilus in Trevrizent’s shrine much later (268, 25ﬀ.). A more informative example is found in Parzival’s interaction with Sigune. Parzival encounters his cousin Sigune three times, and the form of address reveals his improving language skills as well as the dramatic and dynamic tension in their relationship. Initially, he appropriately says “ihr” (formal form of address) to her (138, 25ﬀ.) and she responds to the younger person with an appropriate “du” (139, 25). The next time they meet, she again addresses him with the informal pronoun (251, 29), but upon learning he has failed to pose the question at the Grail, she distances herself from him with “ihr” (255, 2ﬀ.). The third meeting is complex. The cousins speak without recognizing each other and use the formal pronoun. When Parzival removes his head gear, Sigune recognizes him, but out of respect for his status as a famous hero, she addresses him with the formal pronoun and even the title hêr Parzivâl 440, 29 [lord Parzival]. He further clariﬁes his intention to revisit Munsalwäsch and to redress his past misconduct. Then he appeals to the family tie (niftel Sigûne 441, 15 [niece Sigune]), pleas for her sympathy, and switches to the informal pronoun. Sigune’s forgiveness is swift and further reinforced with the expression of solidarity evident in the switch to the reciprocal informal address (441, 18ﬀ.). She provides him with further advice for his continued success. The speeches of these two thus reveal that Parzival is moving along: he is learning how to speak to people eﬀectively and for that, his reward is progress towards his goal of entering the court successfully. Parzival has at least three mentors whose counseling includes language instruction. The ﬁrst is his mother, mentioned above. The second is Gurnemanz, who tells Parzival he talks like a child: “ihr redet als ein kindelîn” (170, 10). Then he advises the hero a) to stop talking about his mother, b) not to keep secrets from a vrouwe [lady], and c) not to ask too many questions. The third mentor is Trevrizent, who sets the hero straight: Parzival is to pose the question to Anfortas, to show compassion by asking about the older man’s wounds. Parzival’s encounters at court reveal his linguistic skill development as well, and he develops from an obnoxious outsider to a wiser insider. The ﬁrst time, Parzival enters the palace hall, shouting (sus

      

97

vil kund er in schalle, er sprach “gott halde iuch [hêrren] alle benamen den künec und des wîp.” 147, 27–148, 1 [thus he entered the hall with shouting, he spoke “May God protect you all, especially the king and his wife”]).4 His subsequent stay at the castle in Pelrapeire follows his lessons in social behavior with Gurnemanz, and thus we should not be surprised at his next language strategy. He maneuvers through romance via silence, broken by Condwiramurs, and pillow-talk, the extent of which, Wolfram alerts us, would drive many women crazy. The next time he appears at court, Parzival experiences the good and the bad: before everyone, Arthur proclaims him a knight, and Cundrie curses him. It gets worse before it gets better. When the court reconvenes, Bene refuses to sit next to Parzival, given his reputation for deriding women. Parzival defends himself verbally. He further defends himself to the whole court, recounting his deeds to save his honor. Pride goeth before a fall: he secretly leaves and ﬁghts Gramoﬂanz, for which Arthur reprimands him publicly, and Parzival leaves the court silently, secretly. The last visit at court yields a very diﬀerent speaker: Parzival returns not just victorious in battle, but successful in using language. It is of no small signiﬁcance that he is in the company of Feireﬁz. This brother proves to possess superior speaking skills, as Parzival compliments Feireﬁz: “ir sprechet wol: ich spreache baz, ob ich daz kunde, ân allen haz. nu bin ich leider niht sô wîs, des iuwer werdelîcher pris mit worten mege gehoeht sîn” 749, 2–6 [You speak well: I would speak better, if I could, in all truth. Now I am not unfortunately not so wise, that your worldly deeds might be raised by my words.]. Parzival rejects the oﬀer to “duzen” [use of the informal form of address], given his older brother’s position and wealth, a custom he follows until Feireﬁz agrees to be baptized (749, 20–30). The articulate compliment and the recognition of appropriate address forms reveal a vast improvent for the knight. Feireﬁz also proves to be a social mentor, as Parzival follows the example of his brother in rising at the table (764, 19). And when Arthur asks to hear of their âventiure [adventures], Parzival recognizes his brother’s superior social skills and speaks only after Feireﬁz is ﬁnished (771, 23). Last but not least, the Gralsburg deserves brief mention. Parzival’s ﬁrst visit includes not just the unasked question. At the Gralsburg, 4 These quotes are from the Lachmann edition of Parzival cited below. The English translations are my own, based on the Modern German translation of Spiewok.

98

 . -

the knight is taunted by the court jester so much that he has a ﬁt: his clenches his ﬁsts so tightly that blood bursts forth. Parzival can barely handle the linguistic frustration. Later, in sharp contrast, his second visit includes restraint. He follows Feireﬁz in not ﬁghting the knights greeting them, and indeed, Parzival’s greeting is eﬀective, “ein segen dûhte si sîn gruoz” (793, 26) [his greeting seemed to them to be a blessing]. He does pose the famous question, but noteworthy is the role of language for the Grail in general. Parzival becomes the king of the Grail, and all knights who serve the Grail, we learn, forbid those serving them from asking questions about their identity, and if asked such a question, the knight shall leave that country. The rules for members of the Grail include a rule of speaking, which simultaneously reinforces the secret nature of the Grail community. Thus we have a sense of Parzival’s development along the lines of using spoken language. He starts out as a boy, completely removed from courtly life and makes his way into the center of the court, indeed, to become its king. He begins as someone with no idea of how to speak appropriately, and the knights laugh at him. At the end, he has earned the respect of all, not just for his knightly deeds and accomplishments, but also for his ability to conduct himself courteously, i.e., in the way of the court, and that conduct includes communicative competence, i.e., knowing how to speak appropriately. He is able to convince Sigune to help him reach his goal, he hears and follows the advice about speaking from three mentors, and he actually speaks at court the right way. Parzival’s character is described in much greater detail than Feireﬁz, and so a few comments may be helpful. We know nothing of Feireﬁz’ youth per se, but we do know that by the time he is an adult, he has had enough exposure to other languages to be fully ﬂuent in two (Arabic and French), and to command successfully an army comprised of 25 units, each with a diﬀerent language.5 Feireﬁz seems to engage women in conversation, as indicated by his successful courting of Repanse de Schoye. It would be a stretch to assert that he has mentors, but he certainly listens to the advice of others. Unlike his brother, Feireﬁz is, as recounted above, well versed in courtly manners, including things like greetings and addressing a public audience. 5 Such linguistic diversity as part of the portrayal of the heathen forces should not be overlooked. In his treatment of foreign language competence in Willehalm, Kleppel in fact stresses the contribution that Arabic makes to cohesion (147).

      

99

Feireﬁz has virtually no problems being accepted by the court, which is no surprise, given his skill in language, as indicated here and in the comparison with Parzival as stated above. When he desires membership that includes marriage, there is no language barrier and the barrier of religion is easily overcome. He converts, marries Repanse de Schoye, and his complete membership within the Grail court is signiﬁed by even being able to see the Grail (818, 20–23). Rennewart is also less fully developed by Wolfram, but again, deserving of our attention. This character begins as an outsider, kidnapped in childhood from his court home in his native Arabic country, and eventually enters two courts in France. Both court entrances involve language skill acquisition, and both stints at court are only semi-successful. As was the case for Parzival, Rennewart’s childhood also concerns language learning. When he is kidnapped, the merchants teach the Arabic-speaking lad French and advise him not to speak about his heritage. Thus he learns another language, and he also learns that certain topics are taboo. Rennewart’s ﬁrst relationship with a woman involves language: in service to her father, Rennewart speaks French with Alyze and falls in love with her. Thus Rennewart expands his command of French, going beyond whatever he learned among the businessmen, to include a variety of language appropriate for speaking with someone on an intimate basis. When he leaves Alyze, he travels with her uncle Willehalm to his court in Oranges, where again, language is an issue. Like Parzival, the journey to the court includes for Rennewart a mentor. But in this text, the mentor is herself an outsider who has succeeded in becoming an insider. Willehalm’s wife Giburc had given up her language and religion when she left the homeland she shares with Rennewart.6 She takes the newcomer, whom she does not know is her nephew, under her wing. Among other things, Giburc tells him in Arabic, the native language they share, about Christianity. It is not insigniﬁcant that Giburc uses the power of a native language to help convince Rennewart of the value in his ﬁghting at battle for Willehalm and the Christians. His response is to agree to ﬁght, and

6

Kleppel focuses mainly focuses on the linguistic abilities of Willehalm and Giburc, but his comments on language identity and group membership potentially apply to Rennewart as well (145–146). Giburc’s address to the court, advocating for tolerance of the heathens is another indication of her insider status and is further commented upon by Bumke (Wolfram 87 and Willehalm 143f.).

100

 . -

as he becomes more engaged in battle preparations and maneuvers, he sees French operant in a second court. At both the court in Laon and in Oranges, he sees language operant in diﬀerent areas of court life, since he both sits among the royalty and works in the kitchen. The court experiences of Rennewart include vicissitudes, and again, we note the detail Wolfram oﬀers in scenes connected with language. Like Parzival, Rennewart experiences rejection by members at court early on: when Willehalm ﬁrst meets Rennewart, the young man is the object of kitchen worker’s taunts. And when he later sleeps in Giburc’s kitchen, the cook sets ﬁre to Rennewart’s beard; Rennewart’s temper ﬂares and, unable to rejoin in anger verbally, he throws the cook into boiling water. On the other hand, the young man becomes so endeared to Willehalm, that the news of Rennewart’s death in a battle, where his own name ironically becomes the battle cry of his fellow knights, causes the lord to grieve extensively. What is portrayed here is an outsider, who speaks another native language and espouses a diﬀerent religion. Along his journey to the court at Oranges, Rennewart acquires a range of speaking skills in another language, but he is not as successful in pursuing membership as Parzival. Whether he would have eventually succeeded, to the extent that his aunt did, remains among the questions any reader could pose in dealing with a literary fragment. But important for our purposes is that Wolfram certainly recognized that Rennewart coped with language, i.e., speaking, as a contester for court membership.7 This comparison allows us to track the language skill development of the characters as they progress towards membership within the court. Parzival, Feireﬁz, and Rennewart must all ﬁgure out how to use the language of the community they are attempting to enter. Their skills include, but go beyond, simply learning a diﬀerent language. The characters learn how to speak to women (ladies at court as well as damsels in distress, e.g., Parzival). The characters evidence diﬀerent ways of speaking at court, with for instance, Parzival’s shouts in the palace hall contrasting sharply with Feiriﬁz’s competent address at the Gralsburg. The characters see language in diﬀerent areas of court life, most notably Rennewart in the kitchen and at the dining 7 Marion Gibbs examines the speeches of Willehalm and Giburc, demonstrating how those passages reﬂect the structure of the entire narrative (Narrative 140–54). A more recent treatment of Wolfram and his dialogs would be found in Urscheler.

      

101

table. Their inability earns them derision (Parzival and Rennewart), and their skill earns them praise (Pazival and Feireﬁz). The characters must understand what to say when to whom, if they are to gain recognition as members of the court.8 To the extent that these court members shared recognition of, and appreciation for, ways of speaking, they can also be considered speech communities. It is clear that Wolfram is aware of how speech works. That he uses such diversity in even describing the way characters speak is a testament to the author’s own linguistic skill.9 But he is also aware of how spoken language works in society. He creates characters who evolve as speakers, characters who attempt to make a transition into a new community. In order for the character to succeed, to be recognized as a member of the new society, the character must develop the skill of using language appropriately. As we observe Parzival, Feireﬁz, and Rennewart en route, we begin to see some of the ways speaking works in the Middle Ages. The characters deal with new languages as cultures come into contact with each other. The characters learn from mentors and experiences what they need to do or avoid. The characters see that addressing diﬀerent people in the society is a function of potentially gender, age, power, etc. In brief, that communication occurs in a dynamic, but cohesive, community. Thus Wolfram traces the progress of the characters at the same time that he reveals to us the nature of courtly society in the Middle Ages.

Works Cited Bumke, Joachim. Courtly Culture. Literature and Society in the High Middle Ages. Trans. Thomas Dunlap. Woodstock: The Overlook Press, 2000. ——. Wolfram von Eschenbach. Stuttgart: J. B. Metzlersche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1966. ——. Wolframs Willehalm. Heidelberg: Carl Winterr Universitätsverlag, 1959. Domes, Josef. Untersuchungen zur Sprache der Kölner ‘Willehalm’ Handschrift K (Hist. Arch. d. Stadt, W 357). Göppinger Arbeiten zur Germanistik. Eds. Ulrich Müller, Franz

8 Related reinforcement for the positing of appropriate courtly behavior, but not focusing on character dialog, is oﬀered by Heinen, among others. 9 A diﬀerent contribution to the discussion on diﬀerence is found in the article by Eva Parra Membrives. She asserts that characters generally become members of the courtly society only after being an outsider, and that Wolfram’s female ﬁgures in particular are guideposts for determining courtly behavior. Her treatment of what characters say is secondary to her treatment of other behavior patterns.

102

 . -

Hundsnurscher, and Cornelius Sommer. 416. Göppingen: Kümmerle Verlag, 1984. Ehrismann, Gustav. Duzen und Ihrzen im Mittelalter. n. p.: n. p., 1903/04. Gibbs, Marian E. Narrative Art in Wolfram’s ‘Willehalm’. Göppinger Arbeiten zur Germanistik. Eds. Ulrich Müller, Franz Hundsnurscher, and Corneliuus Sommer. 159. Göppingen Verlag Alfred Kümmerle, 1976. Gibbs, Marian E., and Sydney M. Johnson, eds. Medieval German Literature. New York: Routledge, 2000. 180–90 and 194–202. Heinen, Hubert. “Wolfram and Walther on fuore: the language of courtly behavior.” Interpreting Texts from the Middle Ages. Eds. Ulrich Goebel and David Lee. New York: Mellon Press, 1994. Hymes, Dell. Foundations in Sociolinguistics. An Ethnographic Approach. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1974. Kleppel, Christoph A. vremder bluomen underscheit. Erzählen von Fremdem in Wolframs ‘Willehalm’. Mikrokosmos 45. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang GmbH, 1996. Lexer, Matthias. Mittelhochdeutsches Taschenwörterbuch. Stuttgart: S. Hirzel, 1972. Mertens, Volker. “Minnewild und Minnejagd. Zu Hadamar von Laber.” Tierepik im Mittelalter. Eds. Danielle Buschinger and Wolfgang Spiewok. Greifswald: ReinekeVerlag, 1994. Parra Membrives, Eva. “Alternative Frauenﬁguren in Wolframs Parzival: zur Bestimmung des Höﬁschen anhand diﬀerenzierter Verhaltensmuster.” German Studies Review XXV.1 (February 2002): 35–55. Schnell, Rüdiger. Frauendiskurs, Männerdiskurs, Ehediskurs. Textsorten und Geschlechterkonzepte in Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit. Reihe “Geschichte und Geschlechter”. Eds. Gisela Bock, Karin Hausen, and Heide Wunder. 23. Frankfurt: Campus Verlag, 1998. Sussman, Linda. The Speech of the Grail. New York: Lindesfarne Press, 1995. Urscheler, Andreas. Kommunikation in Wolframs Parzival. Eine Untersuchung zu Form und Funktion der Dialoge. Bern: Peter Lang, 2002. Wolfram von Eschenbach. Parzival. Ed. Karl Lachmann. Trans. Wolfgang Spiewok. Vols. 1–2. Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam, 1992. ——. Willehalm. Trans. Marion E. Gibbs, and Sidney M. Johnson. New York: Penguin Books, Ltd., 1984.

PART TWO

This page intentionally left blank

NEGOTIATING THE PRESENT: LANGUAGE AND TROUTHE IN THE FRANKLIN’S TALE Andrea Schutz

Chaucer’s Franklin’s Tale is a Breton lai, a tightly focused story about love, honour and marriage. More to the point, as yet another Canterbury tale about a love triangle, it is about a woman’s relationship with two men. Unlike the love triangles in the Miller’s Tale, the Merchant’s Tale, or even the Shipman’s Tale, this one turns on the lady’s unwillingness to be part of an adulterous relationship. It is in fact only because of a rash promise—a spoken phrase or contract— that Dorigen becomes involved with her unwanted suitor at all, and it is only because he then releases her from her vow that she escapes the threat to her honour and her marriage. The issues of honour and ﬁdelity shape the tale, and it is therefore quite clear that promises, and the language that makes them, will be of paramount interest in this story. The Franklin’s Tale comes as the last of the so-called Marriage Group, leading one to suppose that it represents/describes some kind of culmination to the debate about maistrie in marriage. In recent years, however, critics have tended to deal rather more cynically with the Franklin’s example of a good marriage, seeing more maistrie than equality in these exchanged vows.1 But the oaths sworn between the lady, Dorigen, and her husband, Arveragus, suggest that these

1

Over the last ten years, criticism on the Franklin’s Tale has called into question the equality to which the tale lays claim: Nina Manasan Greenberg, “Dorigen as Enigma: The production of meaning in the Franklin’s Tale” Chaucer Review 33, no. 4 (1999): 329–49; Francine McGregor, “What of Dorigen? Agency and ambivalence in the Franklin’s Tale” Chaucer Review 31, no. 4 (1997): 365–378; Carol A. Pulham, “Promises, promises: Dorigen’s dilemma revisited” Chaucer Review 31, no. 1 (1996) 76–86; Derek Pearsall, “The Franklin’s Tale, Line 1469: Forms of address in Chaucer” Studies in the Age of Chaucer 17 (1995): 69–78; Carolyn Van Dyke, “The Clerk’s and Franklin’s Subjected Subjects” Studies in the Age of Chaucer 17 (1995): 45–68. All these articles (and several others) read the marriage as one of “alternation in the exercise of power and the surrender of power.” ( Jill Mann, “Chaucerian Themes and Style in the Franklin’s tale” in Medieval Literature: Chaucer and the Alliterative Tradition, ed. Boris Ford (Harmondsworth, 1982), 139.)

106

 

two have embarked upon a marriage rooted at least in mutual respect and love, if not our modern notion of equality. They are also the ﬁrst examples of speech in the tale, and as such set out the patterns for speech communities. Arveragus swears “of his fre wyl”: That nevere in al his lyf, he day ne nyght, Ne sholde upon hym take no maistrie Agayn hir wyl, ne kithe hir jalousie, But hir obeye, and folwe hir wyl in al, As any lovere to his lady shal, Save that the name of soveraynetee, That wolde he have for shame of his degree.

(745–52)2

(. . . that he would never in all his life, neither in day nor night, claim any mastery against her will, nor cause her to know jealousy; but obey her and follow her will in all things, as any lover should obey his lady. But he would have the name of sovereignty for the sake of his rank.)

While we no doubt focus on his anxiety lest the world think him dominated by a woman, we must also note the interesting fact that he plans to enter into marriage as Dorigen’s lover, with all the power reversals entailed in that courtly role, rather than as husband, with all the dominance that word implies.3 Dorigen, for her part, makes equally signiﬁcant promises: She seyde, “Sir, sith of youre gentillesse Ye profre me to have so large a reyne, Ne wolde nevere God bitwixe us tweyne, As in my gilt, were outhere were or stryf. Sire, I wol be youre humble trewe wyf— Have heer my trouthe—til that myn herte breste.”

(754–59)

(She said, “Sir, since you, out of your gentility, give me such a loose rein, may God never wish there to be either strife or war between us that is my fault. Sir, I will be your humble, true wife—have here my troth (and truth)—till my heart breaks.)

Dorigen’s love is a simple, absolutist thing but it is no less powerful for all that.

2 All quotations from Chaucer’s works are taken from Larry D. Benson, gen. ed. The Riverside Chaucer, 3rd ed. (Boston, 1987). The translations are mine. 3 This is a point which, while not overlooked, has not received as much attention as it might have. For the power in the word husband, see Anita R. Riedinger, “Lexical Inequities in Marriage: Old English Wif, Wer, and Housbonda.” Studia Neophilologica 66: 1994, 3–14.

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

107

What is immediately obvious from the marriage vows is that Arveragus evinces concerns about external opinions and knows himself well enough to say so up front. What this says about him, I will consider later. It is also immediately obvious that Dorigen’s ideas are much simpler: have heer my trouthe—til that myn herte breste. There are no ramiﬁcations, no circumstances to be considered, no articulated concern with appearance and reality. Like Griselda in the Clerk’s Tale, she can apparently make this claim conﬁdently; this is truth.4 It is hard to ignore the diﬀerences between the two oaths, and this I suspect has lead many scholars to focus on the question of Dorigen’s power to act. But at the same time, one must not ignore Dorigen’s words entirely, which are evidence both of her consent and independence.5 It therefore behooves us to take her seriously. It so behooves us all the more, because Dorigen’s passion for her husband survives not only the initial years of marriage, but also two years of separation when Arveragus goes oﬀ to England.6 Indeed, the Franklin insists that Dorigen’s devotion up to the point of despair marks her as one of the noble, loyal wives/lovers of romance, rather than the ordinary, ﬁckle women of misogynist tracts: she . . . loveth hire housbonde as hir hertes lyf. For his absence wepeth she and siketh, As doon thise noble wyves whan hem liketh.

(816–18)

(. . . loves her husband as her heart’s life. She weeps and grows sick because he is away, as do noble wives when they are in love.)7 4 McGregor sees this terseness as indication of Dorigen’s capacity to see past outward forms to the intent of the speaker and the heart of the matter. “What of Dorigen?,” p. 372. 5 Mark N. Taylor, “Servant and Lord/Lady and Wife: The Franklin’s Tale and Traditions of Courtly and Conjugal Love.” Chaucer Review 32, no. 1 (1997): 64–81. David Raybin, “Wommen of Kynde desiren libertee: Rereading Dorigen, rereading Marriage” Chaucer Review 27, no. 1 (1992): 65–86. 6 Several scholars have taken issue with Arveragus’ departure, seeing in it no true love of his wife. See for instance Van Dyke “Subjected Subjects” and Pulham “Promises, promises” (n. 5). However, it is worth remembering that he enters the marriage vowing to remain Dorigen’s lover, rather than her husband. As such, Arveragus would still be bound by the “rules” for knights in love, particularly those insisting that the lover continue to serve and deserve his lady by feats of arms. Furthermore, as a married knight, Arveragus must avoid the charge of uxoriousness which plagues Erec, for instance in the Welsh and French versions of the story: Gereint, Son of Erbin, in The Mabinogion, Gwyn and Thomas Jones, trans. (London, 1949; repr. 1986); Erec, in The Complete Romances of Chretien de Troyes, David Staines, trans. (Bloomington and Indianapolis, 1993). For a diﬀerent reading of the courtly relationships, see Taylor, “Servant and Lord/Lady and Wife.” 7 We are reminded of Alcyone’s similar devotion to Ceyx in the Book of the Duchess,

108

 

It is only when letters assure her of Arveragus’ return that Dorigen takes an interest in life again and goes about with her friends. Even then, however, her love and care for her husband swamps her enjoyment: all she can think about are the evil rocks threatening Arveragus’ ship on its return. But her animadversions against the rocks also indicate something about her ideas on signs and, by extension, language. She is careful to be polite and humble in the opening and ﬁnal segments of her argument with God—the rocks seem a confusion rather than part of a benevolent deity’s plan, and she cannot possibly understand the causes—but the middle section is rather less humble. Se ye nat, Lord, how mankynde it destroyeth? An hundred thousand bodyes of mankynde Han rokkes slayn, al be they nat in mynde, Which mankynde is so fair part of the werk That thou madest lyk to thyn owene merk. or Alcestis’ in the Legend of Good Women. Alcyone, like Dorigen bewails her husband’s absence for quite some time: Anon hir herte began to [erme]; And for that her thought evermo It was not wele [he dwelte] so, She longed so after the king That certes it were a pitous thing To telle her hertely sorowful lif That she had, this noble wif, For him, alas, she loved alderbest. (BD, ll. 80–87) (And then her heart began to grieve, and on that count she thought ever more that it was not alright that he dwelt so; she longed so for the king that certainly, it would be a piteous thing to tell of the heartfelt sorrowful life this noble wife led, because she loved him the very best, alas.) Alcestis, who volunteered to die in her husband’s place, is introduced to the narrator of the LGW as follows: Now know I hire. And is this goode Alceste, The dayseye, and myn own hertes reste? Now fele I wel the goodnesse of this wif, That bothe after hire deth and in hire lyf Hire grete bounte doubleth hire renoun. (LGW F 506–10) (Now I know her. And is this good Alcestis? The daisy and my own heart’s rest? Now I feel well the goodness of this wife, whose great bounty doubles her renown both after her death and in her life.) In keeping with Jean Godsall-Myers’ guidelines for establishing speech communities, it is worth noting that Alcyone is called a “noble wif,” just like Dorigen. It is likely that Alcyone stood model for Dorigen, since the two scenes are so similar. If the image of Alcyone lamenting her husband is actually being invoked in the Franklin’s Tale, we the readers know that she has better reason to complain than does Dorigen, since Ceyx is already dead. But that knowledge would speak to a textual community outside the story, not the speech community within it.

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

Thanne semed it ye hadde a grete chiertee Towarde mankynde; but how thanne may it bee That ye swich meenes make it to destroyen, Which meenes do no good, but evere anoyen?

109

(872–83)

(Do you not see, Lord, how [these rocks] detroy mankind? Rocks have killed a hundred thousand human bodies, even if they are unknowns; mankind is so fair a part of the work you did, that you made it in your image. It seemed then that you had a great friendliness towards mankind; so how is it possible that you also create such things to destroy it; these things do no good, but always give trouble.)

This is proof of her love for her husband, even as it marks a crisis of faith: if she would ﬁnd fault with God’s creating the rocks, she must be far gone indeed! With that in mind, and since this collection is on ways of speaking in the medieval world, it is worth incorporating medieval dramatic theories about speech: extravagant movement or speech—both of which equal impiety at best and pride at worst—is one of the ways dramatists indicated the villains in their pieces, in contrast to those—chieﬂy God and Christ—who stand still and speak little. Silence equals truth; noise equals falsehood. Ultimately, of course, this idea derives from St. Augustine,8 but the drama oﬀers a close analogue of the situation in the Canterbury Tales since both are situations in which speech must occur in some form: the diﬀerence is in content (heigh sentence vs foolishness) of the speech. The very (and varied) use of language in both performed play and text serves to indicate speech communities, since both the theatrical and the literary have a pronounced oral component.9 While I have no desire to claim that Dorigen is not to be believed— quite the reverse!—this, her longest speech, is at least proof of her (theological) “error.” It is also necessary to note that though her emotions are intense, her language has a simplicity in its eloquence and passion that is characteristic of her speech patterns.10 But there

8

See Alexandra F. Johnston, “The Word Made Flesh: Augustinian Elements in the York Cycle.” The Centre and its Compass: Studies in Medieval Literature in Honour of Professor John Leyerle (Kalamazoo, 1993), 225–246 for details of this idea in medieval drama. 9 This is not to argue for some sort of dramatic interpretation of the Canterbury Tales, but only to underline their artistic parameters: Chaucer has constructed the ﬁction of writing down what his motley pilgrims have said. 10 Again, it is to be noted that Dorigen’s conversation with God is strikingly diﬀerent from her conversations with anyone else, but bears a marked similarity to

110

 

is another feature of her style with theological (and ultimately human) implications, namely her line of reasoning. If mankind is made in God’s image, that must mean he likes us. If he likes us, he should not want to destroy us. Dorigen’s reasoning reveals her to be someone who has one meaning for every sign and one nuance for every meaning. She is a literalist.11 Accordingly, the simplicity of her oath to Arveragus is something quite grand indeed: she really does mean what she says. I would therefore like to propose a reading that does not focus on the issue of marital maistrie per se, but deals with these oaths and the others within the tale as indicators of unequal linguistic assumptions. There are not many who speak simply and completely, who don’t speak in subtexts. Indeed, much discourse relies on nuance, multivalence, subtext. Literary ﬁgures, especially medieval ones, thrive on allegoresis,12 and there was a common belief in the fourteenth century that language and those who used it lied (Reiss 115). So it should come as no surprise that Dorigen’s diﬃculties spring from problems of meaning and linguistic play. Dorigen, like so many wives in the Canterbury Tales, is loved by someone other than just her husband. A squire named Aurelius has been in love with her for “two yeer and more, as was his aventure” (940). Throughout the tale, his devotion will last a total of some 4–5 years, making it worthy of association with Dorigen’s love for Arveragus. More interestingly, at the level of language, Aurelius’ name seems linked to hers, in a way that leaves Arveragus outside. Aurelius’ name is familiar enough, and means “the golden one.” Accordingly, whatever the original Celtic source (if there was one) for the characters’ other Chaucerian heroines’ prayers. Emily, in the Knight’s Tale, for instance, displays the same combination of gentle humility and borderline impiety in her prayer to Diana (KnT, ll. 2297–2330). There may be some qualitative diﬀerences insofar as Emily is openly praying to a pagan goddess, while Dorigen is apparently arguing with the Christian God (despite the fact that the FranT is allegedly operating in a pagan Brittany). 11 McGregor sees her as a very sophisticated user of language whose “great skill it has been to see beyond words to intent,” only to have this skill rebound against her. “What of Dorigen?”, p. 375. 12 On the dangers of not reading allegorically see Alain de Lille, The Plaint of Nature ( James J. Sheridan, trans. Prose 4. Toronto, 1980). Nature explains to the Dreamer that “the poetic lyre gives a false note on the outer bark of the composition but within tells the listeners a secret of deeper signiﬁcance so that when the outer shell of falsehood has been discarded the reader ﬁnds the sweet kernel of truth hidden within.” p. 140.

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

111

names, Dorigen’s appears to have the same notion of gold or golden at its root. If it is a real Celtic name, Arveragus could mean something like the high (= great) man. One might suspect, therefore, that the Franklin’s Tale will resemble the Merchant’s Tale13 (or even—dare one suggest it—the Miller’s Tale) in the cuckolding of the husband. We are certainly introduced to Aurelius as the typical lovelorn young knight, so beloved of medieval courtly romance. He sings, he dances, writes poetry and bears, on the whole, a striking resemblance to the Squire whose tale the Franklin has recently interrupted. But the most distinctive feature of this young lover remains a matter of language. Aurelius’ devotion, in the best courtly tradition, is hampered by Dorigen’s: “Nevere dorste he tellen hire his grevaunce” (he never dared tell her of his grievance/discontent, 941) and much is made of this inability to speak. He was despayred; no thyng dorste he seye, Save in his songes somewhat wolde he wreye His wo, as in a general compleynyng; He seyde he lovede and was biloved no thyng. Of swich matere made he many layes, Songes, compleyntes, roundels, virelayes, How that he dorste nat his sorwe telle, But languissheth as a furye doth in helle;

(943–50)

(He despaired; he dared not say anything, except that in his songs he would betray his woe in a kind of general complaining. He said he loved and was not loved in return. He made many lays, songs, lamenting poems, and various short poems with refrains on the subject of his unrequited love: how he dared not tell his sorrow, but instead languished as a Fury does in Hell.)

All the same, he reminds one of nothing so much as “the hero of a musical comedy who takes the centre of the stage, gathers the boys around him in a circle, and tells them all about his love at the top of his voice,” as P. G. Wodehouse puts it.14 And it does not seem to be any more reliable than that. First oﬀ, these are the genres and topics appropriate to young people in the spring and need not have any particular application to anyone hearing them. Second, these are clichés of courtly poetry which are not necessarily to be

13 In this tale, an old man named Januarie marries a young woman named May and is cuckolded by his squire, Damian. 14 “Scoring oﬀ Jeeves” The World of Jeeves (New York, 1967; repr. 1988), p. 39.

 

112

read as having anything to do with the biography of the singer. Third, Aurelius’ whole point in composing such songs is to ﬁctionalize his experience so as to make it general, impersonal and safe. For all these reasons, there is no need for anyone to suppose he particularly means anything by it. These musical ways of speaking without saying therefore depend on their ambiguity to accomplish and defeat their own purpose. But Aurelius has another method of speaking without saying. This is to avoid language entirely and stick to gesture: “It may well be he looked on hir face/In swich a wise as man that asketh grace” (It may well be that he looked at her as though he were a man asking for grace, 957–58). Apparently, however, this is no more certain of success (even the Franklin isn’t sure this is what’s going on!). In any case, the very words used—asking grace—again underscore the conventional use of courtly vocabulary. However, since there is some doubt about the meaning created by both vocabulary and gesture, courtly language itself seems empty. The only certainty is that Dorigen does not read him at all: “nothyng wiste she of his entente” (she knew/understood nothing of his intention, 959). It is well worth noting the contrast between this courtly couple and May and Damian from the Merchant’s Tale who, after the ﬁrst direct communication by letter, understand each other’s lightest gesture and slightest sign. It is only when Aurelius abandons both poetry and facial expression, and comes down to brass tacks that any communication occurs. While walking in a pleasure garden “They ﬁlle in speche,” and he confesses he wishes he could have gone with Arveragus and never returned. This, ﬁnally, is nice and clear. But it doesn’t last. Aurelius very quickly falls back into the courtly discourse we would expect of him: My guerdon is but brestyng of myn herte Madame, reweth upon my peynes smerte; For with a word ye may me sleen or save. Heere at youre feet God wolde that I were grave! I ne have as now no leyser moore to seye; Have mercy, swete, or ye wol do me deye! (My reward is pains; for with buried here at mercy, sweetie,

(973–78)

just heartbreak! Madame, take pity on my sharp a word you can kill me or keep me. I wish I were your feet! I have no peace to say more now: have or you will kill me!)

To do him justice, he really believes what he says, and continues to believe it for 2–3 more years. But these are more of the conven-

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

113

tional images of the courtly lady with power over life and death, of the lover dying for love, of religious terms—mercy and grace— applied to a morally suspect, carnal relationship (and, in passing, it is worth noting how the form of address changes from the formal Madame to the rather more familiar “sweetie”).15 All these conventions have at times been read as having playful meanings, serious meanings, and no particular meanings. But he believes it.16 His reception must be a shock: She gan to looke upon Aurelius; “Is this youre wyl,” quod she, “and seye ye thus? Nevere erst,” quod she, “ne wiste I what ye mente.”

(979–81)

(She looked at Aurelius; “Is this what you’ve wanted, and do you tell me thus? Never before,” said she, “have I understood what you meant.”)

The remainder of her response is similarly blunt, and noticeably free of courtly conventions and their ambiguity. But now, Aurelie, I knowe youre entente, By thilke God that yaf me soule and lyf, Ne shal I nevere been untrewe wyf In word ne werk, as fer as I have wit; I wol been his to whom that I am knyt. Taak this for ﬁnal answere as of me.

(982–87)

(“But now, Aurelius, that I know what you mean [I swear] by that same God who gave me soul and life, I shall never be an untrue wife in word or deed, as far as I have sense; I will be his to whom I am bound. Take this as my ﬁnal answer.”

It seems therefore, that although both Dorigen and Aurelius are part of the same Sprachbund—that is they speak the same language and they are from the same class—nevertheless they seem not to be part of the same Sprechbund. They do not have the same assumptions about how language works, how words can mean, and what other kinds of communication are viable (Romaine 23). More precisely, since Aurelius is so much like all the other squires in the Canterbury Tales in accomplishments, language and assumptions about marriage, it can be argued that it is Dorigen who is the outsider to the wider speech community of the Tales. Dorigen does not have any

15

Again, see Taylor “Servant and Lord/Lady and Wife.” As Greenberg points out, even though Aurelius does not die, Dorigen’s answer does have a signiﬁcant eﬀect on his language: he goes home and “bray[s] like an animal, without consciousness.” p. 334. 16

114

 

competence in the conventions of courtly speaking without saying, double talk or playing with conventions. It is certainly clear that the one time she tries to speak “courtier” brings nothing but disaster. The ﬁnality of her answer is amply borne out by Dorigen’s behaviour throughout the rest of the tale: she is overjoyed when Arveragus returns and seriously considers suicide preferable to breaking her marital oath. It is precisely this constancy which makes her rash promise both so uncharacteristic and destructive. After the absolute deﬁniton of herself as Arveragus’ loving wife, Dorigen’s next comments to Aurelius come as quite a surprise: “Aurelie,” quod she, “by heighe God above, Yet wolde I graunte you to been youre love, Syn I yow se so pitously complayne. Look what day that endelong Britayne Ye remoeve all the rokkes, stoon by stoon, That they ne lette ship ne boot to goon— I seye, whan ye han maad the coost so clene Of rokkes that ther nys no stoon ysene, Thanne wol I love yow best of any man;

(989–97)

(“Aurelius,” said she, “by the high God above, still I would agree to be your love, since I see you complaining so piteously. On the day you remove all the rocks, stone by stone, that lie along Brittany, so that they not hinder ship or boat—I say, when you shall have made the coast so clear of rocks that there is not a single stone seen, then will I love you better than any man.”)

If Dorigen were a “normal” ﬁckle woman from a misogynist tract, or if she were even a willing participant in an adulterous courtly love triangle, saying one thing publicly and another privately, neither the reader nor Aurelius would be disturbed by the condition she places on his suit. Three things militate against our reading her words in such a manner, though Aurelius is not privy to them: 1. Dorigen apparently makes no distinction between public and private.17 2. The Franklin himself has been at pains to depict her as one of the faithful noble wives. 3. He similarly insists that she adds this codicil “in pley.” 17 McGregor ﬁnds that Dorigen is aware of but rejects such a division between public and private spaces/languages. “What of Dorigen?” p. 372.

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

115

Note that here the immediate narrator (the Franklin) is participating in the conversation, not, I think, in order to engage either the ﬁctive or real audience, but to explain something that is clearly uncharacteristic. Do faithful noble wives tease their would-be lovers? I don’t know.18 But it is certainly true that Dorigen’s condition is not just an impossible task for the sake of getting rid of an unwanted suitor, or even for testing the worth of a wanted one. This is an impossible task which would beneﬁt her husband, if it could possibly be accomplished.19 The promise she attaches to the condition— “Have heer my trouthe, in al that ever I can” (Have here my truth/ troth, as far as I am able/in anything I can do, 998) paradoxically conﬁrms her claims to absolute love of Arveragus, rather than making her a coquette.20 There is one more way that Dorigen demonstrates both that she is sincere and that she may be taken at her word, that is, literally. This information is available to Aurelius. Dorigen’s language is attuned to one level of nuance, at least: that of verbal mood. The majority of verbs in this passage—yet wolde I graunte, that ye remoeve (993), that they ne lette (994), whan ye han maad (995)—are subjunctives and stand in stark contrast to the indicatives that ther nys . . . ysene and thanne wol I. It is no news that the subjunctive is the mood indicating not how things really are, but how the speaker feels about them. Most commonly, of course, the subjunctive is used to express doubt, desire, volition and, most famously for students of Latin, conditions contrary to fact. So we are obliged to ask which of these subjunctive possibilities is the one Dorigen intends. At the very least, this easily overlooked distinction indicates that she is expressing doubts about 18 Douglas A. Burger sees her rash promise as misplaced sympathy rather than shortsightedness: “The cosa impossibile of Il Filocolo and the impossible of the Franklin’s Tale” in Leigh A. Arrathoon, ed. Chaucer and the Craft of Fiction (Rochester, Michigan, 1986), p. 175. 19 Dorigen’s “rash promise” has excited commentary for some time. See for instance Alan Gaylord, “The Promises in the Franklin’s Tale” ELH 31 (1964): 331–65, and Richard Firth Green, “Rash Promises” chapter 8 of A Crisis of Truth: Literature and Law in Ricardian England (Philadelphia, 1999), 93–335. 20 Green points out, however, that Dorigen gives her hand on this rash promise, and therefore is legally bound to it: Truth chapter 1, p. 13 and chapter 8, note 29, p. 424. But the qualiﬁer—in al that ever I can—seems to go largely unremarked: Dorigen is putting a restriction on the love she promises to Aurelius, because she is not able to love him as he wishes. That love is already given to Arveragus. Ignoring the potential force behind this qualiﬁer is to participate in Aurelius’ rewriting of her intentions and promises.

116

 

Aurelius fulﬁlling this task. Coupled with her stronger assertion “For well I wot that it shal nevere bityde” (For I know well it will never happen, 1001), one is obliged to regard these subjunctives as characterizing the task as one which is contrary to fact, and not a thing to be desired. Aurelius certainly understands the magnitude of the task—he too calls it “an impossible”—but later events demonstrate he is less concerned by grammatical niceties. And indeed, no matter how many subjunctives convey a speaker’s ideas about conditions contrary to fact, he/she has no choice once the impossible has actually (or even only apparently) become fact.21 This occurs in the second half of the tale, after Aurelius has made arrangements with a magician for an illusion which will make the rocks seem to have disappeared. A good lawyer might point out that “seem” is not “is,” but as it stands, Dorigen is condemned out of her own mouth and is bound to abide by the oath she has sworn. It is, in fact, as a question of honour that the rest of the tale unfolds, some two years after the encounter in the garden. Very little has changed from Aurelius’ perspective—he is still dying for love of her, still saying that he doesn’t want to speak—but he has added some points to his argument and is holding all the cards. The courtly vocabulary he persists in using still purports to give all power to the lady: “Ye sle me gilteles for verray peyne” (You slay innocent me with true pain, 1318), “For cause that I yow love” (because I love you, 1322); he does not “chalange any thyng of right” (claim anything by legal right, 1324) and she remains his “sovreyn lady” . . . “All be that I unworthy am therto” (even though I am unworthy to [be loved best], 1330). But much of the tone has changed and some of the vocabulary is less courtly than legal and moral. He reminds her again and again of her trouthe, her promise, her honour, citing time and place as though calling the garden itself to witness.22 This is no agreement but a legal contract on which she apparently wishes to reneg. It is her honour as a woman of her word that is at stake, not her honour as a woman or a wife: Dooth as ye list; have youre biheste in mynde, . . . But wel I woot the rokkes ben aweye. 21

(1335–38)

See also Green, 323. It is interesting, in this garden scene, to note some irony in the lexical relationship between truth (and troth) and treow = tree, given the role staves of wood used to play in legal/oath making ceremonies (Green 10). 22

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

117

(“Do as you please; keep your charge in mind, . . . But I’m well aware that the rocks are gone.”)

And there’s the trump card. The power relationship suggested by the courtly language has been inverted: Aurelius has the power, and the gracious words are shams. At this point, it might be as well to remember the dramatic theories alluded to earlier. Aurelius speaks much more than any other character in this tale, moves much more than any other, and in his no doubt omnipresent courtliness makes much more noise than does any other character. He also begins to play the kind of semantic games more common to Lucifer than Christ.23 All these things, if they occurred on a pageant wagon, would mark him as the untrustworthy character in the play. And yet, the Franklin’s Tale is not a play, but an (allegedly) oral story told on a ﬁctional pilgrimage by a ﬁctional Franklin, reported by another pilgrim who is a ﬁctionalized self of the poet actually writing all these stories. Even though the tales are not plays, I think one can argue that they are performances of a sort insofar as each of the pilgrims is performing for the others and, as Burlin notes, the Franklin in particular is concerned with how others perceive him (55–59). Aurelius’ ostentatious courtliness—especially his gestural language—has been a public performance of his private devotion from the beginning. What is therefore even more interesting is the eﬀect of his language on hers. There is no solution to this problem. Dorigen cannot deny what she said and it never occurs to her to amend the promise now. Indeed, she cannot. Part of being a literalist oneself means being shaped by others’ use of language.24 Since Aurelius has couched his argument in terms of her honour rather than her love (or his, for that matter), she is obliged to go along with his assessment of her.

23 See for instance York (the Coopers), The Fall of Man, where Lucifer represents himself as Eve’s friend, with intentions for her good. Greg Walker, ed. Medieval Drama: An Anthology (Oxford, 2000). 24 Although the insider/outsider eﬀect of these grating Sprechbunde is gendered in this Tale, I do not think it is necessarily a question of gender. My own experience of this kind of situation is that my husband and many in his family are literalists, and my family and I are not. Since his family is mostly made up of engineers and physicists (including his mother), whereas mine is mostly made up of language teachers (including my father), there is certainly a kind of professional division which may ultimately be gendered. And yet, I know of no one more aware of the play possible in language than my brother, and he is a geneticist.

118

 

In this way, language between them has been negotiated—not fairly, certainly, but mutually insofar as Aurelius constructs meanings and Dorigen does not refuse them.25 Even more than he is a performer of his own text/play, then, Aurelius is an interpreter of others’ texts/plays: ﬁrst in his adaptation of courtly conventions to his particular situation, second in his rendering of Dorigen’s condition as an oath, and of her subjunctives of doubt as indicatives of desire. With this re-speaking, which is also a re-writing and, as McGregor points out, an appropriation (375), the text and conversation become Aurelius’ and not Dorigen’s. This change in “author” also signals a change in intention and therefore in text. What Dorigen intended with her playful speech has become irrelevant. All that matters now is what Aurelius intends by his reading. This again, is an unfair negotiation of language, which leaves Dorigen trapped. Unable to commit suicide to save herself, Dorigen ends up confessing to her husband. But here again, in the exchange between husband and wife, language is “negotiated.” “Allas,” quod she, “that evere I was born! Thus have I seyd,” quod she, “thus have I sworn”— And toold hym al as ye han herd bifore; . . . “Is ther oght elles, Dorigen, but this?” “Nay, nay,” quod she, “God helpe me so as wys! This is to muche, and it were Goddes wille.”

(1463–70)

(“Alas,” she said, “that I was ever born! Thus have I said, thus have I sworn”—and told him all which you’ve already heard; . . . “Is there anything else, Dorigen, except this?” “No, no, “said she, “God help me truly! This is too much, even if it were God’s will.”)

Some scholars have seen Arveragus’ response either to be making light of Dorigen’s plight or to be oﬀering her the chance for further confession (Pearsall 69). But we should note that Arveragus asks his question right after Dorigen tells her tale, which includes the choice between sleeping with Aurelius to keep her “false” word and killing herself to keep her “true” word. Given that position, Arveragus can be asking if in fact these are the only options she has. That she assumes he thinks this a small problem conﬁrms her linearity as a

25 I am strongly reminded of Sir Gawain’s ﬁrst encounter with Bertilak’s lady, who similarly constructs his identity for him and thereby coerces certain behaviour.

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

119

thinker, and her deafness to nuance. But it is Arveragus’ entrance into this oddly inept speech community that is interesting. We are obliged, then, to consider what his speech is like and what he contributes to the Sprechbund being negotiated. His immediate reaction to the situation is twofold: ﬁrst, he gives the polyvalent response noted above but secondly he evinces a concern for more than just Dorigen’s feelings: “Ye, wyf,” quod he, “lat slepen that is stille. It may be wel, paraventure, yet to day. Ye shul youre trouthe holden, by my fay! For God so wisly have mercy upon me, I hadde wel levere ystiked for to be For verray love which that I to yow have, But if ye sholde youre trouthe kepe and save. Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe”—

(1472–79)

(“Well, wife,” said he, “let sleeping dogs lie. Things may still work out even today. You must keep your word, by my faith! For, may God truly have mercy on me, I would much rather be run through for the sake of the true love I bear you as long as you keep and guard your troth/truth. Truth is the highest thing a person may keep . . .”)

Truth is more important than anything else. And yet, even this response is twofold. We see ﬁrst that his love of Dorigen and his love of truth are based upon each other. Her troth is valuable to him because truth is valuable to him. That is to say, it can be argued that he loves Dorigen because she has always meant what she says, because she is the best kind of literalist. His response indicates what language means to him because of what it means to her. But his next statement reveals an aspect of his character easily forgotten, given that the tale focuses on Dorigen’s love more than his: But with that word he brast anon to wepe, And seyde, “I yow forbede, up peyne of deeth, That nevere, whil thee lasteth lyf ne breeth, To no wight telle thou of this aventure— As I may best, I wol my wo endure— Ne make no contenance of hevynesse, That folk of yow may demen harm or gesse.”

(1480–86)

(But with that word he began to weep, and said “I forbid you, upon pain of death and while you have breath and life, ever to tell anyone of this adventure! I will bear my woe as best I may, nor will I make any signs that would give people cause to think or guess ill of you.”)

120

 

We are forcibly reminded both that he promised not to be her husband in any possessive sense, but rather her lover, and that he only laid claim to such maistrie as would not shame him in public. Here Arveragus is again concerned to keep the personal details of an arrangement secret. Indeed, the oppressive husband puts in an appearance despite himself, since he threatens her with death. . . . if anyone else should come to hear of her sleeping with another man. So he again demonstrates concern for what people will think. And yet, even here his assessment of that situation is not solely grounded in what adultery means to him, or how the world might judge him, or even in how his behaviour would be constrained by not letting on: he is more concerned with what people would think of Dorigen should any of this come to light. More particularly, both this scene and his oath to his love at the beginning of the tale demonstrate his awareness of the diﬀerences between public and private space. And this is new to this Sprechbund. Arveragus has a kind of duality of awareness and expression not necessary to Dorigen, and not even remotely useful to Aurelius. Dorigen is very public with her private self: there is no discrepancy between what she thinks to herself, and what she says to others (including God), as her mourning and weeping demonstrate. Someone who has no idea that words can have layers of meanings, or be governed by context similarly will have no ability for discrepancies between behaviour and feeling, for inward truth and outward seeming. Conversely, Aurelius’ ﬁctionalization of self and rewriting of Dorigen’s oath are ways of using language as a cover for meaning or intent and of using the public to be private. This is not to say Aurelius has been faking his feelings for Dorigen, but only to point out that his sense of language—whether verbal, gestural or symbolic—includes a multiplicity foreign to the other two. Arveragus manages both as separate spheres, negotiating each so as to be consistent with its particular parameters of behaviour. His speech is thus a sort of bridge between Dorigen’s straightforward and Aurelius’ manipulative language. But he is also a bridge between them in other ways. In holding Dorigen’s word to be of greater importance than her chastity, in this reverence for language as the source of honour, he shows himself to be like Dorigen. In preferring her word over her chastity, he is both like and diametrically opposed to Aurelius, who says the same thing and does not really mean it.

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

121

Yet one must recognize that this attitude really costs him something. What might now be considered callous “wife-swapping” is actually about the importance of language to honour. Indeed, it is readily apparent why the virtue that permeates this tale is not honour or worth, but truth, which is ﬁrst a matter of language, then of action. In the end, Arveragus chooses public over private honour, and the “gentillesse” he displays becomes the leitmotif for the remainder of the tale. First Arveragus, then Aurelius, then the magician, relinquishes his claim on the one making promises. But in some respects, the question of gentillesse is a side issue, distracting pilgrims and readers alike from the important issue of language and oaths in particular,26 for it is here that the tale opens itself to others. Hitherto, the similarities between the Franklin’s Tale and the others in the Marriage Group have been a matter of plot or situation. Now, with the question of negotiated language, this tale becomes part of a larger conversation across the Canterbury Tales, because the issue of oaths and of language used seriously and honourably is one which has plagued the pilgrimage all along. The Canterbury Tales begin because of oaths made in response to illness. They begin, therefore, with promises and as voyages charged with religious purpose, as any pilgrimage should. They begin as words to be performed. Yet how quickly this relationship is compromised. The many and several violations of the rules for pilgrimage are old news, as is Harry Bailey’s sabotage of the pilgrimic spirit with the ever less serious tales intended to shorten the road. Yet the premise of the tales precisely demonstrates the tension between the letter and the spirit we ﬁnd in the Franklin’s Tale. Does this mean that Dorigen the literalist is to be judged as harshly as those pilgrims who fulﬁll only the letter of their oaths? No. Rather let me suggest that the Franklin’s Tale makes the opposite argument. Dorigen is not only a literalist, she is an honourable one. As such, she sees no distinction between the letter and the spirit, or between word and deed. Indeed, for nobles there should be none.27 Her con26 See also Sandra J. McEntire, “Illusions and Interpretation in the Franklin’s Tale” Chaucer Review 31, no. 2 (1996) 145–163. 27 As Green points out, in the Decameron Fiametta indicates that “a strict adherence to the sworn word, even where the law can oﬀer one a loophole, [is] the nobler course.” (335). Furthermore, “the less Dorigen is legally bound by her promise, the more honour she is ﬁnally able to demonstrate by keeping it.” (334).

122

 

sternation at Aurelius’ ultimatum arises precisely because she foresaw no discrepancy between the words of the condition and her motive behind them. And yet she becomes trapped between words and deeds. She feels the situation so dreadfully because it does not occur to her that it is possible to manipulate interpretations. This negotiation of language is something which Aurelius has taught her. By contrast, he does not just interpret her words, but as I have indicated, he re-writes them. His intentions overpower hers, and make the issue about deeds and not motives. This is possible, of course, because as medieval and modern theorists aver, language is slippery. Indeed, insofar as issues of closure attach themselves to issues of language, interpretation of this tale in particular must remain open since it ends with a question to the audience(s): “Which was the mooste fre, as thynketh yow?” (1622, which do you think was the most noble/free/generous). However, such an ending (or termination, in Matthew of Vendôme’s sense (192) is itself a deﬂection of the issues of language because it follows Aurelius in his focus on language leading to action/behaviour.28 Indeed, the Canterbury Tales express early on the notion that “The word most be cosyn to the dede” (GP, 742). But without equal emphasis on motive/intention, language and action both become meaningless. There is a world of diﬀerence between the slippery nature and the sleazy use of language. It is the self interested manipulation of words and meaning rather than multiplicity of interpretations—not eloquence, but eloquence used for ill, as St. Augustine puts it29—which is practised by Aurelius and the pilgrims in their pilgrimage and tales. It is this which is condemned. I would like to suggest, then, that the Franklin’s Tale makes an argument not only for the importance of language, or of communicative competence within a given Sprach/Sprechbund, but also for the intention of the speaker. I would further like to suggest that the issue of intention—authorial even more than readerly—matters far more in the Canterbury Tales as a whole than is usually thought.30

28 An interesting debate on this subject is found in The Book of the Knight of the Tower. EETS s.s. 2, M. Y. Oﬀord, ed. (London, New York, 1971). 29 De Doctrina Christiana, II. xxxvi, 70 (PL 34:6) cited in Rosemarie P. McGerr, Chaucer’s Open Books: Resistance to closure in Medieval Discourse (Gainesville, 1998), p. 145. 30 See also Dolores Warwick Frese, An Ars Legendi for Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (Gainesville, 1991) and, though she would probably dispute it, McGerr.

    

FRANKLIN’S TALE

123

The absolutions of authorial responsibility which Chaucer builds into the Canterbury Tales before the Knight’s Tale, the Miller’s Tale and in the Retraction are meant, in fact, to accompany and undermine the manipulated readings we ﬁnd here and in the Wife of Bath’s Prologue, for instance, because they are a kind of authorial statement of entente (McGerr 25). Authorial responsibility therefore matters a great deal in the context of how we use language for our own ends. “Al that is writen is writen for our doctrine” (Everything written is written for us to learn from)31 is not a generous pardon for the author; rather it is a solemn injunction to consider, even if you cannot control, the consequences of your words. Works Cited Alain de Lille. The Plaint of Nature. Trans. James J. Sheridan. Toronto: Pontiﬁcal Institute of Medieval Studies, 1980. Benson, Larry, ed. The Riverside Chaucer. 3rd ed. London: Macmillan, 1987. Burger, Donald A. “The cosa impossible of Il Filocolo and the impossible of the Franklin’s Tale.” Chaucer and the Craft of Fiction. Ed. Leigh A. Arrathoon. Rochester, Michigan: Solaris Press, 1986. 165–78. Burlin, Robert B. “The Art of Chaucer’s Franklin.” Neophilologus 51 (1967): 55–59. Erec. The Complete Romances of Chrétien de Troyes. Trans. David Staines. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1993. Frese, Dolores Warwick. An Ars Legendi for Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1991. Gaylord, Alan. “The Promises in the Franklin’s Tale” ELH 31 (1964): 331–65. Gereint, Son of Erbin. The Mabinogion. Trans. Gwyn and Thomas Jones. London: Everyman, 1949; repr. 1986. Green, Richard Firth. A Crisis of Truth: Literature and Law in Ricardian England. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999. Greenberg, Nina Manasan. “Dorigen as Enigma: The production of meaning in the Franklin’s Tale.” Chaucer Review 33.4 (1999): 329–49. Johnston, Alexandra F., “The Word Made Flesh: Augustinian Elements in the York Cycle.” The Centre and its Compass: Studies in Medieval Literature in Honour of Professor John Leyerle. Studies in Medieval Culture XXXIII. Kalamazoo: Western Michigan University, 1993. 225–246. Mann, Jill. “Chaucerian Themes and Style in the Franklin’s Tale.” Medieval Literature: Chaucer and the Alliterative Tradition. Ed. Boris Ford. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1982. 139. Matthew of Vendôme. Ars Versiﬁcatoria. Ed. Edmond Faral. Les arts poètiques du XII e et du XIII e siècles: Recherches et documents sur la technique littéraires du moyen age. Paris: Champion, 1924. McGregor, Francine. “What of Dorigen? Agency and ambivalence in the Franklin’s Tale.” Chaucer Review 31.4 (1997): 365–78.

31

For an ingenious reading of the twists behind this tag, see McGerr, pp. 135–52.

124

 

McEntire, Sandra J. “Illusions and Interpretation in the Franklin’s Tale.” Chaucer Review 31.2 (1996): 145–63. McGerr, Rosemarie P. Chaucer’s Open Books: Resistance to Closure in Medieval Discourse. Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1998. Oﬀord, M. Y., ed. The Book of the Knight of Latour Landry. EETS s.s. 2. London, New York: Oxford University Press, 1971. Pearsall, Derek. “The Franklin’s Tale, Line 1469: Forms of address in Chaucer.” Studies in the Age of Chaucer 17 (1995): 69–78. Pulham, Carol A. “Promises, promises: Dorigen’s dilemma revisited.” Chaucer Review 31.1 (1996): 76–86. Raybin, David. “Wommen of Kynde desiren libertee: Rereading Dorigen, rereading Marriage.” Chaucer Review 27.1 (1992): 65–86. Reiss, Edmund. “Ambiguous Signs and Authorial Deceptions in Fourteenth Century Fictions.” Sign, Sentence, Discourse: Language in Medieval Thought and Literature. Eds. Julian N. Wasserman and Lois Roney. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1989. 114–37. Riedinger, Anita R. “Lexical Inequities in Marriage: Old English Wif, Wer, and Housbonda. Studia Neophilologica 66 (1994): 3–14. Romaine, Suzanne. Language in Society: An Introduction to Social Linguistics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Taylor, Mark N. “Servant and Lord/Lady and Wife: The Franklin’s Tale and Traditions of Courtly and Conjugal Love.” Chaucer Review 32.1 (1997): 64–81. Van Dyke, Carolyn. “The Clerk’s and Franklin’s Subjected Subjects.” Studies in the Age of Chaucer 17 (1995): 45–68. Walker, Greg, ed. Medieval Drama: An Anthology. Oxford: Blackwell, 2000.

BILINGUALISM AND BETRAYAL IN CHAUCER’S “SUMMONER’S TALE” Tom Shippey

In 1936 J. R. R. Tolkien delivered his famous lecture to the British Academy on “Beowulf: the Monsters and the Critics.” It changed the entire course of Beowulf criticism, and became one of the most frequently cited articles of all time. Two years previously, however, Tolkien had read an even longer paper to the Philological Society, on “Chaucer as a Philologist,” which met a very diﬀerent fate. Rarely cited at the time, it has since all but vanished from scholarly memory, and would not be remembered at all if it were not for the later fame of its author. In this paper Tolkien put forward the consciously anachronistic argument that in the “Reeve’s Tale” Chaucer had been thinking and writing like a linguistic scholar of the 19th or 20th centuries. Part of the ongoing humor of the tale is the clash between Northern students and the Southern miller, and in order to make the clash more marked and more amusing for his predominantly Southern audience, Tolkien argued, Chaucer had identiﬁed the Northern dialect most obviously diﬀerent from the developing Southern standard, noted the phonological and lexical features most evidently discrepant in it, and made a conscious decision to mark these as strongly as possible. Both the unexpectedness of Chaucer’s decision and the thoroughness with which it was carried out could be seen from the tale’s scribal history. In manuscript after manuscript, scribes who did not understand what Chaucer was doing had consistently modiﬁed the students’ language back towards what they regarded as normal—something which, by a further irony, would later happen to Tolkien himself as modern printers “corrected” the language of non-standard speakers in Tolkien’s own ﬁction back to what they in their turn regarded as “correct English.”1 The contrast between the reception of the 1936 and 1934 papers perhaps indicates only the power of academic fashion. For all Tolkien’s

1

See Carpenter 217.

126

 

assaults on “the critics” in his 1936 paper, he was in fact attacking scholars of earlier and in some ways pre-critical generations: men like W. P. Ker and R. W. Chambers, and behind them the long German tradition of Beowulf scholarship of Müllenhoﬀ, Sarrazin, Schücking, etc. The time was ripe to challenge their belief in the poem as a stratiﬁed compilation of no great intrinsic merit, and to oﬀer it instead as an “organic unity” and the product of a single authorial intention. Beowulf was, in short, rendered acceptable to the New Criticism then emerging, and Anglo-Saxonists followed Tolkien’s lead with enthusiasm and relief. The case was entirely diﬀerent with “Chaucer the Philologist.” Presenting Chaucer as a philologist was in eﬀect to remove him from the discourse of New Criticism, to make it look as if he might sympathise with their professional rivals, and this was not welcome at all. What was wanted, and what has remained dominant in Chaucerian criticism ever since, was Chaucer the ironist, Chaucer the social commentator, Chaucer the bookworm, Chaucer the translator, Chaucer the littérateur, and so on. Nevertheless, and after seventy years, it may be possible to reﬂect that perhaps Tolkien was right. I would like in this article to extend his argument and suggest that, just as in the “Reeve’s Tale” Chaucer played on his audience’s awareness of dialect geography, so in the “Summoner’s Tale” he exploited strong contemporary awareness of linguistic class markers. If Chaucer was in some sense a philologist, he was also an eﬃcient and deliberate sociolinguist. To understand this, one has to note ﬁrst that England in the later fourteenth century was still in some ways a multilingual society. By Chaucer’s time it is probable that almost everyone born in England, with the exception of some of those on the Celtic marches of Wales and Cornwall, grew up with English as their main and native language. The upper reaches of society might however be virtual bilinguals in French, with strong correlation between ﬂuency in that language and social rank. This situation had its root, of course, in the Norman Conquest of 1066, after which for perhaps a generation one might have landowners who spoke only French, and lower classes who spoke only English.2 In his interesting book Sprache und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter, Michael Richter notes that when William the 2 For general accounts of the linguistic state of aﬀairs rather earlier than Chaucer see Richter Muttersprache and Rothwell The teaching of French and The role of French, and Short.

    ’  

127

Conqueror wished to converse with St. Wulfstan of Worcester, the only Anglo-Saxon bishop to retain his see for any length of time, he had to do so through translators and the common medium of Latin; for William’s eﬀorts to learn English had failed, and Wulfstan had made no eﬀort at all to learn French, being dismissed as a result as an idiota.3 This situation of co-existing monoglots cannot have lasted long, but the sense of linguistic stratiﬁcation was much more enduring. French outranked English. Latin, the international language of the Church, in some ways outranked even French. And on the Celtic marches, English was allowed to outrank Welsh, and with many local adjustments, Cornish, Irish, and Scots Gaelic too. Richter notes again that the detailed records of the beatiﬁcation commission for Thomas Cantilupe, held in Hereford near the Welsh border, show witnesses addressing the commissioners not in their native language, almost always English but occasionally Welsh, but in the highestranked language they could manage.4 This situation has few readily accessible modern parallels. Europe contains many multilingual societies at present, but overall situations are not similar. In some countries, such as Belgium and Switzerland, there is more than one oﬃcial language (French and Flemish, French, Italian and German), but the languages exist side by side: any suggestion of a ranking order by class would be ﬁrmly rejected. A closer parallel to 14th-century England might be North Italy, also known as the South Tirol, which is under Italian rule, but where the native language is a German dialect. People in this area, then, may well speak German dialect at home; learn Hochdeutsch as their main medium for access to newspapers and TV; and also learn Italian for oﬃcial and administrative purposes, and as a formal language on public occasions. They may furthermore and quite consciously switch from one language to another to make a point, to establish dominance, or alternatively intimacy.5

3

Richter Sprache 43. Richter Sprache 173–201, esp. 176. On pp. 188–90 Richter gives a breakdown of the languages used by 163 witnesses, with interesting results. No cleric used English: 16 out of 31 spoke Latin, 12 French, three a mixture of the two. No lay person spoke entirely in Latin, but ten used a mixture of French and Latin, 21 French, 100 English and one Welsh. 23 of the 31 French/Latin users among the lay-folk were urban (out of 47 town-dwellers), while only eight of the 85 countryfolk spoke French, none of whom were women. 5 I can add one illustration from personal experience. Some years ago I traveled 4

128

 

There is a further linguistic point to make, which is that while English remains a “Germanic” language in its core-vocabulary and basic syntax, it often does not seem so to modern speakers of other Germanic languages, who are struck immediately by the extent to which it is marked, or has even been taken over, by words borrowed from French or Latin. The Danish scholar N. F. S. Grundtvig, a linguistic purist, went so far as to describe modern English as Puddervælske, or perhaps “garble-French.”6 Statistics vary depending on how one makes the count, but one could certainly say that a majority of words entered in a modern English dictionary are nonEnglish and non-Germanic by origin.7 The simple explanation of this is once again the Norman Conquest, which one will ﬁnd, in variously qualiﬁed form, in any modern history of the language. There is indeed something almost formulaic in the way this is presented. In the most elementary format, a list of loan-words from French into English is presented, and it is noted that these borrowings were caused in part by the need “to supply deﬁciences in the English vocabulary,” especially in such areas as government and administration, the church, the law, military matters, “fashion, meals, and social life,” “art, learning, medicine.”8 Lurking in such accounts,

to Basel-Muhlhouse airport by Swissair. I left a book I was reviewing in the seat pocket. When I realized that, I went to call the “Lost and Found” department, but my host the much-regretted Dr. Steve Tranter of Freiburg University, and the only Englishman I have met who could speak Swiss German like a native, stopped me. “Better let me do it,” he said, adding kindly, “Your Hochdeutsch is OK. A German wouldn’t think you were German, but a Swiss might, and they might get awkward.” He went on, “If you talk to them in French, they won’t bother to look. If you talk to them in Hochdeutsch, they probably won’t look. If you talk to them in English, they might look. If I talk to them in Schwyzertüütsch, they’ll go and ﬁnd it.” He made the call, in the local dialect, and the book arrived by special messenger next morning. Dr. Tranter may have been wrong in his general diagnosis, but I doubt it. 6 In Grundtvig’s poetic preface to his Beowulfes Beorh (1861), cited by Bradley 49. Bradley translates the word as “double Dutch,” which catches the sense of “nonsense, gibberish,” but Grundtvig’s main complaint is the linguistic alienation of English from Danish. 7 According to Scheler, some 18,000 of the 80,000 words in the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary are native Anglo-Saxon (or 22%), with a further 3,000 other “Germanic” words, mostly from Norse, taking the percentage up to just over a quarter. By contrast at least 44,000 words come from French or Latin (since French is descended from Latin one cannot always tell the two apart), well over double the number and well over half the total. The native Anglo-Saxon and Norse words tend, of course, to be the ones most frequently used. 8 The phrases are taken from Baugh and Cable, pp. 168, 171, 172. I would not

    ’  

129

though carefully not quite expressed, is a belief in transfer from a higher to a lower standard of culture. Two problems generally noted, however, if to varying extents, are ﬁrst, that there seems to have been very little borrowing in the hundred years immediately after the Norman Conquest. Our only ongoing work in English from this period, the Peterborough Chronicle, indeed gives us only a score or so of loan words, a couple of nicknames (“Martæl,” “Passeﬂambard”), a few ranks and occupations (“duc, emperice, cuntesse, clerc, canonie”), most of the rest rather ominous, such as “castel” and “prisun,” “wyrre” and “pais,” “rente” and “tresor,” “wiles” and “fals.” To the Peterborough Chroniclers, doing “iustise” meant hanging people. Loans which have happily not stayed in the language include “crucethur,” a kind of torture, and “tenserie,” a mode of extortion. A castle built by William Rufus is called “Maleuisin,” which the Chronicler glosses with a certain appropriateness as “yfel nehhebur,” evil neighbour. Verbs like “acordeden” and “dubbade” are taken over from the activities of great men, but the latter is used in the phrase “dubbade to ridere”: the Chronicler knows the word adouber, but has not yet borrowed chevalier, nor extended the meaning of Old English cniht, “boy,” to “knight.” David Burnley suggests that such words were used “because they seemed appropriate to the discourse” (1992: 449), but one could put it more crudely. Much of this vocabulary looks like the words inmates of a concentration camp might learn from the guards. Furthermore, once French words did start to enter the language in large numbers, many of them were clearly not there to supply deﬁciencies, but “replac[ed] English words that would have done for us just as well” (Pyles and Algeo 136), “were synonymous with perfectly good words already long established in English” (Strang 251). Why, then, borrow them? In so many cases it cannot be a matter of a higher culture introducing objects and concepts the lower culture had no awareness of. Can we then guess at the reason for this massive shift in lexis, seen by several commentators (Strang 252) as a ﬂood-tide reaching its peak in precisely Chaucer’s lifetime? Here the “Summoner’s Tale,” in my view, gives us skilled and contemporary observation. wish to suggest that Dr. Cable falls into any of the errors indicated here; his revision of Albert Baugh’s ﬁrst edition of 1957 remains bound in some respects by Baugh’s original layout.

130

 

The “Summoner’s Tale” is easily paraphrased. It is told by the Summoner in contempt of his professional adversary the Friar, and in reply to the “Friar’s Tale” about a foolish and dishonest summoner. Its main character is a mendicant friar, who is going on his round in an area of East Yorkshire called Holderness.9 He visits a Yorkshire churl called Thomas, who has given him money before, and talks to him and his wife. He tries to get Thomas to make a further donation, with extensive speeches praising his own order and reproving Thomas, but Thomas, who is sick in bed, becomes annoyed by his importunity. Eventually Thomas says he will give him something which he has kept hidden, but the friar must promise to divide it equally with the rest of his convent. The friar eagerly agrees, and gropes under the bedclothes for the gift, only to have Thomas break wind violently into his hand. The friar is chased away by Thomas’s servant—though a churl, he is clearly well-oﬀ—and goes to complain to the local lord and his wife. The lord however begins to wonder how the friar can keep his promise to divide whatever he was given. This problem in ars metrica or “arse-metric”—the pun works better in modern English than modern American—is eventually solved by the lord’s squire. However, the point under consideration here is simply the way the characters speak to each other. There are six speakers in the tale, and 42 speeches. The friar speaks twenty times, Thomas seven, his wife ﬁve, the lord six, his wife twice, the squire also twice. Total lines from the six speakers are, the friar 359, Thomas 27, his wife 18, the lord 42, his wife 7, the squire 39.10 This count is skewed however by two especially long speeches by the friar, the ﬁrst (lines 1854–1947) praising friars as the oldest and most venerable of religious professions, the second (1954–2093) turning into a sermon against the sin of Anger.11 These speeches of course continue the exposé of the friar’s character and the tale’s other humorous themes, to which the best guide remains

9 The name may possibly be signiﬁcant. We know now (though Chaucer presumably did not) that it derives from something like Old Norse höldr-nes, “lord-ness, the ness of the lord.” Scandinavianised areas of England seem, for whatever reason, to have had throughout the Middle Ages an unusually high proportion of free peasants and possibly a correspondingly low level of subservience. 10 In these ﬁgures I have counted all part lines as one each, and have also included the lord’s internal monologue of 2218–27, when he is “talking to himself.” 11 Line numbers and all quotations are taken from Benson, The Riverside Chaucer.

    ’  

131

Fleming. I do not suggest that the friar moves “out of character” in them. However, as they unfold, the sense of dialogue is certainly lost; the friar is lecturing rather than talking, and Thomas responds only to what the friar says at the end of each speech. In what follows I have accordingly concentrated on the shorter speeches and the characters’ linguistic interactions. My ﬁrst point is so obvious that it is already marked typographically in modern editions such as the Riverside Chaucer. The friar has a habit of larding his speech with fragments of Latin or French, which the Riverside Chaucer italicises. When he has ﬁnished his sermon at the parish church: With “Qui cum patre . . . ” forth his wey he wente. [He went on his way with “Who with the father”]

(1734)

And when he arrives at Thomas’s farmhouse, the ﬁrst thing he says is: “Deus hic! ” quod he, “O Thomas, freend, good day!” (1770) [He said, “May God be here! O, Thomas, friend, good day”]

Some of this could be said to be inevitable. In the church the liturgical language is Latin, so that has to be used in services, and quite likely a blessing given in Latin would be felt to be more eﬃcacious by all concerned. But the friar breaks into French here and there as well. Talking to Thomas, he says reprovingly: O Thomas, je vous dy, Thomas! Thomas! This maketh the feend—this moste ben amended.

(1832–3)

[O Thomas, I tell you, Thomas, Thomas, this is the work of the devil, this must be cured]

A few lines later, ordering his dinner, he says to Thomas’s wife: “Now, dame,” quod he, “now Je vous dy sanz doute, Have I nat of a capon but the lyvere . . .” (1838–9) [“Now, lady,” he said, “now I tell you without a doubt, if I could have just a chicken’s liver”]

The Riverside Chaucer is not absolutely consistent in this respect, however, or perhaps we should say that modern printing conventions cannot cope with the complexities of 14th-century language switching. The edition does not, for instance, italicise the lord’s Latin

132

 

interjection, “Benedicitee,” nor the friar’s French reply to Thomas’s wife, “Graunt mercy, dame,” nor the latter’s interjection “by my fey,” though this seems to be a partial Anglicisation of French par ma fée. Possibly these were felt by the editors to be words which had established themselves in the language and so should not be counted as foreign any more, a diﬃcult decision indeed. But there is no doubt, at any rate, that the friar does use several phrases of French, for no evident reason. My second point is less evident. Medieval scholars frequently translate from Old and Middle English into modern English, but rarely reverse the process. If one starts to do this, though, it becomes evident that Thomas, in complete contrast to the friar, starts oﬀ by speaking a Middle English which is as close to Old English as one could possibly get at that date, almost without non-native elements at all. His ﬁrst speech for instance runs as follows: O deere maister . . . How han ye fare sith that March bigan? I saugh yow noght this fourtenyght or more.

(1781–3)

[O master dear, how have you been since March began. I haven’t seen you for a fortnight or more]

This contains two loan-words, from Latin, “maister” and “March,” but both are found in the Old English period. The native names for months disappeared early, while “master” was borrowed from Latin magister to OE mægestre again at an early stage. The latter could in any case be a word Thomas has learned from the friar himself; there is further play on the word later on, at lines 2184–8. If one translates the speech back into OE one can see how little change there has been. (The asterisk before this speech and following ones is to indicate that this is my reconstruction. I do not use runic letters, in order to avoid creating a merely typographic impression of change): *O leofa mægestre . . . Hu bist thu gefaren siththan the Martius ongan? Ic ne seah the noght thas feowertyne niht oththe mare.

The main diﬀerence is in the pronouns. By Chaucer’s time the straightforward English habit of using “thou, thee” for 2nd person singular (OE þu, þe) and “ye, you” for 2nd person plural (OE ge, eow) had given way to a French-derived complication of deferential

    ’  

133

and familiar forms (see Strang 262–3). Thomas accordingly usually uses the polite “ye” to the friar, the friar frequently the familiar, or condescending “thou” in reply (a pattern with some interesting breaches, see further below). OE use of “to be” as an auxiliary with intransitive verbs rather than “to have” has also been weakened; and the adjective leofa has been replaced by “deere,” though this too is an OE word, if semantically shifted. Thomas’s second speech makes the same point even more clearly. The friar responds to his greeting with thirteen lines (1784–96) containing by my count twenty loan-words from Latin or French (“laboured, specially, savacion, precious, orison, messe, sermon, simple, text, suppose, glose, glosynge, glorious, certeyn, lettre, clerkes, charitable, spende, resonable, dame”).12 He then asks where Thomas’s wife is, and Thomas replies: “Yond in the yerd I trowe that she be,” Seyde this man, “and she wol come anon.”

(1798–9)

[I think she is yonder in the yard, and she’ll come right away]

This shows almost no change from the language of three hundred years before. In OE Thomas would have said: *Geond on thæm gearde ic truwie that heo beo, . . . and heo wile on an cuman.

OE ge- has been re-spelled as ME “y-”, without pronunciational change. OE declines the deﬁnite article, which in ME has become indeclinable, and has a dative ending for geard. However, the only change of any substance is that the third person feminine singular pronoun in OE, heo, has undergone its Anglo-Scandinavian shift to “she.” That apart, nothing Thomas says would have caused any diﬃculty to his many times great-grandfather. To a philologist, then, there is an obvious diﬀerence between Thomas’s idiolect and the friar’s, such an obvious diﬀerence that it is hard to imagine that Chaucer did not intend it to be noticed by his contemporary audience, who would certainly not be philologists

12 One cannot always tell whether a word is derived directly from Latin or indirectly, via French. One of the friar’s words, “messe,” was borrowed into OE from Latin as mæsse, but the form here indicates derivation from French, see Burnley 429.

134

 

(whether we can rate him as one or not), but who were contemporary native speakers of Middle English, and probably French as well.13 What would they have thought of the diﬀerence? Possibly some would have assumed that the friar’s vocabulary was professional and technical, as in large part it is, even if many of the words in it have long-established native equivalents used elsewhere by Chaucer, such as “soules hele” for “savacion,” “bedes” for “orison,” etc. Others might have regarded it as aﬀected. It is hard to see quite why the verb “labour” was imported into English, in view of the perfectly familiar equivalent “werke, werche,” or “suppose,” when “wene” means very much the same thing.14 Others, meanwhile, may have been impressed. This thought becomes more likely when one considers the language of Thomas’s wife. She enters immediately after Thomas’s two lines cited above, and greets the friar in much the same way as her husband, though she uses one non-native word in the phrase “by seint John” (OE would have used the word halga, surviving in Chaucer’s English as “halwe”). The friar greets her with an embrace, a kiss, and something that sounds very like smooching—he “chirketh as a sparwe With his lyppes.” [he chirps with his lips like a sparrow] Friars, of course, already had a reputation, noted repeatedly by Chaucer, for sexual opportunism. His greeting to her is furthermore downright ﬂirtatious, responding to her “How have you been?” with: “Dame,” quod he, “right weel, As he that is youre servant every deel. Thanked be God, that yow yaf soule and lyf ! Yet saugh I nat this day so faire a wyf In al the chirche, God so save me!”

(1805–9)

[“Lady,” he said, “very well, as one who is entirely your servant. May God be thanked for giving you life and soul. I haven’t seen such a good-looking woman all day, in the whole church, as God may save me!”]

The only loan-words are “dame” and “servant.” The former is a rank-word of the kind seen already in the Peterborough Chronicle, but the latter, while already ousting the native “hyne,” may carry with it suggestions of polite upper-class courtesy between the sexes. One

13 The question of who Chaucer’s intended audience was is uncertain, naturally, but see Pearsall 181–5. 14 It is only when one tries the unfamiliar exercise of translating into OE that

    ’  

135

might compare Sir Gawain’s automatic response to the two ladies in Sir Bertilak’s castle, “And he hit quyk askez, To be her seruaunt sothly, if hemself lyked” (Tolkien, Gordon and Davis Sir Gawain, lines 975–6). A further point15 is that the friar calls her “ye, yow” here and invariably. Pronoun usage in the tale is not absolutely clear. Everyone who speaks to the lord (friar and squire) uses the polite form “ye.” The lord addresses the friar as “ye” but his squire as “thou.” The friar also calls the lady “ye,” but she does not use either pronoun while speaking to him. All this is predictable enough, as perhaps is the fact that the friar uses both “ye” forms and “thou” forms when addressing Thomas. It looks as if he uses the familiar or condescending forms when he is rebuking Thomas, trying to bully him, or trying to get round him, as in respectively “lef thyn ire” (2089), “Yif me thanne of thy gold” (2099), or “specially for thy savacion” (1785). By contrast, it is a danger-sign when Thomas starts, at line 2131, to use “thou” forms back to the friar, which he does ﬁve times in ten lines of speech (2131–6, 2140–43). The friar presumably takes these as indicators of familiarity, when they in fact indicate dislike and contempt. But why does the friar always use polite forms to the wife, but not always to the husband, when they are presumably of the same social status? Pronouns are certainly not gender-neutral (Mühlhäusler and Harré 1990), one sign of this being the suspicion that in contemporary France adolescent girls cease to be tutoyé and advance to the dignity of the formal vous several years earlier on average than adolescent boys—probably because adolescent girls are more likely to be sexually interesting to older men, and therefore worth ﬂattering, than their teenage brothers. The same may well be true in the “Summoner’s Tale.” The friar is “trying it on” with Thomas’s wife, as may be his normal practice, and she responds. To the friar’s compliment she replies: “Ye, God amende defautes, sire,” quod she, “Algates, welcome be ye, by my fey!”

(1810–11)

one realises the diﬃculty of rendering such familiar phrases as “to spend money.” Anglo-Saxons must surely have had to say this frequently, but it does not show up in the extant corpus, largely poetical or homiletic. On the analogy of German Geld ausgeben one might suggest OE *giefan ut feoh, or possibly (if one thinks of the word “outlay”) *lecgan ut feoh. 15 Which I owe to Dr. Randi Eldevik of Oklahoma State University, who commented on an early version of this article read at the Mid-America Medieval Association conference, Kansas City, MO, 24th Feb. 2001.

136

  “yes, may God improve any defects, sir,” she said, “Anyway, you are welcome, by my faith!”]

To which he in turn replies, “Graunt mercy, dame.” Her twelve words contain four loan-words, all immediately replaceable. She might just as well have said: *Ye, God bete that is agylte, fadere . . . Algates, welcome be ye, by my trothe.

One might expect that native English would come more naturally to a Yorkshire farmer’s wife, and in fact her speech is sometimes even more rustic than, and just as close to, Old English as her husband’s. When the friar says that he wants to press Thomas on the subject of his conscience, she agrees heartily and, one has to say, rather disloyally: “Now, by youre leve, o deere sire,” quod she, “Chideth him weel, for seinte Trinitee! He is as angry as a pissemyre. Though that he have al that he kan desire; Though I hym wrye a-nyght and make him warm, And over hym leye my leg outher myn arm, He groneth lyk oure boor, lith in oure sty. Oother desport right noon of hym have I; I may nat plese hym in no maner cas.”

(1823–31)

[“Now, by your leave, dear sir,” she said, “tell him oﬀ properly, for the Holy Trinity. He is as angry as an ant. Although he has everything he could want, and although I cover him up at night and make him warm, and put my leg or my arm over him, he groans like our boar lying in our sty. I get absolutely no other fun from him; I can’t please him anyhow.”]

“Sire,” “seint” and “Trinitee” are loan words. On the other hand, lines like “He is as angry as a pissemyre” are very low on the linguistic prestige ladder, “angry” from Old Norse angr—the friar, one might note, uses the French word “ire”—and “pissemyre” a strange compound of very vulgar French, pissier, and ON myrr.16 As for “He groneth lyk oure boor, lith in oure stye,” this is almost perfect OE, compare *“He granath gelic urum bare, lith in urum stige.” The

16

The Oxford English Dictionary suggests that this word for “ant” derives from the smell of formic acid, compared to that of urine.

    ’  

137

omission of the relative pronoun also sounds casually demotic. Yet the wife is doing something else besides complain. Surely she is hinting at her own dissatisfaction with Thomas’s lack of response to her sexual overtures in bed, which may indicate a certain readiness to look elsewhere, triggered by the friar’s ﬂattery and smooching. As she does this, though, she uses markedly French vocabulary: “desyre . . . desport . . . plese . . . no maner cas.” Her last two lines could again easily be translated into native English: *Other game of him have I right noon. I may nat liken him on none wise.

But perhaps that would not sound suﬃciently ﬂirtatious. Modern sociolinguists have reported something like this from English evidence. In an interesting experiment in East Anglia (Trudgill), a team of linguists tested male and female awareness of their own rating on a scale of “correctness” versus use of dialect. The linguists already knew how far their subjects did or did not speak dialectal English, by direct observation. What they were interested in was what people thought about themselves. The results indicated that both men and women were unreliable informants about their own speech, but in diﬀerent directions. Men tended strongly to overrate their own use of East Anglian local dialect. They claimed to use features (like the dropping of the -s ending in the third person singular present verb, “he go” instead of “he goes”) which in fact they did not. Women meanwhile tended to claim a standard of “correctness” or grammatical English which they did not reach. The conclusion was that both sexes were trying to gain prestige, but that women thought this was achieved by imitating what they took to be upper-class English, while men tried to gain “negative prestige” by associating themselves with a local community, perceived as tougher, more genuine, more masculine, etc. Much the same seems to be true of the 14th century, as exempliﬁed by Thomas’s wife. She is presented as no more of a French speaker than her husband ( just as one would expect, see note 4). When she has anything important to say, her speech is almost shockingly plain, as in her last speech to the friar: “Now, sire,” quod she, “but o word er I go. My child is deed withinne thise wykes two, Soone after that ye wente out of this toun.”

(1851–3)

138

  [“Now sir, just one word before I go. My child died within the last two weeks, just after you left town.”]

This too would need very little change to be comprehensible to her many times great-grandmother: *“Nu, fæder,” cwæth heo, “butan an word ær ic ga. Min bearn is dead binnan thissum twam wucum, Sona æfter thæm the thu eodest ut of tune.”

Apart from the usual dative endings and pronoun changes, and the selection of “wente” for eodest (but “yode” remained present in ME if not in Chaucer), the only change would be “child” for bearn; and “bairn” remains normal in Northern English to this day, while cild existed in Old English, and would be pronounced “child,” if with short vowel and slightly diﬀerent meaning. But her by-play with the friar is meant to show an urge towards social climbing, a readiness to side with, and ﬂirt with, what she takes to be the upper classes. She uses the French vocabulary of romantic involvement not because she needs it or has no other words available, but to indicate, or to pretend, that she is, or was, or one day will be, something better than a farmer’s wife in a barnyard. The friar responds to her news of the child’s death with a speech evidently designed to ring completely false—he pretends to have seen the child borne to heaven, when he has obviously only just heard about it—while being at the same time strangely beautiful. It is full of loan-words of the most elevated kind, “revelacioun . . . avision . . . jubilee . . . eﬀectueel,” etc., as well as further fragments of Latin, te deum, cor meum eructavit [my heart has brought up]. It does not have its eﬀect, though, for Thomas ignores claims that the convent is praying for him, and triggers a sermon against Ire (the sin of which Thomas’s wife accused him), together with a recommendation that he should treat his wife better. Somewhere in this stretch we must imagine Thomas losing his temper, and he has a good deal to lose his temper about: the friar’s evident greed and self-interest, his assumption of moral superiority, his open ﬂirtation, the way in which he and the wife seem to be “ganging up” on the husband. However, one could argue that the ﬁnal straw is linguistic. Thomas does not like the way the friar talks. I have already suggested that it is a danger-sign when Thomas starts to say “thou” back to the friar, at line 2131. He also starts to use non-native words in unexpected concentration. His ﬁrst four speeches, sixteen lines in

    ’  

139

total, contain ten loan words, but they are nearly all either old and familiar, like “seint,” or “maister” and “March” discussed above, or ecclesiastical words, “curat . . . estat . . . humylitee.” He uses the native “shryven” for “confessed,” and says “if me list” [if I want to] , where his wife uses the word “please.” At lines 1949–50 he says, however, that he has got little good from his money, “As I in fewe yeres Have spent upon diverse manere freres Ful many a pound.” [“As I have spent many a pound in few years on friars of diﬀerent sorts”] One wonders whether “spent upon diverse manere freres,” with four loanwords out of ﬁve, is sarcastic: he could have said (see note 14 below) “laid out on sondrye wise brether” with the same meaning. Be that as it may, Thomas is deﬁnitely losing his temper by line 2121, when he “wax wel ny wood for ire,” he uses the “thou” form ten lines later, and his language in his last two speeches, 2129–36 and 2140–43, is unmistakably sarcastic—or would be if the friar did not mistake it. Thomas says he will give something to “youre hooly covent”: And in thyn hand thou shalt it have anon, On this condicion, and oother noon, That thou departe it so, my deere brother, That every frere have also muche as oother. This shaltou swere on thy professioun, Withouten fraude or cavillacioun.

(2131–6)

[And you shall have it in your hand right away, on this condition, and otherwise not, that you shall share it out, my dear brother, in such a way that every friar shall have as much as the next. You must swear this by your profession, without fraud or quibble.]

The six loan-words in six lines have been italicised above, and the last ﬁve at least have replaced Old English words, respectively dele, brothor, had, swicdom and perhaps wrenc (wrench). The OE word for “condicion” is not so easy to trace.17 But the last word, “cavillacioun,” seems in Middle English only to be used contemptuously. One might compare the Green Knight’s jeering words to Sir Gawain, when he ﬂinches from the feigned blow: Nawþer fyked I ne ﬂaze, freke, quen þou myntest, Ne kest no kauelacion in kyngez hous Arthor.

(2274–5)

On the analogy of German Bedingung one might suggest a noun based on þingian, “to intercede.” 17

140

  [I neither ﬂinched nor ﬂed, man, when you aimed a blow at me, nor did I throw up any quibbles in the house of King Arthur.]

“I threw up no quibbles in the house of King Arthur”—“cavillation” is quibbling, hair-splitting, playing with words. In Thomas’s view, this is what the friar and his like are doing all along. There is a violent contrast, then, between the vulgar plainness of Thomas’s last direction, “grope . . . Bynethe my buttok,” and the coyness of his very last word, “A thyng that I have hid in pryvetee” [“something that I have hidden secretly”]. And an even more violent contrast, of course, between the ﬂurry of long words Thomas has started to use and the immense fart which is his last “utterance.” Thomas is “saying,” so to speak, that he regards the friar’s whole way of talking as just wind, and is replying in kind.18 One might go further and say that if Thomas had ever been taught any Latin, he could have added, with this time entirely literal meaning, “If you’re so clever, then parse that!”19 The last linguistic point I would make about the way people talk in the “Summoner’s Tale” stems from an apparent contradiction. Both Thomas and his wife greet the friar in their opening lines with the word “maister,” and he makes no objection, When the lord to whom he rushes with his complaint sees him, he too greets him with “Now, maister,” but the friar immediately cuts him oﬀ: “No maister, sire,” quod he, “but servitour, Thogh I have had in scole that honour. God liketh nat that ‘Raby’ men us calle . . .”

(2185–7)

[“Sir, no master,” he said, “but servant, although I have had that honor in the schools. God does not like men to call us ‘Rabbi’ ”

Yet this discrepancy too may ﬁt the pattern of a contest for linguistic dominance. We may assume, and Chaucer’s multilingual upper-class audience would assume, that the likes of Thomas the churl and his wife would be eﬀective monoglots, and also illiterates, 18 It should not be forgotten that one of the friar’s claims is that the fraternal orders were founded on the day of Pentecost, the day of the “rushing mighty wind.” For this strand of humor, see Fleming. 19 The verb “to parse,” derived from Latin pars, “part (sc. of speech),” is not recorded before the 16th century, but was once the basis of English education. It meant identifying a Latin word by case, number, tense, mood etc., and identifying the role of each word in the sentence. It also means, however, to divide or separate. Both meanings could be seen as highly appropriate to what Thomas does.

    ’  

141

without Latin, French, or access to books. They are therefore rather easy to impress. A few tags, some high-sounding words, and the occasional Je vous dy sanz doute to suggest that French comes so naturally to the friar that he cannot stop using it, and they are overawed. This will not work on the lord and his lady, who may well speak French themselves and probably are not illiterates. While the friar uses rather impressive vocabulary to the lord, “abhominacioun,” “blasphemed,” and one Latin tag, per consequens, the lord replies easily on much the same level. He uses “confessour” as opposed to Thomas’s “shryven,” he quotes the Bible back at the friar (Matthew 5: 13, mentioned at line 2196), and his internal monologue (2218–27) and following speech (2228–42) contain the words “ymaginacioun, demonstracion, reverberacioun,” and “demonyak,” as well as the half-translated “ars-metryke.” The friar then does not have the linguistic upper hand, and presumably knows it. He tries to retain the initiative by an ostensive show of humility, coupled with a reminder that he is in fact a university man, and a very brief ﬂash of Hebrew, a trump-card indeed. This raises a ﬁnal thought, and a ﬁnal possible symmetry. The “Summoner’s Tale” is a riposte to the “Friar’s Tale,” and I have suggested elsewhere20 that an unnoticed irony in the latter is the likelihood that while the dishonest summoner in that tale makes his living by threatening people with documents, often literate clerics, he may himself be completely illiterate, just as the pilgrimage Summoner shouts out Latin tags without having any idea what they mean. The literacy joke is repeated in the “Summoner’s Tale,” where the friar repeatedly appeals to texts which he knows Thomas has no access to, and which may in fact never have existed.21 It would ﬁt this pattern of bullying by means of a literacy which is claimed, but largely or entirely spurious, if the truth of the matter were that people like

20 In the Matthews Memorial Lectures delivered at Birkbeck College, London on 19th and 20th May 1999, forthcoming. 21 The most egregious example of textual bullying in the “Summoner’s Tale” occurs when the friar, pressing for a donation, tells Thomas (1978–80) that he can ﬁnd out about church-building, “If it be good,” in the life of St. Thomas of India— and Thomas could, if he could read, if he could read Latin, if he had a copy. But he would ﬁnd there that it was not! The Riverside Chaucer note (p. 878), which assumes that there must have been a text somewhere that says what the friar implies it does, therefore entirely misses the point, which is one more case of impudent exploitation of the ignorant. “Doubting Thomas” is not the patron saint of modern scholars. See again Shippey, Matthews Memorial Lectures, forthcoming.

142

 

the friar could often not really speak French or Latin at all. Chaucer’s intended audience might be courtly, or administrative-bourgeois like himself, but it was surely literate and multilingual. It might be especially amusing to them and to the poet, then, to observe the ironies of a situation very much further down the social scale, where people struggled for dominance with tactics almost pathetically feeble.22 What does the “Summoner’s Tale” tell us, in the end, about the sociolinguistic situation in late fourteenth century England? One particularly persistent image which it should at least destroy is what one might call the Ivanhoe model of language transfer, in which brutal Norman barons forced their wretched Saxon serfs to learn French words, the better to nderstand their orders; as a result of which, Scott argued, our words for animals were Saxon while they were being tended (cow, pig, sheep, etc.), but became French once they were being eaten (beef, pork, mutton etc.).23 The theory bears some relation to the evidence of the Peterborough Chronicle, but does not account for the later ﬂood-tide of largely unnecessary borrowings. Modern experience furthermore rejects it, for a variant of it is in full ﬂower to explain the retreat of the Celtic languages before English. Once again, the model is of brutal English schoolteachers ﬂogging Scots, Welsh or Irish children out of their native languages and into English. But this model has also been shown in some detail to be mythical (see Chapman 1992); the main motor of the spread of English into Celtic-speaking areas has been, not brutal oppressors, but ambitious parents, which also explains the disappearance of the majority of immigrant languages into the USA. Brieﬂy, the “Summoner’s Tale” corroborates Chapman, and refutes Scott. A major motive for the transfer of French and Latin words into English turns out to be social snobbery. Being multilingual obviously gave cachet in fourteenth-century England, but learning a language properly is a hard business, managed successfully by few after puberty. It is much easier to pretend a familiarity, which can be achieved on the basis of a few words, and especially easy in ignorant and unsophisticated surroundings. 22 This may seem an unattractive view of Chaucer for a democratic age, but it ﬁts the pattern of the “Miller’s Tale” and the tale which Chaucer perhaps intended for the Yeoman, of a somewhat self-ﬂattering or self-reassuring de haut en bas attitude to social climbers, see Shippey Tale. 23 The theory is put in the mouth of Wamba the jester talking to Gurth the churl near the end of ch. 1 of Scott’s 1819 novel. It has had a long life.

    ’  

143

More interesting than the rather predictable conclusion above, however, are the linguistic shifts which take place within the tale itself. We hear the friar adapting his role to diﬀerent audiences. We hear Thomas’s wife wavering between her natural way of speech and her loyalty to her husband, on the one hand, and her desire to please and impress a distinguished visitor on the other. We hear Thomas also responding to the friar’s language and beginning to imitate it, but with sarcastic contempt rather than pleased coquetry. And we do not hear, but we see the friar failing to hear the warning note in Thomas’s voice, and the danger signs in his nouns and pronouns. It seems likely that what has had to be demonstrated here with laborious etymologies and translations was recognised much more naturally by a fourteenth-century audience from a multilingual society, accustomed in daily life to rating people by their speech, and familiar no doubt with many shifts, tricks, and self-betrayals. I have not noticed examples of this in the “Summoner’s Tale,” but a study of people getting learned words wrong in Chaucer, and producing nonce-words, might be revealing: for instance the unknown speaker’s “phislyas” in the “Man of Law’s Epilogue” (1189)—I believe he is the Yeoman, not the Shipman (see Shippey Tale 79–82)—or the miller’s wife’s “nortelrie” in the “Reeve’s Tale” (3967). These represent a large class, perhaps, of words which have not survived, and like other linguistic features in Chaucer have modern parallels usually felt to be beneath the notice of academics. Finally, one may feel that Chaucer’s interest in such features goes far to proving Tolkien’s old and forgotten claim for “Chaucer as a philologist.” One thing one can say for the old philologists of Tolkien’s generation and the ones before him: they were the least canonical of men, interested in dialects every bit as much as standards, and in language outside and independent of literature. And rightly so, for as the “Summoner’s Tale” also proves, it would be a dull world in which everyone talked exactly the same way. Works Cited Baugh, Albert C., and Thomas Cable. A History of the English Language. 3rd ed. Englewood Cliﬀs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1978. Benson, Larry, ed. The Riverside Chaucer. 3rd ed. London: Macmillan, 1987. Burnley, David. “Lexis and Semantics.” The Cambridge History of the English Language. Vol. II, 1066–1476. Ed. Norman Blake. Cambridge: CUP, 1992. 409–99.

144

 

Bradley, S. A. J. “‘The First New-European Literature’: N. F. S. Grundtvig’s Reception of Anglo-Saxon Literature.” A. M. Allchin et al., eds. Heritage and Prophecy: Grundtvig and the English-Speaking World. Norwich: Canterbury Press, 1994. 45–72. Carpenter, Humphrey. J. R. R. Tolkien: A Biography. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1977. Chapman, Malcolm. The Celts: the construction of a myth. Basingstoke, Macmillan; New York, St Martin’s, 1992. Fleming, John V. “The Antifraternalism of ‘The Summoner’s Tale,’ ” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 65 (1966): 688–700. Mühlhäusler, Peter, and Rom Harré. Pronouns and People: the linguistic construction of social and personal identity. Oxford: Blackwell’s, 1990. Pearsall, Derek. The Life of Geoﬀrey Chaucer: A Critical Biography. Oxford: Blackwell’s, 1992. Pyles, Thomas, and John Algeo. The Origins and Development of the English Language. 4th ed. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1993. Richter, Michael. Sprache und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter: Untersuchungen zur mündlichen Kommunikation in England von der Mitte des elften bis zum Beginn des vierzehnten Jahrhunderts. Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1979. ——. “Muttersprache und Literatursprache: Methodisches zur Situation in England im 12. Jahrhundert.” Studies in Medieval Language and Culture. Richter, Michael. Dublin: Four Courts Press, 1995. 175–85. Rothwell, W. “The role of French in 13th century England.” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 58 (1975–6). 454–66. ——. “The teaching of French in medieval England.” MLR 63 (1968): 37–46. Scheler, Manfred. Der Englische Wortschatz. Berlin: E. Schmidt, 1977. Shippey, T. A., “Bibliophobia: 1, in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, 2, in the poems of Harley Manuscript 2253.” The Matthews Memorial Lectures for 1999. London: Birkbeck College, forthcoming. ——. “The Tale of Gamelyn: Class Warfare and the Embarrassments of Genre.” The Spirit of Medieval English Popular Romance. Ed. Ad Putter and Jane Gilbert. London: Longman, 2000. 78–96. Short, Ian. “On bilingualism in Anglo-Norman England.” Romance Philology 33 (1980): 467–79. Strang, Barbara M. H. A History of English. London: Methuen 1970. Tolkien, J. R. R. “Chaucer as a Philologist: the Reeve’s Tale.” Transactions of the Philological Society (1934): 1–70. —— “Beowulf: the Monsters and the Critics.” Proceedings of the British Academy 22 (1936): 245–95. Tolkien, J. R. R., and E. V. Gordon, eds. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. 2nd ed. Revised by Norman Davis. Oxford: Clarendon, 1968. Trudgill, Peter. “Sex, covert prestige and linguistic change in the urban British English of Norwich.” Language in Society 1 (1978): 178–96.

THE DISCOURSE OF CHARACTERIZATION IN JEHAN ET BLONDE Carol Harvey

More than one scholar has commented that in view of the cosmopolitan nature of medieval society, it seems strange that linguistic questions are rarely at issue in the literature of the period. “Medieval romances are full of strangers,” states William MacBain, discussing characters in the Lais of Marie de France, Ille et Galeron and other characters such as Nicolette or Erec who leave their homeland to live elsewhere. “How is it then that, in a period when linguistic diﬀerences were far more marked than at the present day, they are overlooked by the authors of our romances?”1 Elisabeth Schulze-Busacker concurs that with few exceptions, romances do not concern themselves with such matters; she adds that even among the chroniclers, only the late thirteenth-century memoirs of Joinville reﬂect some sensitivity to language, customs and foreign behaviour.2 Against this background, Philippe de Remy’s two thirteenth-century romances La Manekine and Jehan et Blonde must be viewed as exceptional, in that both evidence the author’s lively curiosity toward the geography, landscapes, customs and traditions of other countries, and

1 William MacBain, “The Outsider at Court, Or What is So Strange About the Stranger?” in The Court and Cultural Diversity, Selected Papers from the Eighth Triennial Congress of the International Courtly Literature Society, 1995. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1997, p. 358. 2 “French Conceptions of Foreigners and Foreign Languages in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries”, Romance Philology Vl. XI, N. 41 (August 1987), 24–47. SchulzeBusacker aﬃrms: “A large variety of contacts between classes, social systems and, naturally, peoples and languages was guaranteed by kings and princes with widely scattered possessions in France, England, Spain, Italy and the German Empire, wealthy merchants and magistrates with commercial and political interests all over the Mediterranean area, nobles embarked on the Crusades to Spain, Constantinople and the Holy Land, less “fortunate” troubadours travelling from court to court, and, ﬁnally, monks and churchmen” (25–26). Among the few texts that comment on linguistic questions, she notes Alexandre de Paris’ Roman d’Alexandre, in which the hero is vaunted for his ability to speak several languages, and Sone de Nansay, with its description of the language and customs of several countries through which the protagonist travels.

146

 

also their language.3 The geographic space of the ﬁrst romance, Le roman de la Manekine, encompasses Hungary, Scotland, England, France, Rome and Armenia, while the later Jehan et Blonde alternates between the Beauvaisis (Philippe’s region in Northern France) and the South of England. It is in this second romance that Philippe’s interest in language and communication becomes apparent, as his French protagonist journeys to England where he encounters people whose speech is diﬀerent from his native tongue.

The French Language in England With a number of languages and language varieties coexisting in thirteenth-century England but used in diﬀerent social contexts, the linguistic situation was singularly complex. As elsewhere in Western Europe, Latin was the high status language used for formal written purposes; it was the language of theology, philosophy and other branches of scholarship as well as the language of record in law and administration. Of the two vernaculars in daily use in England, French was the language of the aristocracy and of the institutions introduced at the time of the Norman Conquest of 1066; it remained the language of the social, religious and political elite; it was used by court and clergy, in education and in a ﬂourishing literary culture, as well as in trade and commerce, throughout the thirteenth century and beyond.4 Despite the loss of Normandy in 1204, French

3 Both romances are edited by H. Suchier, Les oeuvres poétiques de Philippe de Remi, sire de Beaumanoir. 2 vols. Paris: Firmin Didot, 1884; rpt. New York: Johnson Reprint Corporation, 1966. La Manekine is available in a modern French prose translation by Christiane Marchello-Nizia, with preface by Donatien Laurent (Paris: Stock Plus, 1980); Jehan et Blonde is translated into modern French by Sylvie Lécuyer (Paris: Champion, 1987). Barbara Sargent-Baur, who has recently edited La Manekine (Amsterdam & Atlanta, GA: Rodopi, 1999) and translated the romance into English, is currently working on a companion volume of Jehan et Blonde. In the present article, the English translations of quotations from Jehan et Blonde are my own. 4 See William Rothwell, “The Role of French in Thirteenth-Century England,” Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library, Vol. 58 (1976), p. 462. Several other studies (including those of Michael Richter, Sprache und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter. Untersuchungen zur mündlichen Kommunikation in England von der Mitte des elften bis zum Beginn des vierzehnten Jahrhunderts [Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1979] and Ian Short, “On Bilingualism in Anglo-Norman England” Romance Philology, Vol. 33, No. 4 [May 1980], pp. 467–79, concur with his ﬁndings. A recent discussion of the topic is found in William Calin, The French Tradition and the Literature of Medieval England

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

147

retained considerable prestige and status; in legal matters, for example, archival and documentary evidence indicates that while Latin remained the language of formal record in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, Anglo-Norman French was the language used for pleading in the courts as well as in law reports, oral legal instruction and legal literature.5 The second main vernacular language, English, although used by the vast majority of the population, was a lowstatus language used only for informal spoken communication. In a recent article, Begona Crespo asserts: “The lack of literacy and the fact of being the language of a conquered people limited English to the lower ranks of society. It was reduced to a conversational, everyday language that was transmitted orally.”6 Writing around 1300, Robert of Gloucester maintains that those who do not speak French are held in low esteem: “Vor bote a man conne Frenss me telth of him lute.”7 [For unless a man knows French, I hold him of little account.] The coexistence of these two functionally-diﬀerentiated languages in England can be characterized in sociolinguistic terms as an extended diglossia, in which French is highly valued and English less valued. As described by Schiﬀman, “For diglossic situations involving two diﬀerent (genetically unrelated) linguistic codes (sometimes referred to as “extended diglossia”) the one dominating . . . has the greater international prestige or is the language of the local power elite or the dominant religious community and/or its priesthood. In such cases the H[igh] variety language is clearly the language of the more powerful section of the society, however power is deﬁned.”8 The diglossic situation of medieval England was further complicated by the fact that following the loss of Normandy, insular French was

(Toronto, Buﬀalo, London: University of Toronto Press, 1994), pp. 3–16. For a detailed assessment of the situation in the twelfth century, see Juliette Dor, “Langues française et anglaise, et multilinguisme à l’époque d’Henri II Plantagenêt” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, Vol. XXXVIII, Nos. 1–2 (1994), pp. 61–72. 5 See Paul Brand, “The Languages of the Law”, in Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain, ed. D. A. Trotter. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2000, p. 75. 6 “Historical Background of Multilingualism and its Impact on English” in Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain, op. cit., p. 24. 7 Quoted by Dor, art. cit., p. 64, n. 16. 8 “Diglossia as a Sociolinguistic Situation” in The Handbook of Sociolinguistics, ed. Florian Coulmas. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Inc., 1997; paperback edition, 1998, pp. 205–206.

148

 

largely isolated from the continental language and subject to the inﬂuence of the English tongue spoken by the majority of the inhabitants of the country. Moreover, for most people, French was no longer a true mother tongue but a learned language that had to be acquired. Consequently, by the thirteenth century Anglo-Norman had evolved into a distinct dialect, which even Anglo-Norman writers themselves sometimes referred to deprecatingly as a “faus franceis d’Angletere”,9 for its morphology, syntax, lexicon and pronunciation had all become markedly diﬀerent from those spoken in France. And though it maintained the functions and prestige of the dominant language within England, its position relative to francien in the linguistic hierarchy of dialects of medieval French was decidedly inferior. At a time when French speakers were increasingly conscious of the superiority of francien, the dialect of the Ile-de-France, disparaging comments about foreign or regional accents were not infrequent and the Anglo-Norman dialect spoken across the Channel was a favoured target. In Jehan et Blonde, as well as in satirical poems such as the Paix aux Anglais, the fabliau De deux Angloys et de l’anel, or the story of Renard the Fox disguised as a travelling entertainer from England, the French spoken in England is a source of mockery.10

Language and Courtliness in Jehan et Blonde In Jehan et Blonde, language is more than a satirical tool, it is also part and parcel of the discourse of characterization and, as such, a crucial narrative strategy. Brieﬂy stated, the language of the young French hero, Jehan, is a mark of his superiority as much as his courtliness and his skill in ﬁghting. Conversely, his rival Gloucester’s poor command of the French language marks him as a buﬀoon. Other characters, too, are constructed as good or bad according to their ability to converse in French. Also of interest is the sociolinguistic information Philippe de Remy conveys about French in England, its state and status and even the way in which the lan-

9

The expression is used by Clemence of Barking, see below, n. 13. See my article “L’anglais bouﬀon dans la littérature médiévale” in Le bouﬀon dans les lettres françaises, ed. Michel Bareau and Judith Spencer. Parabasis 6 (Edmonton, AB: Alta Press Inc., 1998), pp. 119–125. 10

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

149

guage was learned. For as Philippe de Remy’s textual world mirrors the referential space in terms of geography and topography, so, too, his references to language reﬂect the linguistic situation in England. Before discussing these facets of the romance further, a brief summary will serve to indicate how and where the two worlds and two languages of France and England meet. Twenty-year-old Jehan, the oldest son of the impoverished lord of Dammartin, in Northern France, decides to seek his fame and fortune in England. Entering the service of the Earl of Oxford, he becomes the squire of the latter’s daughter, Blonde. Despite initial vicissitudes, due largely to the diﬀerence in their station, Jehan and Blonde fall in love and remain happily but secretly in love for two years. This idyllic situation is interrupted only when Jehan is summoned back to France, to his father’s deathbed. The lovers agree that he will return to Oxford one year later to claim Blonde as his bride and take her back to Dammartin. In the meantime, the Earl of Oxford arranges to marry his daughter to the wealthy Earl of Gloucester. Jehan arrives back just in time to carry Blonde oﬀ to Dover, and, vanquishing his rival in a battle of epic proportions, he escapes with her to France, where their marriage is celebrated. Shortly thereafter, King Louis decides to knight Jehan and make him Count of Dammartin. He also intercedes with the Earl of Oxford, so that all are reconciled and reunited for the ceremony, which takes place at Dammartin at Pentecost. Authorial comments on the linguistic situation of French in England occur almost as soon as Jehan sets foot on English soil. As he journeys from Dover to London, he meets the Earl of Oxford, on his way to attend the Parliament: En son Franchois [ Jehans] l’a saluë´, Et li quens n’i a deluë´ (Que le Franchois seut bien entendre, En France eut esté pur aprendre). ll. 129–32) [ Jehan greeted him in French and the Count had no diﬃculty understanding him (he understood the language well, for he had been to France to learn it).]

This is entirely consistent with the historical evidence that the English often learned or perfected their French in France. Writing in the late twelfth century, Gervase of Tilbury notes that parents often sent their children to France “ob linguae nativae barbariem tollendam”

150

 

[“to eradicate the mistakes from their native tongue”].11 Another writer, Orderic Vital, whose father was a French clerk, recounts how he was sent to Saint-Evroul, in Normandy, at ten years old.12 As for Clemence of Barking, who wrote a life of Edward the Confessor, she says tellingly that she speaks a “faus franceis d’Angletere” because she did not go away to acquire the language and she invites those who did learn it elsewhere to correct her: Un faus franceis sai d’Angletere, Ke ne l’alai ailurs quere. Mais vus ki ailurs apris l’avez, Lu ou mester iert, l’amendez. (ll. 7–10)13 [ I know a false French of England that I did not learn elsewhere. But those of you who did learn it elsewhere can correct it where necessary.]

In the case of Oxford, his excellent French is but the ﬁrst, external manifestation of his exemplary courtliness in all respects. Impressed ﬁrst by Jehan’s will to succeed, then by his worthiness and wisdom, he appoints Jehan as squire to his daughter, Blonde. When Jehan starts to waste away and die, Oxford summons his own doctor to take care of Jehan and cure him, little suspecting that Jehan, a lowly squire, has fallen in love with Blonde. The Earl’s pleasure at Jehan’s recovery, his attempts to console Jehan on the death of his mother, his dismay that Jehan must return to France on account of his father’s ill-health, all these speak to his perfect courtliness and innate humanity as much as to Jehan’s merits. Nowhere is Oxford’s language marked by lexical irregularities, ﬂawed syntactic structures or pronunciation problems. On the contrary, the Earl’s language is as cultured as his manners are courtly, as moderate in tone as it is wise in tenor. Oxford is also linguistically astute, perfectly able to decode Jehan’s exchanges with the Earl of Gloucester, and interpret them for Gloucester, who does not have the same linguistic abilities. Although Oxford has arranged for the latter to marry his daughter, when she ﬂees with Jehan, he neither condemns the latter, “Car sages est et jentix hom” (l. 3337) [“For 11 See my article on “Medieval Methods and Materials for Teaching French in England”, Journal of the Rocky Mountain Medieval and Renaissance Association, Vol. V (1984), p. 57. 12 The anecdote is cited by Dor, art. cit., p. 67, n. 2. 13 La Vie d’ Edouard le Confesseur, ed. Ö. Södergµard (Uppsala, 1948), ll. 7–10. Cited by Dor, p. 68, n. 49.

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

151

he is a wise and gentle man”] nor will he assist Gloucester to recover Blonde, stating philosophically: . . . qui l’ait, si l’ait! Se vous l’avés, il ne m’est lait, Et se il l’a, souﬀrir l’estuet, Puis c’autrement estre ne puet. (ll. 3349–52) [Well, whoever gets her will have her! If you get her, that’s ﬁne by me; and if he gets her, we’ll have to accept it since that’s the way things are.]

Later, he will pardon Jehan and Blonde and journey to France with his retinue, to be received with all the pomp and ceremony beﬁtting a great nobleman of England. His high rank and courtliness are further recognized by the King of France, who urges him to stay at his castles and to hunt in the royal forests. Oxford’s language is then an integral part of the discourse of characterization of a man whose actions and words all reveal his courtliness and moderation. His daughter, Blonde, not yet eighteen years old, is also characterized as courtly. In fact, the descriptio puellae, more than one hundred lines long (ll. 247–364), draws on all the courtly conceits to evoke her unparalleled beauty. From her emblematic hair—blond, ﬂowing locks like thin-spun threads of gold—to her legs and feet (described as being neither too fat nor too thin), Philippe spares no eﬀort in detailing the charms of this maiden whom God Himself must have designed and Nature fashioned with care. Her beauty is not merely physical but also moral: Si fu sage, simple et courtoise Que nus qui au main la veïst, Le jour puis ne li meskeïst Se ne fust sans plus par pensee: Tel vertu li ot Dix donee. (ll. 360–64) [She was so wise, simple, and courtly that anyone who saw her in the morning knew that nothing bad could happen for the rest of the day: such was the virtue that God had given her.]

Given Philippe’s interest in language, it is not surprising that the discourse of characterization includes comments on Blonde’s way of speaking. This not only reveals her character, for she was never sharp-tongued (“Ne de folement parler aigre” [l. 356]) but also her origins: “Un peu paroit a son langage/Que ne fu pas nee a Pontoise” (ll. 358–59) [“When she spoke, it was just noticeable that she wasn’t

152

 

born in Pontoise.”] To speak the French of Pontoise was to speak the most prestigious dialect, that of Paris and the surrounding Ilede-France, known as francien or françois, which by the late twelfth century was becoming increasingly recognized as the accepted standard of cultured people. Writing his Vie de saint Thomas Becket in England in 1272–74, Garnier de Pont-Sainte-Maxence assures his audience “Mis langage est bons car en France fui nez” [“My language is good, for I was born in France”—that is, the Ile-de-France].14 For ladies, too, the ability to speak françois was a mark of their courtliness and distinction.15 Blonde no doubt learned French at home, like many other children of good families who acquired some knowledge of the language either out of necessity or because it was a fashionable accomplishment. In the thirteenth century, various books and treatises were produced in England on the spelling, pronunciation or vocabulary of French.16 A case in point is Walter of Bibbesworth’s treatise, composed around 1250 for one Lady Dionysia of Munchensy “pur aprise de langage” [to learn the language], so that she might teach her

14 Quoted by Dor, art. cit., p. 70, who resumes the position of Anglo-Norman vis-à-vis French as follows: Paris essaie de culpabiliser le reste de la France, mais plus particulièrement cet autre royaume où l’on parle aussi français; et comme le français qu’on y parle est en quelque sorte dévitalisé, puisqu’il est coupé de ses sources, Paris a beau jeu. La civilisation française de l’Ile-de-France jouit alors d’un rayonnement qui ne cesse de s’accroître. Le français de Paris, de Pontoise et de Saint-Denis jouit d’un tel prestige qu’il est devenu la norme pour les écrits de tout le Nord de la France, et cela dès la ﬁn du XIIe s. 15 In the Chevalier à la charette, c. 1178, Chrétien de Troyes introduces the ladies of King Arthur’s court as “bien parlant en langue françoise”, while the daughter of a bourgeois in the Vie des Pères is described as not only lovely and courtly but also as accomplished, “bien chantans/et bien aprise de romanz.” Both examples are cited by Jacques Chaurand, Histoire de la langue française. 8th edition, Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1996, p. 30. 16 A number of these are discussed by William Rothwell, “The Teaching of French in Medieval England”, Modern Language Review, Vol. 63 (1968), pp. 37–46. Throughout the Middle Ages, many manuscripts and books about the French language were written in England. It is worthy of note that a comprehensive French grammar was published in London in 1530: L’Esclarcissement de la langue françoyse composé par maistre Jehan Palsgrave, Angloys, natyf de Londres et gradué de Paris; despite its French title, it was written in English. By contrast, the ﬁrst grammar produced in France, which appeared the following year, was written in Latin: Jocobi Siluii Ambiani in linguam gallicam Isagwge, una cum eiusdem grammatica latino-gallica, ex Hebraaeis, Graecis et Latinis authoribus (see Charles Bruneau, Petite Histoire de la langue française. 2 vols. [Paris: Armand Colin, 1955], Vol. 1, p. 118). See also my article “Medieval Methods and Materials for Teaching French in England”, pp. 57–67.

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

153

children French.17 The author’s aim is expressed in the Prologue, where he states: “E tut issint troverez-vous le dreit ordre en parler e en respundre, qe nuls gentils homme coveint saver.” [“Herein you will ﬁnd the right way to speak and answer that all gentlemen need to know.”] French was also taught in schools in England, although such expressions as “Marlborough French” (“Gallicum Merleburgae”) or French “after the scole of Stratford at the Bowe”, which Chaucer’s Prioress is said to have spoken, would indicate that it was far removed from the native ﬂuency and accent of Paris and its environs.18 Since in Philippe’s romance language is more than an aesthetic marker and serves also to convey values, Blonde’s less-than-perfect French may be revealing of some deﬁciency in her character. When Jehan is dying of love for her, she swears that if he recovers, she will accept him as her lover but once he recovers, she ignores him. When Jehan reproaches her she replies that she only swore to love him so that he would recover, “Mais ce ﬁs jou pour vostre bien” (l. 884) [“But I did it for your own good”]. Mindful of the diﬀerence in their stations, she fails to recognize Jehan’s true worth and is not cured of her haughtiness and harshness until Jehan falls ill a second time. Only then does an allegorical battle between Pride and Love establish in Blonde’s heart the primacy of her love for Jehan. It would appear, then, that the linguistic ﬂaw is predictive of a somewhat uncourtly attitude toward Jehan in the ﬁrst stages of the romance. Consistent with Philippe de Remy’s discourse of characterization, language is also one of the vehicles whereby the young Frenchman’s superiority is established. Jehan has all the attributes of a courtly young man and though he is poor, he does not lack either the talents or the will to succeed. He is described from the outset as an exemplary young man of exceptional physical and moral qualities, tall and handsome, well-mannered, wise and courtly. Furthermore, with his native ﬂuency in French, he is able to tutor Blonde and earn her gratitude: De maint jeu a juër l’aprist, Et en milleur Franchois le mist 17

A. Owen, Le traité de Walter de Bibbesworth (1929; rpt. Geneva: Slatkine, 1977). Most recently quoted by Short, art. cit., p. 472), who also quotes the expression “Marlborough French” used by Walter Map to refer to a barbarous form of the language. 18

154

  Qu’ele n’estoit quant a li vint, Par quoi ele mout chier le tint. (ll. 403–06) [Thanks to him, she learnt to play many games and to speak French better than when he arrived, so she held him very dear.]

This is Philippe’s second authorial comment on Blonde’s imperfect linguistic competence yet, interestingly enough, analysis of her speech reveals none of the linguistic irregularities commonly associated with the Anglo-Norman dialect. Nonetheless, Philippe’s insistence on Jehan’s linguistic superiority does serve to bridge the gap between the landless squire and wealthy, aristocratic Blonde. That her ladies-in-waiting urge Jehan to teach them French is an indication both of the language’s continuing importance in courtly circles in England and of the prestige accorded to those who spoke this high status vernacular well.

Rivalry in Love and Language Jehan’s courtliness and ﬁne command of the French language establish him as superior to his English rival, Gloucester. In comparing the two suitors Blonde aﬃrms: Se Jehans ert vestus de sas Et cis ci [Gloucester] de plus rices dras C’on puist faire, batus a or, Mes amis ert plus biaus encor. ... Il est sages, biaus et courtois, Et gentiex hom de par Franchois. Miex vaut sa parole franchoise Que de Clocestre la ricoise. (ll. 2289–92, 2295–98) [If Jehan were wearing sackcloth and Gloucester the richest robes possible, threaded with gold, my friend Jehan would still be the more handsome. . . . He is wise, handsome and courtly, a true gentleman in his own country of France. His French speech is better than all of Gloucester’s wealth.]

Clearly, the French language is in Blonde’s mind synonymous with Jehan’s courtly qualities—attributes that the Earl of Gloucester does not possess, no matter how wealthy he is. In the encounters between the two men, Jehan’s language is a mark of his intelligence and a vehicle for his wit. Learning that the Earl is his rival for Blonde’s hand in marriage, he converses with him in riddles, completely fool-

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

155

ing Gloucester.19 Indeed, the battle of wits that he wages with Gloucester foreshadows the armed battle he will ﬁght against him in Dover to escape with Blonde to France; likewise, the outcome of their verbal exchange predicts Jehan’s victory over his rival. The ﬁrst riddle is found in Jehan’s answer to Gloucester, who oﬀers to buy his horse: “Se vous volés avoir cestui, Prendre volrai de vostre avoir Itant com j’en vaurrai avoir; Autrement point n’en venderai.” (ll. 2654–2657) [If you want to buy it, in return I want as much of your wealth as I can possibly have; otherwise I will not sell it.]

Gloucester later recounts the riddles to the Duke of Oxford, who explains that Jehan had no intention of selling his horse because it was the means whereby he planned to spirit Blonde away: “A che deüssiés bien entendre Qu’il ne l’avoit talent de vendre. Il avoit droit, car sus em porte Ma ﬁlle, dont or se deporte.” (ll. 3259–62) [What you should understand from this is that he really did not want to sell it. And he was right because now he is riding oﬀ with my daughter and enjoying her company.]

The second riddle comes after Gloucester is caught in a shower of rain and his ﬁne silk cloak is ruined. Jehan laughs, saying: “Se j’estoie aussi rices hom Com vous estes, une maison Tousjours o moi em porteroie, En quoi mon cors esconseroie, Si ne seroie pas soilliés, N’aussi com vous estes moilliés.” (ll. 2689–94)

19 The riddles are discussed by Sylvie Lécuyer in her article “Les jeux de l’écriture dans Jehan et Blonde: un art de trompe-l’oeil” in Un roman à découvrir: Jehan et Blonde de Philippe de Remy, ed. Jean Dufournet (Geneva: Éditions Slatkine, 1991), pp. 140–170. In the same title, Jean Dufournet devotes a section of his article “Philippe de Remy ou l’expérience de la limite: du double-sens au non-sens” (op. cit., pp. 189–192) to the riddles. In addition, F. R. P. Akehurst presented a paper on the riddles at the International Medieval Congress at the University of Leeds, England, in 1996. I wish to thank him for generously sending me a copy of this unpublished paper.

156

  [If I were as rich as you, I would always carry a house around with me so that I could take shelter under it. Then I would not be dirty or wet like you.]

Gloucester ﬁnds this idea so laughable that he repeats it to his companions, who are equally amused and agree that not only is Jehan a “bon sot” or harmless fool, but Frenchmen in general are “Plus sote c’un nice brebis.” (l. 2705) [simpler than sheep.] The Count of Oxford later explains Jehan’s real meaning: “Que par deseure ne meïstes Ou houce ou chape ou autre cose, De coi vostre cote fust close.” (ll. 3268–70) [That you should put something over it like a cloak or a cape or some such thing to cover your robe.]

Oxford evidently understands the key to be the French word “housse”, meaning a cloak or cape. F.R.P. Akehurst has oﬀered the explanation that the story was originally told in English. “Some Frenchman, who does not know the English word for a cloak, seeing a person who has been wet by the rain, says to him in fractured English: ‘If I were as rich a man as you, I would always carry with me a . . . a . . . a housse.’ ” And this word of course sounds like the Middle English word meaning “house”20 This explanation is entirely plausible: not only is it consistent with Philippe de Remy’s proven interest in language, it also establishes a neat parallel between the putative Frenchman who has recourse to a French word and Gloucester, whose fractured French is interspersed with English words. The third riddle comes up when Gloucester, wanting to be ﬁrst to ford a river, falls oﬀ his horse and has to be rescued by a ﬁsherman. Jehan comments to Gloucester: “Se mener pooie tel route, Com vous faites par vostre avoir, Ja perilleuse iauwe, pour voir, Sans pont pour riens ne passeroie; Mon pont avoeques moi merroie, Que j’avroie bon et seür.” (ll. 2782–87) [If I were wealthy enough to have as large a retinue as you have, the only way I would ever cross a river is over a bridge. I would carry

20

Akehurst, unpublished paper.

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

157

my bridge with me, a strong, trustworthy bridge, so that I could cross unharmed.]

According to Oxford’s interpretation, by this Jehan meant: “Que rices hom ne doit entrer En riviere ne en mal pas Devant c’on ait passé le pas. Des siens doit avant envoiier, Et après se puel avoiier Par la ou il verra le miex; Ainsi se porra passer miex.” (ll. 3288–94) [That a wealthy man should never go into a river or any other risky situation unless someone has preceded him. He ought to send his men ahead of him, then he can follow where it seems best. That way he can cross most easily.]

Again, Akehurst suggests that the remark can best be understood by imagining that a Frenchman is trying to speak English. He contends that the explanation can only be understood in the context of the conclusion of the episode. When Gloucester is rescued, he has to borrow dry clothes, because the baggage train is too far behind. “Once again, what would a Frenchman say who was trying to make this remark in English?” Akehurst asks. He would say that Gloucester needed some spare clothing: “I would take with me my . . . my . . . my breeks, and then I would pass in safety.” And he would mispronounce the word “breek” so that it sounded like “brig” or “bridge” and that would make the remark suﬃciently nonsensical to be amusing, since who can take a bridge with them?”21 Whereas it takes a stretch of the imagination to accept this explanation, “bridge” could simply be taken metaphorically to mean someone to act as a bridge, to ensure Gloucester’s safe, dry passage to the other side. The fourth riddle is, once again, an oblique reference to Blonde. Jehan refuses to halt for the night and insists on parting company with Gloucester, saying that he must check a birdtrap that he had set: “Antan et auques pres de chi Un trop bel espervier coisi; De l’avoir sui en tel bretesce Que je i tendi ma bouresce. Or vois veoir se je l’ai pris.” (ll. 2823–27)

21

Ibid.

158

  [I once spotted a magniﬁcent sparrow-hawk near here. I did my best to set a snare for it. Now I’m going to see if I have caught it.]

Later, the Duke of Oxford explains the meaning of Jehan’s enigmatic words to an uncomprehending Gloucester: “Après, quant de vous se parti, Et vous li eüstes parti Que avoeques vous s’en venist U son afaire vous deïst, Il vous en dist sans longe atent Le voir; car il avoit fait tente A ma ﬁlle bien a un an. Et pour chou vous dist il qu’antan Ot une bouresce tendue, S’i aloit mettre sa veüe S’il avoit pris un esprevier, Por coi il l’eut faite drechier. La boresche si seneﬁe L’amor que il a a s’amie, Pour cui amour tendre devoit S’amour au jour que pris avoit. Ma ﬁlle, c’est li espriviers . . .” (ll. 3297–3313) [After, when he took leave of you, and you made him choose between accompanying him or telling him your business, he told you nothing but the truth; for a year ago, he set a trap for my daughter. That’s why he told you he had once set a snare and was going to check whether he had caught the sparrowhawk that he had set it for. The trap is his love for his lady, for love of her he was to return on the day they had agreed. The sparrowhawk is my daughter.]

Sylvie Lécuyer has pointed out that Philippe de Remy overlays two literary motifs in this episode: the ‘gabs’ or riddles belonging to the tradition of ‘double entendre’ in literary works such as the Gesta Romanorum and the Horn, and the corrupted ‘fastrouillant’ of an AngloSaxon speaking French.22 She contends that although the language is not nonsensical in itself, Philippe uses it as an instrument of confusion rather than communication through Gloucester’s errors in French homonyms, Gloucester’s and Jehan’s diﬀerent levels of speech, and Gloucester’s voice re-telling Jehan’s riddles. Lécuyer thus argues that Philippe uses language in such a way as to subvert its normal

22

Art. cit., partie III, “Subversion du langage”, pp. 161–65.

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

159

function. Clearly, yet again Philippe is using language as a narrative strategy in order to distinguish the characters in his romance.

Uncourtly Language In contrast to Jehan’s sophisticated French that allows him to indulge in linguistic trickery, Gloucester’s Anglo-Norman dialect becomes, as Elisabeth Schulze-Busacker has observed, “a topos of stupid behaviour”.23 The contrast between the two rivals’ language is encapsulated in their ﬁrst encounter: Pour sa robe, qu’il [Gloucester]vit franchoise, Li sambla nes devers Pontoise, Si vaut a lui parler franchois, Mais sa langue torne en Englois. (ll. 2633–36) [When (Gloucester) noticed ( Jehan’s) French style of dress, he thought he must come from Pontoise, so he tries to speak French to him, but his language becomes English.]

With the words, “Mais sa langue torne en Englois”, Philippe also points to a linguistic characteristic common to the bilingual speaker, namely interference between the two languages. Interestingly, these are the same words as those used in the fabliau De deux Angloys et de l’anel, which relies for its humour on the Englishmen’s inability to distinguish in speech production between the phonemes n and n mouillé, so that they dine on anel (donkey meat) instead of agnel (lamb).24 Ordering the meat, the Englishman tries to speak French: Son bon li velt dire en françois,/Mais la langue torne à englois (ll. 11–12) [He wants to converse with him in French but his language becomes English]. Like Gloucester’s, the Englishman’s French is interspersed with words in English: Le preudom a mis à raison Au mielx qu’il onques pot parler; Mais onc tant ne s’i sot garder Que n’i entrelardast l’anglois. Ainsi farsisoit le françois . . . (ll. 34–38) 23

Art. cit., p. 39. Anatole de Montaiglon et Gaston Raynaud, Recueil général et complet des fabliaux des XIII e et XIV e siècles, ed. Anatole de Montaiglon and Gaston Raynaud (1887; rpt. New York, NY: Burt Franklin, Vol. 2), pp. 178–182. 24

160

  [The man spoke as best he could but he could never prevent himself from mixing English words in with the French.]

Recent studies of language-mixing in the written texts of Medieval England have demonstrated that code switching may represent a deliberate communicative function.25 However, this is clearly not the case in the fabliau, for the shopkeeper cannot understand him: “Que as-tu,” fait-il, “fastroillant? Ge ne sai quel mal fez tu diz: Va t’en, que tes cors soit honiz! (ll. 48–50) [“Why are you talking such nonsense?,” he said. “I don’t know what bad deeds you are talking about. Get out, shame on you!”]

Similarly, Gloucester’s poor performance in French can only be regarded as a hindrance to communication and must be viewed as linguistic incompetence. Gloucester’s untutored and inadequate French, interspersed with English words, mirrors his lack of courtliness and his bad grammar reﬂects his bad manners as he mocks Jehan: Amis, bien fustes vous vené! Coment fu vostre non pelé? ... Gautier? Diable! ce fu non sot. (ll. 2639–40, 2643) [Welcome, friend! What is your name? . . . Gautier? Hell, that’s a silly name.]

In the lines just quoted are examples of the extension of the ﬁrst conjugation of verbs in -er to other conjugations, as in vené for venu and the loss of the preﬁx in the verb appelé. Elsewhere, Gloucester often uses the inﬁnitive in place of the conjugated verb and disjunctive rather than personal pronouns; he uses the wrong gender for nouns, even with simple, everyday words, saying la rire for le rire, le bon sottise for la bonne sottise; in addition to omitting preﬁxes from verbs ( pelé for appelé, garder for regarder, briter for abriter) he does not pronounce certain phonemes, especially r and n mouillé (su for sur, prende for prendre, companons for compagnons). The most ﬂagrant example of his mispronunciation comes when he refers to Blonde as a pourcel (‘little pig’) instead of a pucelle (‘maiden’).

25 See, for example, Herbert Schendel, “Linguistic Aspects of Code-Switching in Medieval English Texts” in Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain pp. 77–92.

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

161

What are the causes of this lack of proﬁciency in French? Of the sociolinguistic variables commonly acknowledged as inﬂuencing ways of speaking, neither wealth nor social class nor gender can be considered signiﬁcant factors, for in all these respects Gloucester can be compared to Blonde’s father, the Earl of Oxford. However, such linguistic incompetence is not merely idiosyncratic; Gloucester’s exchanges with Jehan and later with the Earl of Oxford evidence many of the irregularities and discrepancies of morphology, syntax, vocabulary and pronunciation of thirteenth-century Anglo-Norman that made the dialect a common target for French mockery.26 They are also found in the speech imputed to the two Englishmen in the fabliau; in fact, among the phonemic characteristics that the latter share with Gloucester is the systematic substitution of [u] for the standard [y] and the consequent mispronunciation of the past tense of the common verb to be [ fy] as [ fu], from the very vulgar verb foutre.27 Discussing the literary heritage of diglossic languages, Schiﬀman observes that works are invariably composed in the high variety, while the use of the inferior variety is restricted to dialect poetry, advertising, or “low” genres: In most diglossic languages . . . the existence of L [low] variety is sometimes denied or it is claimed to be spoken only by lesser mortals (servants, women, children). In some traditions (e.g., Shakespeare’s plays), L variety would be used to show certain characters as rustic, comical, uneducated, etc.28

Like the anonymous authors of the fabliau De deux Angloys and the Roman de Renart, Philippe de Remy is evidently exploiting the diglossic situation, whereby the low variety of French spoken in England is measured against francien, the most prestigious dialect of the speech community, with comic eﬀect. Indeed, Gloucester’s ignorance of the 26 Dufournet devotes a section of his article “Philippe de Remy ou l’expérience de la limite” to the six linguistic traits that Philippe de Remy includes in Gloucester’s speech: barbarisms (or solecisms), confusion of gender, confusion of verb moods and tenses, errors in word order (art. cit., pp. 192–3). Dufournet does not, however, identify these idiosyncracies as characteristic of Anglo-Norman. The Anglo-Norman dialect is discussed extensively in M. K. Pope, From Latin to Modern French, with Especial Consideration of Anglo-Norman (Manchester: University of Manchester Press, 1952). 27 “La confusion est imputée à la mauvaise prononciation des Anglais, qui ne manquent pas du reste de confondre les conjugaisons françaises (querer, mirer, pour querir, merir, v. 29 et 30), et ne connaissent guère le genre des substantifs qu’ils emploient.” Montaiglon et Raynaud, Vol. 2, p. 332. 28 Schiﬀman, art. cit., p. 207.

162

 

standard language norms of French, his “faus franceis d’Angletere”, characterizes him as a buﬀoon who will inevitably lose Blonde to his more intelligent and courtly rival from France, with superior skills in language—and in love. Ultimately, it is Gloucester’s inability to understand Jehan’s riddles that leads to his undoing and reveals him to be not only fatuous and boastful but also vengeful and vicious, ﬂaws that become evident in his pursuit of Jehan and Blonde. It is signiﬁcant that he is so angry on learning that the young couple has run away together that initially he is rendered speechless: “Si li fait ire le cuer fondre/Qu’en grant piece ne puet respondre” (ll. 3355–56). [His heart is so full of wrath that for a long time he is incapable of replying.] When he ﬁnally does respond, his words are dictated by humiliation and spite rather than love of Blonde. Not only will he catch Jehan and hang him from two stakes but he will force Blonde to watch, and then he will cast her into prison until she repents of her misdeeds. Later, he spends the night imagining how he will torture Jehan and put him to death. Alerted that Jehan is about to escape by sea, Gloucester rides furiously ahead of his men to tackle him but despite having the better horse and armour, he is wounded and unseated by his young adversary, who rides oﬀ triumphantly on Gloucester’s mount. As Gloucester lies on the ground, Blonde further humiliates him by stating that he will never enjoy her love and chastizing him, a count, for stooping to ﬁght a squire. A second time, Gloucester is rendered speechless, unable to reply to Blonde’s critique: “Mais nul mot ne li respondi;/Si est dolans ne puet mot dire” (ll. 4210–11). [But not a word did he utter in reply; he is so heavy-hearted that he cannot say a word.] Gloucester is unable to speak and powerless to act. The wealthy aristocrat who covets Blonde as his wife is humbled by Jehan, who has little more to oﬀer her than his language and his love. The powerful nobleman, despite his hundred men-at-arms, his mighty warhorse and the ﬁnest armour, cannot defeat Jehan who has but his servant Robin and the boat’s captain to help him. In the end, Gloucester is vanquished on all counts, an outcome that is foreshadowed by his discourse: at the best of times, he is inarticulate and virtually incomprehensible for he cannot speak French, and at the worst of times he cannot speak at all. Clearly, Philippe de Remy’s courtly romance Jehan et Blonde reﬂects the sociolinguistic situation of French in thirteenth-century England, with a cast of characters who either had the advantage of learning

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

163

the language in France or the occasion to learn it at home or at school. But language does not fulﬁll a purely mimetic function, it is not simply one of the components allowing Philippe to construct a textual world patterned closely on reality, a land akin to France but suﬃciently distinctive to be interesting and even exotic to a French audience. Language is also used as a fundamental distinguishing characteristic, an acoustic sign that allows Philippe’s cast of characters to be recognized and appreciated by the reader or listener. It is one of the narrative strategies that Philippe uses to shape his romance and enhance its reception, for as we have shown, the horizon of expectations of a thirteenth-century French audience comprised a deﬁnite set of norms and criteria. These included the linguistic norm of Pontoise or “Parisian” French, the assumption that good language separated the cultured man from the unlettered, and the conviction that of all the dialects of French, Anglo-Norman was the most inferior. “. . . Anglo-Norman seems to have been a coarse deformation of French,” asserts Short, “and to speak it was a sign both of intellectual ignorance and of social inferiority.”29 Douglas Kelly ascribed Philippe’s romances to the sub-group “roman rose”, sentimental romances that he considers as “the most original sub-genre in thirteenth-century romance . . . Like twelfth-century nonArthurian romance, they experiment with narrative forms and themes.”30 By foregrounding language as an essential element of the discourse of characterization, Philippe employs a narrative strategy that is rare in medieval romance but remarkably eﬀective. “Satirical simplicity or rhetorical exaggeration cannot be the only reason for the absence of a real linguistic interest among Northern French works of the 13th century”, says Schulze-Busacker. “Poetry or narrative texts may not provide the best background for linguistic considerations, but a poet describing a foreign accent should be able to distinguish its characteristics, and this is certainly true for gifted authors like Jean Renart and Philippe de Beaumanoir.”31 In fact, Philippe’s knowledge of the French language spoken in England and the ways in which it was learned, together with the descriptions of the geography of England and Scotland and the detailed itineraries of journeys between those countries and France, conﬁrm the 29 30 31

Short, art. cit., p. 472. Medieval French Romance (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1993), p. 66. Schulze-Busacker, art. cit., p. 39.

164

 

supposition that he spent some time in that country during his youth.32 Philippe capitalizes on his knowledge of the sociolinguistic situation of French in thirteenth-century England in establishing the discourse of characterization. Within the terms of a diglossic situation comprising high and low varieties of French, Jehan’s language is a mark of his superiority as much as his courtly behaviour and skill in ﬁghting, enabling him to turn his linguistic abilities to his advantage and to use language as a weapon in love and war. Conversely, his rival Gloucester’s incorrect and inferior form of the language marks him from the outset as a buﬀoon who will ultimately be vanquished. Philippe concludes his romance: “Jehans conquist par son savoir / S’amie et grant plenté d’avoir.” (ll. 6239–40) [Through his ability, Jehan won his lady and considerable wealth.] There can be no doubt that language plays a major role in Jehan’s success.

32 Some early scholars conjectured that Philippe crossed the Channel as the squire of Simon de Montfort, between 1261 and 1265 (see, for example, H.-L. Bordier, Philippe de Remi, Sire de Beaumanoir, jurisconsulte et poète national du Beauvaisis, 1246–1296 [1869; Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1980], pp. 30–33). However, it is now widely accepted that Philippe de Remy senior, man of letters, was the author of La Manekine (c. 1230) and Jehan et Blonde (c. 1240), and his son (also named Philippe) the man of laws and author of the Coutumes de Beauvaisis (terminus ad quem 1283). A recent summary of the family history and achievements of father and son is found in the introduction to Essays on the Poetic and Legal Writings of Philippe de Remy and his Son Philippe de Beaumanoir of Thirteenth-Century France, ed. Sarah-Grace Heller and Michelle Reichert (Lewiston, Queenston, Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, 2001). Most scholars base their supposition that Philippe senior visited England and Scotland on the internal evidence of the romances, speciﬁcally the accuracy of geographical details. This view has recently been challenged by Barbara Sargent-Baur, who states that “the town and/or castle” of “Evolint”/“Evolinc” (“Eluïc/Enluïc”), which cannot be situated on a real map or in the ﬁctional geography of La Manekine, and the highly elastic distances between Berwick and Dundee, suggest an imperfect acquaintance with that part of the world. These place-names, along with Dover, London and Oxford ﬁguring in Jehan et Blonde, could easily have been picked up from his reading” (op. cit., p. 78). F. R. P. Akehurst points out in his unpublished paper that his explanation of the riddles, namely that Philippe heard the jokes ﬁrst in English, adds further evidence in support of the hypothesis that Philippe visited England. Certainly, Philippe’s detailed knowledge of the French language in England, the range of abilities of the English speaking French and the way in which the language was learned, all indicate a familiarity with England that most likely comes from visiting that country.

    

JEHAN ET BLONDE

165

Works Cited Akehurst, F. R. P. “The Riddles at Last Explained.” Unpublished paper presented at the International Medieval Congress at the University of Leeds in England, July 9–13, 1996. Bordier, H.-L. Philippe de Remi, Sire de Beaumanoir, jurisconsulte et poète national du Beauvaisis, 1246–1296. 1869. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1980. Brand, Paul. “The Languages of the Law.” Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain. Ed. D. A. Trotter. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2000. 63–76. Bruneau, Charles. Petite Histoire de la langue française. Vol. 1. Paris: Armand Colin, 1955. Calin, William. The French Tradition and the Literature of Medieval England. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994. Chaurand, Jacques. Histoire de la langue française. 8th ed. Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1996. Coulmas, Florian, ed. The Handbook of Sociolinguistics. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Inc., 1997; paperback edition, 1998. Crespo, Begona. “Historical Background of Multilingualism and its impact on English.” Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain. Ed. D. A. Trotter. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2000. 23–35. Dor, Juliette. “Langues française et anglaise, et multilinguisme à l’époque d’Henri II Plantagenêt.” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 38. 1–2 (1994): 61–72. Dufournet, Jean, ed. Un roman à découvrir: Jehan et Blonde de Philippe de Remy (XIII e siècle). Geneva: Slatkine, 1991. ——. “Philippe de Remy ou l’expérience de la limite.” Un roman à découvrir: Jehan et Blonde de Philippe de Remy (XIII e siècle). Ed. Jean Dufournet. Geneva: Slatkine, 1991. 185–206. Harvey, Carol. “Medieval Methods and Materials for Teaching French in England.” Journal of the Rocky Mountain Medieval and Renaissance Association. 5 (1984): 57–67. ——. “L’anglais bouﬀon dans la littérature médiévale. Le bouﬀon dans les lettres françaises. Eds. Michel Bareau and Judith Spencer. Parabasis 6. Edmonton, Alberta: Alta Press Inc., 1998. 119–125. Heller, Sarah-Grace, and Michelle Reichert, eds. Essays on the Poetic and Legal Writings of Philippe de Remy and his Son Philippe de Beaumanoir of Thirteenth-Century France. Lewiston: The Edwin Mellen Press, 2001. Kelly, Douglas. Medieval French Romance. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1993. Lécuyer, Sylvie. “Les jeux de l’écriture dans Jehan et Blonde: un art de trompe-l’oeil.” Un roman à découvrir: Jehan et Blonde de Philippe de Remy (XIII e siècle). Ed. Jean Dufournet. Geneva: Slatkine, 1991. 141–169. MacBain, William. “The Outsider at Court, Or What is So Strange About the Stranger?” The Court and Cultural Diversity. Selected Papers from the Eighth Triennial Congress of the International Courtly Literature Society, 1995. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1997. Montaiglon, Anatole de et Gaston Raynaud. Recueil général et complet des fabliaux des XIII e et XIV e siècles, 1887; rpt. New York: Burt Franklin. Vol. 2. 178–182. Owen, A. Le traité de Walter de Bibbesworth. 1929. Geneva: Slatkine, 1977. Pope, M. K. From Latin to Modern French, with Especial Consideration of Anglo-Norman. Manchester: University of Manchester Press, 1952. Richter, Michael. Sprache und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter. Untersuchungen zur mündlichen Kommunikation in England von der Mitte des elften bis zum Beginn des vierzehnten Jahrhunderts. Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1979. Rothwell, William. “The Teaching of French in Medieval England.” Modern Language Review 63 (1968): 37–46. ——. “The Role of French in Thirteenth-Century England.” Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library 58 (1976): 445–466.

166

 

Sargent-Baur, Barbara, ed. La Manekine. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1999. Schendel, Herbert. “Linguistic Aspects of Code-Switching in Medieval English Texts.” Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain. Ed. D. A. Trotter. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2000. Schiﬀman, Harold F. “Diglossia as a Sociolinguistic Situation.” The Handbook of Sociolinguistics. Ed. Florian Coulmas. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Inc., 1997; paperback edition, 1998. 205–216. Schulze-Busacker. “French Conceptions of Foreigners and Foreign Languages in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries.” Romance Philology 41. 1 (August 1987): 24–47. Short, Ian. “On Bilingualism in Anglo-Norman England.” Romance Philology 33.4 (May 1980): 467–79. Södergµard, Ö., ed. La Vie d’Edouard le Confesseur. Uppsala, 1948. ll. 7–10. Suchier, H., ed. Les oeuvres poétiques de Philippe de Remi, sire de Beaumanoir. 2 vols. Paris: Firmin Didot, 1884; rpt. New York: Johnson Reprint Corporation, 1966. Trotter, D. A., ed. Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2000.

WAYS OF USING ABUSIVE LANGUAGE IN LA CELESTINA* Lourdes Albuixech

In his milestone study The Art of ‘La Celestina,’ amidst all the qualities of Rojas’s work, Stephen Gilman estimates dialogue to be unique. Indeed, action is carried out through dialogue, and it is with the aid of the spoken word that characters struggle to survive and to attain what they want (albeit their verbal skills will not always render them success). In order to achieve “realismo dialogístico” [dialogistic realism] (Severin Introducción 1987, 26), both the author of the ﬁrst act and Rojas in his own consecutive additions had to incorporate base and abusive language into the characters’ discourse. Notwithstanding Rojas’s attempts in the Prologue (added as threshold to the Tragicomedia version) at persuading the audience of the didactic quality of the dramatized novela, he had to admit in one of the preliminary texts which already appeared alongside the Comedia, namely the letter to his friend, that he had found himself greatly amused by the mix of maxims and witticisms in the ﬁrst act:

* This chapter is a revised version of a previous paper titled “Insultos, pullas y vituperios en La Celestina,” presented at the 36th International Congress on Medieval Studies (Kalamazoo, MI, 2001), and which recently appeared in Celestinesca 25 (2001): 57–68. For readers not familiar with La Celestina, it may be helpful to know that this dramatized romance is about Calisto, a Castilian nobleman, who falls in love with Melibea, a young woman also of noble rank. In order to win her over, he entrusts the go-between Celestina. To this end, he makes use of his servant Sempronio. Calisto’s other servant, Pármeno, initially opposes the use of Celestina as the matchmaker, but moved by greed he ends up encouraging his master to follow through with his plan. At ﬁrst, Melibea rejects Calisto, but in the end she admits to Celestina that she is madly in love with him. The bawd arranges an initial meeting between them. Calisto pays her well for her services. The two servants, Pármeno and Sempronio, also want a part of the payment. However, Celestina is unwilling to share the reward, and is thus killed by the two servants, who also die soon after. Calisto and Melbea’s rendezvous continue. Meanwhile, Areúsa and Elicia, two young prostitutes, friends of Celestina, and also Pármeno and Sempronio’s lovers, plot to kill Calisto with the help of Centurio (one of Areúsa’s clients). This plan never comes to fruition due to Centurio’s cowardice. Nonetheless, Calisto dies tragically when he falls on his head while visiting Melibea. In shock and in desperation, Melibea commits suicide despite her father’s pleas. In the ﬁnal act (Act XXI), Pleberio, the young lady’s father, laments the loss of his daughter.

168

  Y como mirasse su primor, su sotil artiﬁcio, . . ., le´ylo tres o quatro vezes, y tantas quantas más lo le´ya, tanta más necessidad me ponía de releerlo y tanto más me agradava, y en su processo nuevas sentencias sentía. Vi no sólo ser dulce en su principal ystoria o ﬁción toda junta, pero aun de algunas sus particularidades salían delectables fontezicas de ﬁlosophía, de otros agradables donayres, de otros avisos y consejos. . . . (69–70) [And as I was aware of its [the work’s] exquisiteness, of its subtle artfulness, . . ., I read it three or four times, and the more I read it, the more I felt the need to reread it and the more it pleased me, and in it I found more maxims. I saw that not only was it sweet in its main story or in its ﬁction altogether, but that out of some parts came delightful fountains of philosophy, out of others agreeable pleasantries, out of others warnings and advice. . . .] 1

Which is probably why, he goes on to declare in the acrostic lines, when he embarked on his own creation, he craftily gilded “el ﬁn de aquesto que escrivo” [the message of that which I am writing] with “oro de lata” [tin gold ] or with “mill abrojos” [a thousand burrs], such as “dichos lascivos, rientes” [lascivious, funny sayings] (73), which will undoubtedly make the work’s reception an agreeable one. While the metaphorical articulation of the Horatian delectare prodesse (found in many medieval works)2 would readily suggest a serious, didactic undertone to the piece (a reading championed by Bataillon), it is important to note that Rojas’s intention, both in the diegesis and in the extradiegetical texts that frame it, is still elusive to most critics.3 I will not try here to elucidate this mystery. To be sure, my

1

All the translations from La Celestina are mine. In his Horacio en España, Menéndez Pelayo asserts that “No con traducciones, sino con imitaciones empezó a manifestarse entre nosotros la inﬂuencia horaciana, al revés de lo que aconteció con otros clásicos. Horacio fue de los poetas latinos menos saboreados en la Edad Media, y hasta muy entrado el siglo XV apenas encontramos reminiscencias de sus ideas y estilo” [Horatian inﬂuence began to manifest itself among us (i.e. Spaniards) not with translations, but with imitations, contrary to what happened with other classical authors. Horace was one of the Latin poets less savored in the Middle Ages, and until well into the ﬁfteenth century one can seldom ﬁnd any remnants of his ideas and style] (11, my translation). One of the most common metaphors used to articulate the idea of a didactic message hidden behind a delightful surface is that of the sweetened pill, which Rojas also utilizes in the acrostic lines: “Como el doliente que píldora amarga/o la rescela o no puede tragar,/métenla dentro del dulce manjar,/engáñase el gusto, la salud se alarga” [As it happens with the ailing one, who is suspicious of or is unable to swallow a bitter pill, so they wrap it in some sweet delicacy, thereby deceiving the taste, and lengthening the person’s health] (73). Another common metaphor is that of the meollo [heart] and corteza [bark], as seen in Gonzalo de Berceo’s introduction to Milagros de Nuestra Señora. 3 Gilman believes in the ironic nature of the work, and that Rojas’s true inten2

     

LA CELESTINA

169

intention is to focus solely on the delectare or dulce part of the equation. Humor is no doubt one way to sweeten the pill. In fact, the humorous side of La Celestina was obvious to Rojas’s contemporary readers or listeners.4 As Severin, a pioneer among contemporary critics in trying to restore the essential role of comicity in La Celestina, has noted on numerous occasions (Humor, Parodia Introducción), the presence of verbal humor, parody, comical devices borrowed from Roman and Latin humanist comedy, and satire in the work is pervasive (Humor). According to her, verbal humor is achieved through “the use of sententiae and old saws, dirty jokes and puns, sarcasm and academic jests, and what has been designated the rise and fall of speech levels, from lofty rhetoric to a more realistic type of speech” (277). I would like to add to all of these aspects the use of coarse or rude language as a rhetorical device to attain humorous and other results. Coarse language, including insults, swearing, cursing, pullas [ gibes], vituperation, abomination, execration, etc., abounds in La Celestina, although it seems to subside as the piece approaches the end.5 tion is to be found in Pleberio’s planctus. Every statement regarding morality (in the acrostic lines, in the letter to a friend, or in the síguese) is purely conventional (Spain, 357–67). Severin, seeing a contradiction between the intention as stated in the Comedia and the Tragicomedia—the latter being more moralistic—concludes that, at least originally, Rojas’s motivation was “de orden artístico y estético fundamentalmente, y que lo que pretendía era escribir un relato que deleitase, y al mismo tiempo desencantase, a los sufridos amadores” [mainly of artistic and aesthetic order, and that what he intended was to write a story that delighted, and at the same time disenchanted, the suﬀering lovers, my translation] (Introducción, 25), although he seems to have become frightened later on, thus adding hints about a proper reading of the piece in the Tragicomedia. See also Gaylord’s interesting discussion of this problem (20–24). 4 In his Prologue to the Tragicomedia, Rojas comments on the disparate reception that the Comedia has had among its readership and audience so far. Some, he argues, pay attention to the utile side of the work, whereas others take pleasure in the donayres [ pleasantries] and “ríen lo donoso” [laugh at the amusing] (80). Both Rojas’s words “Assí que quando diez personas se juntaren a oír esta comedia” [thus, whenever ten people gather to listen to this comedy] (80–81, my emphasis) as well as the corrector Alonso de Proaza’s in the postliminary verses, “Si amas y quieres a mucha atención/leyendo a Calisto mover los oyentes” [if you love and you want to move the listeners to pay attention, while reading the part of Calisto] (345, my emphasis) seem to attest to the fact that “Like the Latin humanist comedies, the Celestina was written for a vocalized and dramatized reading, but nonetheless a reading for solo voice intended for a small and select audience” (Chartier 104). 5 But even in the very last act one can ﬁnd Pleberio using language as a vehicle through which to vent his rage and sorrow. Thus, some of his plaints against the World include: “un laberinto de errores, un desierto spantable, una morada de ﬁeras, juego de hombres que andan en corro, laguna llena de cieno, región llena de spinas, monte alto, campo pedregoso, prado lleno de serpientes, huerto ﬂorido y sin fruto, fuente de cuydados, río de lágrimas, mar de miserias, trabajo sin

170

 

Following Bakhtin’s suit,6 we will refer to this kind of speech as ‘language of the marketplace.’ This is deﬁned as “almost a language of its own, quite unlike the language of the Church, palace, courts, and institutions. It was also unlike the tongue of oﬃcial literature or of the ruling classes—the aristocracy, the nobles, the high-ranking clergy and the top burghers—though the elemental force of the folk idiom penetrated even these circles” (154). The use of terms of abuse was already characteristic of Latin comedy, of elegiac comedy and of humanist comedy,7 as Lilja, Lida de Malkiel and Canet Vallés, among others, have explained.8 However, it is in La Celestina where the most perfect symbiosis between vulgar and elevated styles is attained. The inﬂuence that mercantile language9 had in La Celestina can be appreciated from the outset of the Comedia version, the letter to a friend. In order to “sell” his remedy against worldly love, an endemic illness which aﬄicts even his protector and friend, Rojas praises in hyperbolic terms (which might mask a certain sarcasm) the medicine, the textualized anti-love weaponry, “no fabricadas en las grandes herrerías de Milán, mas en los claros ingenios de doctos varones castellanos formadas” [ fabricated not in the great blacksmith

provecho, dulce ponçoña, vana esperança, falsa alegría, verdadero dolor” [a labyrinth of errors, a frightening desert, a wild animal dwelling, a game of men who stand in a circle, a mud-ﬁlled lagoon, a thorn-ﬁlled region, a high hill, a stony ﬁeld, a prairie full of snakes, a ﬂowerﬁlled yet fruitless orchard, a source of worries, a river of tears, a sea of miseries, labor without proﬁt, sweet poison, useless hope, fake happiness, true pain] (338). As Severin explains, this vision of a World turned upside-down derives from Petrarch’s Epistles (Introducción, 338, n. 10). 6 The Spanish expression “habla como una verdulera” [speaks like a greengrocer], used to this day, meaning that someone is foulmouthed, seems to attest the kind of language encountered at the marketplace. 7 The relationship between Roman comedy and La Celestina is fully examined by Castro Guisasola and by Grismer. María Rosa Lida de Malkiel analyzed in great detail the inﬂuence that Latin, elegiac, and humanist comedies had in Fernando de Rojas’s work. 8 Saara Lilja studies in particular the use of abusive terms in the comedies of Plautus and Terence. Speaking of elegiac comedy, María Rosa Lida de Malkiel mentions, for instance, the “rude jokes directed at the master” (36). José Luis Canet Vallés refers to the “lenguaje tipiﬁcado y medio burlesco, en el que se basa gran parte de la comicidad” [typiﬁed and half-burlesque language, in which a great part of the humor is based ] (26) that can be found in Latin humanist comedy and in works such as the Corbacho. 9 In her excellent study “Fair of the World, Fair of the Word: The Commerce of Language in La Celestina,” Gaylord examines the “endless series of transactions” (2) that take place in the work through language.

     

LA CELESTINA

171

shops from Milan, but in the bright brains of learned Castilian men] (69), as well as the style of the text “jamás en nuestra castellana lengua visto ni o´ydo” [never in our Castilian language seen or heard ] (69). Not only the extreme praises, but also the fact of oﬀering such an impassioned remedy—a masterpiece—to ﬁght against such a base and annoying disease as love, recreate “that special marketplace atmosphere in which the exalted and the lowly . . . are leveled and are all drawn into the same dance” (Bakhtin 160).10 We ﬁnd in the preliminary letter the traditional combination of art and medicine; the literary work is proclaimed as a text which does not only entertain and is ‘sweet’, but which can also heal.11 This becomes more ironic when, at the end of the piece, Pleberio reminds the implicit audience about the power of love, from whose “congoxosa dança” [ painful dance] (342), which is not ﬁnicky regarding age or social status of people, it is almost impossible to escape. Following Petrarch’s De remediis utriusque fortunae, Rojas states in the prologue to the Tragicomedia that everything in the world—the elements, animals, ﬁsh, birds, and men—lives in a continuous state of war.12 Moreover, this natural conﬂict inﬂuences the opinions of the readers regarding the text, “dando cada uno sentencia sobre ella a sabor de su voluntad” [each one judging it, according to their own will ] (80). The entire ﬁnal part of the prologue was penned by Rojas, and its central axis seems to be the word: some praise (loan), others laugh (ríen), others criticize (critican), others add summaries (ponen sumarios) to the beginning of each act, others dispute (litigan), others insist (importunan) that the love aﬀair be lengthened. Even Rojas dissents from some of these comments: “Unos les roen los huessos que no tienen virtud, que es la hystoria toda junta, no aprovechándose de las particularidades, haziéndola cuento de camino; otros pican los donayres y refranes comunes, loándolos con toda atención, dexando passar por alto 10 It is interesting to note that this reading of the preliminary letter would be in agreement with Dorothy Severin’s theory regarding the greater laxity of the Comedia in relation to the Tragicomedia. 11 Regarding the relationship between literature and medicine, see Michael R. Solomon, The Literature of Misogyny in Medieval Spain: The Arcipreste de Talavera and The Spill. 12 As Gilman states in The Spain of Fernando de Rojas, “Awareness of life as warfare, warfare ranging from major clashes of nations and cultures through the minor skirmishes and aggressions which make up the texture of human existence, to the historyless ferocity of the animal world, was, thus, at once a theme of La Celestina and a fundamental part of the experience of being a converso” (186).

172

 

lo que haze más al caso y utilidad suya” [Some gnaw at the bones, which have no virtue, for that is in the whole story. They do not avail themselves of the particulars, and take it as some mere traveler’s tale. Others focus on the witty pleasantries and proverbs known to all, praising them to high heaven, but neglecting what would really be most pertinent and useful to them] (80, my emphasis). The word becomes, thus, one more instrument of warfare. It can be used both to praise and to oﬀend, and can be interpreted in inﬁnite ways. Speaking about the use of proverbs in La Celestina, Gaylord maintains that, “proverbs actually owe their success and their survival to their remarkable contextual ﬂexibility” (16). The same can easily be asserted about insults and abusive language in general. Their placement, application, and context will determine their meaning. To be sure, in a recent account of the occurrences of the ass and the dog in La Celestina, Severin concludes that, “The ass is used systematically as a term of abuse and has connotations of stupidity and lust. Although the dog can occasionally represent positive qualities like wisdom, it more often is also a negative and derogatory image. Dogs represent danger and treachery, and in the worst case, the diabolical hounds of hell” (Animals 114). Among the most pervasive terms of abuse found in La Celestina are torpe [wretch ], maldito [damned ], loco [crazy], ﬁ de puta [son of a bitch], necio [ fool ], traidor [traitor], puto [rogue], malvado [evil man], simple [simpleton], vellaco [villain], bovo [ fool ], desvariado [nonsensical man], and asno [ jackass]. By virtue of the shiftiness of their meaning, one needs to pay close attention to the situation in which they are uttered, to whom the utterer and the addressee(s) might be, and even to what might the speaker’s intentions be. Thus, the meaning of Sempronio’s “loco está este mi amo” [crazy my master is] (92), spoken as an aside to describe Calisto and in reaction to the latter’s description of his suﬀering in hyperbolic terms, diﬀers from Celestina’s “essa loca” [that crazy woman] (105) used in reference to Elicia in order to deceive Sempronio into believing that there is no male client upstairs awaiting the young prostitute; and these two utterances of the word loco/a [crazy] are in no way comparable to Celestina’s use of the same term with a suﬃx to address Pármeno several times when trying to win him over: “¡Neciuelo, loquito, angelico, perlica, simplezico! . . . Llégate acá, putico, que no sabes nada del mundo ni de sus deleytes” [You little fool, little crazy man, little angel, little pearl, little simpleton! . . . Come over here, little rogue, because you know nothing about

     

LA CELESTINA

173

the world or about its delights] (118), or “¿Acuérdaste cuando dormías a mis pies, loquito?” [Do you remember when you used to sleep at my feet, you little crazy one? ] (120).13 In point of fact, when considering abusive words that appear with a suﬃx such as -illo (loquillo, asnillo, vellaquillo, putillo, bovillo [little crazy one, little jackass, little villain, little rogue, little fool ]), -ito (loquito [little crazy one]), -ico (simplezico, putico [little simpleton, little rogue]), or -uelo (neciuelo [little fool ]), because such aﬃxes reduce considerably the potential negative charge of the words they are attached to, they serve to illustrate the “jocular, softly oﬀensive or simply aﬀectionate uses” of insults (De Dios Luque et al. 17, my translation). This ludic use of insults is purely carnivalesque. Its primary function is neither to oﬀend nor to instill laughter, but mainly to socialize. Such terms become ambivalent, since they simultaneously degrade and ﬂatter, questioning the mental faculties of the interlocutor and at the same time establishing a bond between him and the oﬀender.14 Of all the characters, the one who best illustrates this carnivalesque or festive use of insults is doubtless the old bawd. Celestina

13 In his Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, Covarrubias gives the following deﬁnitions of the term loco: “El hombre que ha perdido su juicio;” “vacío, sin seso;” “no ﬁrme;” “si [el hombre] es muy hablador, decimos comúnmente ser un loco” [A man who has lost his judgment; someone empty, with no brains; unsteady; if [a man] is too talkative, we commonly say that he is crazy]. Covarrubias considers madness to be an illness caused by “la cólera adusta” [severe anger]. In the ﬁrst example quoted (that is, when Sempronio applies the term to Calisto), the sense is “lack of judgment;” on the other hand, when Celestina names Elicia loca she seems to refer to the fact that the young prostitute talks too much, and that, therefore, she should not be taken seriously. 14 Pancracio Celdrán explains that the word ‘torpe’ [clumsy] from the Latin turpis, is very old and is already found in the Cantar de Mio Cid; ‘maldito’ [damned ] is also very old, and it is documented in the Libro de Alexandre; of equal antiquity is ‘loco’ [crazy], which appears in Castilian since the origins of the language (the word is used already by Berceo and by Sem Tob de Carrión); the term ‘hideputa’ [son of a bitch], which had been a serious insult, became in the ﬁfteenth century an “exclamación ponderativa sin intención de injuria” [exclamation of praise without intent to injure] (141, my translation); ‘necio’ [ fool ] is also an old term; ‘puto’ [rogue] was a serious and frequent insult in the ﬁfteenth century; ‘simple’ [simpleton] appears already in Berceo; ‘vellaco’ (or ‘bellaco’) [villain], a term that tends to accompany as a mutual reinforcement the word ‘hideputa’ [son of a bitch], appears already in the Libro de buen amor and was considered a serious insult “cuando se dirigía a persona de condición y respeto, y no entre ruﬁanes o criados” [whenever it was addressed to a person of status, and not between ruﬃans or servants] (22, my translation); ‘bobo’ [ fool ] began to be used in Castilian “hacia ﬁnales del siglo XV” [near the end of the ﬁfteenth century] (27, my translation); the use of the term ‘asno’ [ jackass] is documented according to Celdrán ca. the year 1000.

174

 

is aware of the liberating or therapeutic function of insults. She knows well that through the use of oﬀensive names, she can relieve or even completely destroy the tension that exists between some of the characters. As we have seen, during the ﬁrst act Celestina tries to resolve her diﬀerences with Pármeno by sprinkling her speech with expressions in which the oﬀensive is diluted amidst aﬀectionate diminutives, such as “neciuelo” [little fool ], “loquillo” [little crazy one], “simplezico” [little simpleton], “putico” [little rogue], “landrezilla” [little sore] (118), “vellaquillo” [little villain], “loquito” [little crazy one] (120). Similarly, she makes use of aﬀectionate insults—some with suﬃxes, some not—to win over Lucrecia in the fourth act (“loquilla” [little crazy woman] [169]), Sempronio in the ﬁfth (“loquillo” [little crazy man], “bovo” [ fool ] [173], “loco” [crazy man] [175]), and once again the pertinacious Pármeno during the seventh (“loquillo” [little crazy man] [193], “bovo” [ fool ] [199], “asno” [ jackass] [206]).15 Aside from this socializing function of insults, in La Celestina, some oﬀensive accusations and pullas are used to provoke laughter. They represent the easing of the tension of the action and form part of the comic or humorous side of the work. When Sempronio reminds his master about “lo de tu abuela con el ximio” [that business of your grandmother and the ape] (96), it is clear that the accusation does not go beyond being some inoﬀensive porrada (rubbish) for Calisto (“Maldito sea este necio, y qué porradas dize!” [Damned be this fool, and what rubbish he talks! ] [96]), a simple joke (according to Green) or a pulla (in Armistead and Silverman’s view), that in addition to stinging the master, would make the listener or reader laugh in Rojas’s time. The problem is that in modern times the meaning of this type of gag has been distorted, and critics have wanted to explain the joke in more serious terms (Menéndez Pelayo, Forcadas, Barbera, Burke).16

15 In the initial conversation that takes place between Celestina and Pármeno at the outset of Act VII, before winning the servant over by bribing him with Areúsa’s sexual favors, Pármeno reminds the procuress that relapsing into sin is bad: “del pecado lo peor es la perseverançia” (198). This statement triggers a comment uttered by the bawd in the form of an aside: “(Lastimásteme, don loquillo; ¿a las verdades nos andamos? Pues espera, que yo te tocaré donde te duela)” [You hurt me, my young crazy lord. Are we speaking the truth? Then just wait, I’ll get you where it hurts] (198). This is the only instance of an aﬃxed insult (don loquillo) used not in an endearing way. The sarcastic use of don further marks the negative connotations of the vocative. 16 Otis H. Green believes that Sempronio’s comment is part of a medieval and Renaissance tradition that associates apes with carnal passion, and that therefore it can only be taken as a joke. Samuel Armistead and Joseph Silverman conﬁrm that

     

LA CELESTINA

175

Another example of the humorous use of the abusive can be appreciated when Sempronio arrives at Celestina’s place and Elicia welcomes him with the following words: “¡Ay, maldito seas, traydor! Postema y landre te mate17 y a manos de tus enemigos mueras y por crímenes dignos de cruel muerte en poder de rigurosa justicia te veas!” [Oh, you damned rogue! May you be killed by a sore and may your enemies kill you and the pitiless law hang you for all your wicked crimes! ] (105). These curses represent a sample of premonitory irony, since Sempronio will indeed end up at the hands of justice because of the crime carried out against Celestina. Moreover, they show some aftertaste of pullas, together with other curses that Elicia utters immediately after: “¡Nunca Dios te vea; nunca Dios te consuele ni visite!” [May God never look on you again! May God never give you any consolation this tradition was widely known in Spain. According to them, with this allusion to bestiality, Sempronio “echa una pulla” at Calisto (17, note 7). Alberto Forcadas contends, following Menéndez Pelayo, that the accusation harbors Calisto’s “difamación de la limpia sangre” [defamation of clean blood ] and that, more speciﬁcally, ‘ape’ really means ‘Jew.’ Finally, James Burke suggests that the passage might be inﬂuenced by two diﬀerent traditions, “that of the lover aﬀected by the object of his desire and the power of a woman’s imagination to impress an image of this object upon the fetus” (88). 17 This type of curse, “mala landre te coma” or “te mate” [May a bad sore consume or kill you], was of frequent use in the ﬁfteenth century, and thus is widely used in La Celestina:”¡Mala landre te mate; y cómo lo dice el desvergüençado!” [May a bad sore kill you! And how dare such a shameless one say it!] (120), “O intollerable pestilencia y mortal te consuma, rixoso, imbidioso, maldito!” [May an intolerable and mortal pest consume you, you furious, envious, damned man! ] (178), “¡De mala cançre sea comida esa boca desgraciada, enojoso!” [May a bad cancer devour that wretched mouth, you tiresome man! ] (229), “Landre me mate si no me espanto en verte tan ﬁero” [May a sore kill me if I don’t fear seeing you so ferocious] (269). Another frequent curse in the work is the one related to ﬁre: “¡Pues fuego malo te queme, que tan puta vieja era tu madre como yo!” [May a horrible ﬁre scorch you! Your mother was as much an old whore as I am! ] (120), says Celestina to Pármeno; “Quemada seas, alcahueta falsa” [I hope you’re burnt, you fake bawd ] (161), wishes Melibea for Celestina; “¡O mal fuego te abrase, que tú hablas en daño de todos y yo a ninguno oﬀendo!” [May a horrible ﬁre scorch you, because you speak in order to hurt everyone and I don’t oﬀend anyone! ] (178), says Sempronio to Pármeno. The longest string of curses is found in Act XV, when Elicia implores for the absent lovers Calisto and Melibea “mal ﬁn ayan vuestros amores, en mal sabor se conviertan vuestros dulçes plazeres; tórnese lloro vuestra gloria, trabajo vuestro descanso; las yervas delytosas donde tomáys los hurtados solazes se conviertan en culebras; los cantares se os tornen lloro; los sombrosos árboles del huerto se sequen con vuestra vista; sus ﬂores olorosas se tornen de negra color” [May your love meet a horrible end, may your sweet pleasures become bitter tastes; may your glory turn into tears, and your peaceful moments turn into labor; may the delightful grass where you enjoy your stolen solace turn into serpents; and your songs into tears; and may the shady trees in the orchard dry out when you look at them; and its fragrant ﬂowers turn black! ] (298).

176

 

or visit you! ] (105), “¡Ha, don malvado! ¿Verla quieres? ¡Los ojos se te salten!” [Ha, you nasty fellow! So you’d like to see her, would you? I hope your eyes fall out!] (106). As Wickersham Crawford has shown and as many dramatic texts from the sixteenth century prove, a game known as “echarse pullas” was then popular in Spain. It involved alternative exchanges of “personal and often obscene taunts in which one person wished for another all sorts of misfortunes, and sometimes were employed in connection with wedding festivities” (153). The participants in this type of game, once the end was reached, would simply walk away. While it is true that La Celestina lacks this alternating exchange of bad wishes, we do ﬁnd in this particular instance an erotic undertone, insults, curses and humor. Sempronio himself laughs when he hears his lover’s ﬁrst curses: “¡Hy, hy, hy! ¿Qué as, mi Elicia? ¿De qué te congoxas?” [Ho, ho, ho! What’s the matter with my Elicia? What’s upsetting you? ] (105). It is clear that for Sempronio Elicia’s curses form part of the game of love. His laughter reveals his joy when he ﬁnds himself being scolded by his lover and provides a clue to how the passage should be interpreted. Moreover, the reader or listener has twice as much fun because he or she can contemplate the irony through the apparent anger of the prostitute. Lilja points out that in Latin comedy “slaves are the principal ﬁgures in comic scenes of abuse. Incessantly abused by their masters, they ﬁnd a satisfactory compensation in abusing each other whenever the opportunity arises, and, moreover, [in abusing] those free people who are low enough on the social scale—such as procurers—and sometimes even the master, behind his back” (52). In La Celestina the servants and the bawd are the ones that make most use of the abusive language. As in Roman comedy, laughter arises on some occasions from instances in which the servants insult each other, abuse other socially inferior characters, and criticize their master behind his back. In the scene that opens Act VI, we ﬁnd these three aspects together, although not all of the abusive language found in the scene has an equal eﬀect. Sempronio damns and insults Pármeno: “¡O mal fuego te abrase, que tú hablas en daño de todos y yo a ninguno oﬀendo! ¡O intollerable pestilencia y mortal te consuma, rixoso, imbidioso, maldito! . . . ¡Vete de aquí a la mala ventura!” [May a horrible ﬁre scorch you, because you speak in order to hurt everyone and I don’t oﬀend anyone! May an intolerable and mortal pest consume you, you furious, envious, damned man! . . . Go to Hell! ] (178), because Pármeno has insulted the procuress, calling her “puta vieja” [old

     

LA CELESTINA

177

whore] (178). The young servant does not learn his lesson, and verbally attacks his master through asides, calling him “este loco,” “desatinado,” and “el perdido” [this crazy man, foolish, the deranged man] (180), earning more vituperation from his fellow servant, who labels him “maldiziente venenoso” [venomous slanderer] (180). Whereas Pármeno’s insults through asides against his master are mainly derisive, as they contribute to the ridicule of Calisto and thus to delight the audience, this same character’s derogatory reference to the bawd as well as his older fellow servant’s berating through a curse and a series of insults conform to an oﬀensive function. In other words, besides the endearing and socializing insults and the humorous expressions of abuse, in La Celestina a considerable number of terms and expressions are used with the intent to oﬀend or ill-treat. According to Brocato, “Celestina is completely immersed in language as performance” (110), and there are only a few instances of ‘sincere’ discourse uttered, “in the reprehension and ire of, say, Pármeno (uttered as a soliloquy), or of Melibea, and of Sempronio and Pármeno as they butcher Celestina” (110). It is noteworthy, thus, that of the three functions of abusive language discussed to this point, only those words used overtly to aﬀront would form part of that non-performative discourse. In addition, the eﬀect achieved through the utterance of such oﬀensive language is quite the opposite to that resulting from the use of abusive terms and curses in a jokingly or friendly manner: while the latter attempt at erasing or at least narrowing the distance between those involved in the exchange, the former extend any distance between interlocutors to full length. In a sense, these insults (that is, those used clearly to oﬀend) level the socio-economic diﬀerences among the characters, for they are mouthed by everyone, from the servants and Celestina to Calisto and Melibea. However, while those characters of a higher social class can refer to their subordinates in degrading terms, the servants and the prostitutes can only talk in these terms among themselves. This is precisely Areúsa’s point in Act IX once Lucrecia arrives to interrupt the banquet: Assí goçe de mí, que es verdad, que éstas que sirven a señoras . . . Nunca tratan con parientas, con yguales a quien pueden hablar tú por tú. . . . ¡O tía, y qué duro nombre y qué grave y sobervio es «señora» contino en la boca. Por esto me bivo sobre mí, desde que me sé conoscer, que jamás me precié de llamar de otrie sino mía. Mayormente destas señoras que agora se usan. (232)

178

  [Cross my heart that this is true. That these girls who serve ladies . . . never deal with their relatives, or with their equals with whom they can talk one on one. . . . Oh aunt, what a hard, serious, and unpleasing name is that ‘madam’ which they always have on their lips. That’s why I’ve always lived my own life ever since I’ve been old enough. I’ve never cared to call myself anyone’s servant, and certainly not to work for one of these mistresses you ﬁnd nowadays.]

According to Areúsa, the only reward these devoted servants can expect from their ladies is verbal and physical abuse, to which they must become inured. They will be labeled by their mistresses as “ladrona” [thief ], “puta” [whore], “tiñosa” [ ﬁlthy], “vellaca” [rouge], “golosa” [ greedy], “puerca” [ pig], “çuzia” [dirty girl ], “necia” [ fool ], “desaliñada” [sloven], and “mala mujer” [wicked woman], and will only receive from them “mil chapinazos y pellizcos, palos y açotes” [a thousand kicks, pinches, beatings, and whippings] (233). This is why whenever they want to insult their master, the servants must resort to scathing and cynical asides or, if the target is not present, to a soliloquy or a conﬁdant who is willing to listen to their venting. Calisto switches with special ease from praise to abuse when addressing his servants. When Alonso de Proaza, the corrector of the piece, warns in the closing lines that appear both in the Comedia as well as in the Tragicomedia about “el modo que se ha de tener leyendo esta Tragicomedia” [The way one must read this Tragicomedy] (345), his advice for those reading aloud the role of Calisto is “que sepas hablar entre dientes;/a vezes con gozo, esperança y passión,/a vezes ayrado con gran turbación” [that you are able to mumble;/sometimes expressing joy, hope, and passion,/others in a furious and greatly agitated manner] (my emphasis, 345). This reading tip points to the fact that Calisto appears irate and disturbed many times, which is when he chooses to berate and insult his servants. During the ﬁrst scene with Sempronio, Calisto insults his servant by calling him “este maldicto” [this damned man] (87) and “malvado” [evil man] (88); he imprecates him with pullas such as “¡Ansí los diablos te ganen!, ansí por infortunio arrebatado perezcas, o perpetuo intolerable tormento consigas, el qual en grado incomparablemente a la penosa y desastrada muerte que spero traspassa” [May the devils win you over! May you die a terrible death! May you meet an eternal intolerable torment, worse than the painful death that I’m expecting] (87–88), and ends his speech by sending him “con el diablo” [with the devil] (89). The master’s verbal abuse does not seem to oﬀend the servant until he insolently retorts to Calisto, after being sent with the devil, by saying: “No creo según pienso, yr conmigo

     

LA CELESTINA

179

el que contigo queda” [I don’t think He who is staying with you can come with me] (89).18 From now on, Sempronio will dare to label his master as “loco” [crazy], “herege” [heretic] (92), “pusillánime” [coward ], “ﬁ de puta” [son of a bitch] (95), “necio” [ fool ], and “asno” [ jackass] (101) in several asides and in reaction to his master’s exhibition of amor hereos, verging on sacrilege and derangement. Because of the context in which Sempronio states these terms of abuse, they become at once disparaging—as they ill-treat the master—and humorous— as they ridicule the unaware Calisto, adding on to the parody of the courtly lover. This comical side becomes even more apparent in those instances in which, after Sempronio mutters an insult, Calisto asks him to speak louder or repeat what he said yet the servant slyly improvises an answer to his query. The following are only a few examples: SEMPRONIO. (Algo es lo que digo; a más ha de yr este hecho. No basta loco, sino herege). CALISTO. ¿No te digo que hables alto quando hablares? ¿Qué dizes? SEMPRONIO. Digo que nunca Dios quiera tal, que es especie de heregía lo que agora dixiste. (92, emphasis added) [SEMPRONIO. (I’m saying something; this situation is going to escalate. He’s not only crazy but also a heretic). CALISTO. Haven’t I told you to speak aloud whenever you speak? What are you saying? SEMPRONIO. I’m saying that may God never want something like that, and that what you just said is a kind of heresy]. SEMPRONIO. (¡O pusillánime, o ﬁ de puta! ¡Qué Nembrot, que [sic] magno Alexandre; los quales no sólo del señorío del mundo, mas del cielo se juzgaron ser dignos!). CALISTO. No te oy bien esso que dixiste. Torna, dilo, no procedas. SEMPRONIO. Dixe que tú, que tienes más coraçón que Nembrot ni Alexandre, desesperas de alcançar una mujer. . . . (95–96) [SEMPRONIO. (Oh pusillanimous, oh son of a bitch! What a Nembrot! What an Alexander the Great! Who not only considered themselves masters of the world, but also judged themselves worthy of Heaven). CALISTO. I didn’t hear clearly what you just said. Repeat what you said before going on. SEMPRONIO. I said that you who has a bigger heart than either Nembrot or Alexander are desperate to get a woman. . . .]

18 This farewell contrasts dramatically with the farewells exchanged only a few pages later between master and servant, once Sempronio makes the promise to bring Celestina: “Ya voy; quede Dios contigo” [I’m leaving; Let God stay with you], to which Calisto replies:”Y contigo vaya” [May He go with you] (104).

180

  SEMPRONIO. (¡Qué mentiras y qué locuras dirá agora este cativo de mi amo!) CALISTO. ¿Cómo es esso? SEMPRONIO. Dixe que digas, que muy gran plazer avré de lo oyr. (¡Assí te medre Dios, como me será agradable esse sermón!). CALISTO. ¿Qué? SEMPRONIO. Que assí me medre Dios, como me será gracioso de oyr. (100, emphasis added) [SEMPRONIO. (What lies and what crazy things will this smitten master of mine say!) CALISTO. What’s that? SEMPRONIO. I said that I want you to continue because I’ll receive great pleasure in hearing what you have to say. (May God grant you as much prosperity as the pleasure I will get from listening to this sermon!) CALISTO. What? SEMPRONIO. That God help me prosper as much as I will enjoy listening to you].

Oﬀensive insults clearly have a physiological function, “for after childhood, relief in tears and wailing is rightly discouraged, and groans are also considered a signal of extreme weakness. Silence after suﬀering is usually impossible. The nervous system demands some expression that does not aﬀect towards cowardliness and feebleness, and, as a nervous stimulant in a crisis, swearing is unequalled” (Graves 32). This function can be easily exempliﬁed through Pármeno. In line with his fellow servant, at ﬁrst Pármeno suﬀers silently from Calisto’s ill-treatment: enojoso, loco, necio [tiresome, crazy, fool] (134), vellaco, mal criado [villain, rude] (135), terrón de lisonja, bote de malicias, el mismo mesón y aposentamiento de la embidia, perdido [ ﬂattering clod, tin of malice, the very inn of envy, deranged ] (136). However, it soon becomes apparent that he feels degraded. Once alone, Pármeno protests the verbal abuse that he receives from his master in exchange for his loyalty: “¡O desdichado de mí!; por ser leal padezco mal. Otros se ganan por malos, yo me pierdo por bueno. El mundo es tal; quiero yrme al hilo de la gente, pues a los traydores llaman discretos, a los ﬁeles necios. Si [yo] creyera a Celestina con sus seys dozenas de años acuestas, no me maltratara Calisto” [Woe is me! By being loyal I suﬀer the consequences. Others are evil and proﬁt by it. I’m a good man and it ruins me. That’s the way the world is. But since traitors are called discreet and loyal men fools, I’ll follow the crowd. If I followed Celestina, with her seventy-odd years of experience, Calisto wouldn’t mistreat me] (137). As his frustration from Calisto’s verbal illtreatment and distrust escalates, his acquiescence and loyalty towards his master soon turn into betrayal and bitterness, translated into disparaging and insulting asides.

     

LA CELESTINA

181

At the time Sempronio arrives at Calisto’s front door accompanied by Celestina, Calisto calls Pármeno “maldito sordo” [ you damned deaf man] (108) and orders him to open the door. The young servant announces that, “Sempronio y una puta vieja alcoholada davan aquellas porradas” [it’s Sempronio with an old alcoholic whore that’s making all that noise] (108). Calisto grows impatient, a fact brilliantly captured by Fadrique de Basilea in one of the woodcuts included in the Burgos version of the Comedia (1499), who depicts him pushing Pármeno towards the main door with his left hand.19 His anxiety to receive the bawd quickly leads him to berate his servant, “¡Calla, calla, malvado, que es mi tía; corre, corre, abre!” [Quiet, quiet, you wretch! It’s my aunt. Hurry, hurry and open the door! ] (108), but Pármeno, who knows Celestina well, replies: “¿Y tú piensas que es vituperio en las orejas désta el nombre que la llamé? No lo creas, que ansí se gloriﬁca en lo oyr, como tú quando dizen: «Diestro cavallero es Calisto»” [Do you think that she’ll take what I said as an insult? Don’t you believe it. She’s just as ﬂattered to be called that name as you are when they call you adroit gentleman] (108). Lilja indicates that “a pejorative adjective is not a term of abuse, if it simply makes known a disagreeable trait of character” (11), and it is obvious that in Pármeno’s view there is no aﬀront in this ‘incontrovertible’ description of the bawd. However, no matter how much Pármeno insists that Celestina is “por tal título conoscida” [known by that name] (108), the old bawd detests being called a whore. Thus, when Pármeno addresses her as “ﬂaca puta vieja” [weak old whore] (120), the go-between reacts somewhat angrily: “¡Putos días vivas, vellaquillo! ¿Y cómo te atreves?” [May you live miserably, you young villain! And how dare you?], and, some time later, she reminds him that “que tan puta vieja era tu madre como yo!” [Your mother was as much an old whore as I am! ] (120). According to Casas Gómez, “la palabra ‘puta’ y sus expresiones malsonantes constituyen uno de los tacos o insultos más asiduos de nuestra vida cotidiana” [the word ‘whore’ and its rude expressions are one of the 19 Isidro Rivera studies the enhancement all woodcuts in the oldest printed version of the Comedia (Burgos, 1499) provided and still provide for the readers of La Celestina. As he explains, “The reader thus ﬁnds himself processing words and images and constructing meaning from the conjoint reading of these two codes” (10). This woodcut in particular is divided into two parts that represent contiguous but separate spaces: Calisto’s domus, on the left, and the street, on the right. The verbal tension between master and servant indoors is in stark contrast to the complicity of the outdoor characters (Celestina and Sempronio), who seem to be elbowing each other.

182

 

most assiduous insults in our daily lives] (95, my translation), and this was already the case in Rojas’s time, as Alonso Hernández has proved in his inventory of criminal slang from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.20 That the old bawd is oﬀended when called certain names becomes apparent when she is on her way to Pleberio’s house. In the middle of the street, Celestina is terriﬁed by the thought of getting caught approaching Melibea. Before noticing the favorable omens, however, she is driven to continue because she is worried about what Sempronio and, above all, Calisto, will call her. It is almost ironic that for the loquacious go-between the violence of words is of greater importance than the outcome that awaits her in the event she is caught by the authorities (death, being tossed in a blanket, lashes, and being hooded with a visible sign which identiﬁes her to the rest of the public as having committed a crime). Celestina imagines the vile insults or “denuestos raviosos” (150) that Calisto will spit and scream in her face; he will call her “puta vieja,” “alcahueta falsa,” and “vieja traydora” [old whore, devious bawd, old traitor] (150). Ironically, these imagined words of dishonor become a reality only moments later, when Melibea discovers Celestina’s true motives, and in a ﬁt of anger calls her “alcahueta falsa, hechizera, enemiga de honestidad, causadora de secretos yerros” [devious bawd, witch, enemy of all virtue, plotter of secret sins] (161), “malvada,” “vieja maldita,” and “traydora” [evil woman, wicked old woman, and traitor] (162). Later, the old match-maker will remind Calisto how Melibea injured her with “ ‘inominiosos nombres con cuyos títulos asombran a los niños de cuna” [disgraceful names with which one can frighten small children] (182).21 Celestina, labeled in her face and behind her back, will still bear insults from the two

20 Alonso Hernández mentions a few examples in La Celestina in which other terms such as ‘errada,’ ‘enamorada,’ ‘pájara,’ ‘prima,’ and ‘devota’ [erred, lover, cousin, and devout] are used instead of ‘puta’ [whore] to refer to the same profession (26, 33, 50, 54). According to Celdrán, this insult is very old and “se encuentra entre las cinco palabras mayores, así llamadas antaño las más injuriosas, ofensivas e insultantes, siendo las otras: sodomita, renegado, ladrón y cornudo” [it is found among the ﬁve major terms, which were thus called in days gone by the most injuring, oﬀensive, and insulting, while the others were: sodomite, renegade, thief, and cuckold ] (274, my translation). 21 Celestina reproduces quite freely Melibea’s chain of insults: she omits some while adding others such as “malhechora” [criminal ], which Melibea never uttered. The old woman exaggerates tongue-in-cheek Melibea’s speech and faces, thus parodying the topic of the symptoms of love (Severin Introducción, 182, note 10).

     

LA CELESTINA

183

servants before dying, stabbed by Sempronio: “o vieja avarienta, garganta muerta de sed por dinero,” “doña hechizera” [o, you old miser, you throat gasping for money; my lady witch] (274). Few characters in the work are safe from being degraded behind their backs, in front of someone else. Melibea describes Calisto in front of Celestina and Lucrecia as: “loco saltaparedes, fantasma de noche, luengo como cigüeña, ﬁgura de paramiento malpintado” [crazy wall-climber, night spectre, long-legged stork, ill-painted inn-sign] (162); Melibea’s beauty is truly revolting, according to Areúsa and Elicia. The latter refers to Melibea as “la loca de Melibea” [that madwoman Melibea] (296) and as “estiércol de Calisto” [Calisto’s dung] (299). Pármeno and Sempronio use “esa puta vieja” [that old whore] when talking about Celestina. Hidden behind a screen in Areúsa’s house, Elicia calls Sosia “hydeputa el pelón” [son of a bitch] (309), “don handrajoso” [my lord the beggar], and “el asno” [ jackass] (312), and even Areúsa calls him “vellaco” [villain] (312) as soon as he steps outside her door. Centurio is described by Areúsa as “aquellotro cara de ahorcado” [that other fellow with the hanged-man look] (313) and as “el vellaco” [villain] (313); the miles gloriosus refers to his two visitors as “estas putas” [these whores] (317), and Tristán reminds Sosia that Areúsa is a “marcada ramera,” “malvada hembra,” and “arruﬁanada mujer” [renowned bitch, evil female, brutish woman] (319). Slander thus becomes one of the most venomous vices in celestinesque society. Ironically, it is equally revealing about the slanderers (De Dios Luque et al. 24). Melibea’s description of Calisto’s physiognomy reveals her regard for image. This characteristic of Melibea’s personality is attested in the two prostitutes’ portrayal of her. Elicia explains that “Aquella hermosura por una moneda se compra en la tienda,” [ you can buy that sort of beauty in any shop] and that “si algo tiene de hermosura es por buenos atavíos que trae” [ if she has any trace of beauty, it’s because of the ﬁne clothes she wears] (226); Areúsa adds that “Por una vez que haya de salir donde pueda ser vista, enviste su cara con hiel y miel, con unas tostadas y higos passados, y con otras cosas que por reverencia de la mesa dexo de dezir” [Whenever she goes out where she can be seen, she covers her face with bile and honey, and toast and dried ﬁgs and other things that I’ll refrain from mentioning at the table] (226). However, once again, these descriptions, more than merely tell the reader about Melibea, they inform the audience about the prostitutes and their propensity to envy. The label “puta vieja” [old whore], which the servants use to refer to Celestina, reveals that they distrust her and,

184

 

perhaps, fear her.22 The insults that both prostitutes direct towards Sosia and Centurio illustrate their disdain for these characters, and the same can be said about the bad names received by the two whores behind their back from the loudmouthed soldier and from Tristán. Although this aspect of La Celestina has been neglected to this day, it is undeniable that abusive language has great importance in the work. As De Dios Luque et al. say, “esta faceta oscura del léxico . . . ﬂorecía bastante en la literatura, desde los Juegos de escarnio y las Cantigas d’escarnho y maldizer hasta los poemas satíricos de Quevedo. . . .” [this obscure facet of lexicon . . . ﬂourished considerably in literature, from the Juegos de escarnio and the Cantigas d’escarnho y maldizer to the satirical poems of Quevedo. . . .] (21).23 It is possible that today’s readers may ﬁnd this language to be shocking in a Spanish masterpiece, but this was not the case at the time and place in which it was written. In Salamanca, the youthful and festive atmosphere brought about the creation of ceremonies such as the vejamen, “a derogatory speech about the [doctoral] candidate which, on occasion, descended to gross insults hugely enjoyed” (Gilman 1972, 296). Rojas, a master 22 According to Charles Flynn, “The fear of supernatural powers serves in many cultures to protect older members of the tribe or village. Old persons are often viewed as the most likely holders of supernatural power; hence, younger members’ fear of their supernatural abilities allows old people a certain defense against insult and ridicule which they would not otherwise be able to possess because of their relative inability to respond to insult in an overt, violent manner” (73). This might explain why the servants speak badly of Celestina behind her back. One exception would be Pármeno’s “¡Mas, desta ﬂaca puta vieja!” [What’s even more, of this weak old whore! ] (120), uttered to Celestina’s face. This instance might be an indicator of the young servant’s skepticism in reference to Celestina’s magic powers, much in line with his previous declaration to Calisto that every activity conducted by the procuress “era burla y mentira” [was a joke and a lie] (113). 23 See also Maurizi’s article about pullas in Castilian theater of the end of the ﬁfteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries, and that of Joly about the entertainment of echar pullas. According to Covarrubias, certain spaces and moments, such as grape harvest or chance encounters between travelers, lend themselves to the exchange of pullas. Joly adds that other places of brief encounter between people, such as inns, could promote as well the use of pullas. Celestina’s place, a brothel where people meet only provisionally for the exchange or commerce of pleasure, a universe which is simultaneously in and at the margins of society, constitutes, as we have seen, yet another suitable space for the use of foul language, obscene jokes, and curses. As Gerli remarks, “Both Pleberio’s and Celestina’s houses constitute crucial signs which help deﬁne the world in which the characters move. They operate as indispensable parts of the total system of representation in Celestina, a pattern of spatial imagery designed to convey messages to the readers outside the text about the inhabitants in it” (74).

     

LA CELESTINA

185

in the absorption of diverse literary sources, was equally a genius in the engrossment of popular speech, which he displays openly throughout the memorable pages of his work. After him, the so-called celestinesque works lose agility and popular verbal realism, partly due to their reduction of abusive language.24 Works Cited Alonso Hernández, José Luis. El lenguaje de los maleantes españoles de los siglos XVI y XVII: La Germanía (Introducción al léxico del marginalismo). Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1979. Armistead, Samuel G., and Joseph H. Silverman. “Algo más sobre «Lo de tu abuela con el ximio» (La Celestina, I): Antonio de Torquemada y Lope de Vega.” Papeles de Son Armadans 69 (1973): 11–18. Bakhtin, Mikhail. Rabelais and His World. Trans. Hélène Iswolsky. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1984. Barbera, R. E. “Medieval Iconography in the Celestina.” Romanic Review 61 (1970): 5–13. Bataillon, Marcel. La Celestina selon Fernando de Rojas. Paris: Didier, 1961. Brocato, Linde M. “Cutting Commentary: Celestina, Spectacular Discourse, and the Treacherous Gloss.” Celestinesca 20 (1996): 103–28. Burke, James F. “Calisto’s Imagination and His Grandmother’s Ape.” La Corónica 5 (1977): 84–90. Canet Vallés, José Luis. De la comedia humanística al teatro representable (Égloga de la tragicomedia de Calisto y Melibea, Penitencia de amor, Comedia Thebayda, Comedia Hipólita, Comedia Seraﬁna). València: Universitat de València, 1993. Casas Gómez, Miguel. La interdicción lingüística. Cádiz: Universidad de Cádiz, 1986. Castro Guisasola, F. Observaciones sobre las fuentes literarias de La Celestina. Madrid: Jiménez y Molina, 1924. Celdrán, Pancracio. Inventario general de insultos. Madrid: Ediciones del Prado, 1995. Chartier, Roger. “Leisure and Sociability: Reading Aloud in Modern Europe.” In Urban Life in the Renaissance. Ed. Susan Zimmerman and Ronald F. E. Weissman. Newark, DE: U of Delaware P, 1989. 103–20. Covarrubias Horozco, Sebastián de. Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española. Ed. Felipe C. R. Maldonado. Madrid: Castalia, 1994. De Dios Luque, Juan, Antonio Pamies, and Francisco José Manjón. El arte del insulto: Estudio lexicográﬁco. Barcelona: Ediciones Península, 1997. Flynn, Charles P. Insult and Society: Patterns of Comparative Interaction. Port Washington, N.Y.: Kennikat Press, 1977.

24 All the works included by Canet Vallés in his collection of performable drama considerably reduce the use of insults. The Égloga de la tragicomedia de Calisto y Melibea, written by Pedro Manuel de Urrea, because it is practically a replica in verse of La Celestina, it is the most abundant in insults. The rest of the works (Penitencia de amor, also by Urrea, and the three anonymous pieces Comedia Thebayda, Comedia Hipólita y Comedia Seraﬁna) are rich in sexual euphemisms and do not lack coarse language, but it appears to a lesser extent than in La Celestina.

186

 

Forcadas, Alberto M. “Otra solución a «Lo de tu abuela con el ximio» (Aucto 1) de La Celestina.” Romance Notes 15 (1974): 567–71. Gaylord, Mary Malcolm. “Fair of the World, Fair of the Word: The Commerce of Language in La Celestina.” Revista de Estudios Hispánicos 25 (1991): 1–28. Gerli, E. Michael. “Precincts of Contention: Urban Places and the Ideology of Space in Celestina.” Celestinesca 21 (1997): 65–77. Gilman, Stephen. The Art of La Celestina. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1956. ——. The Spain of Fernando de Rojas. The Intellectual and Social Landscape of La Celestina. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1972. Graves, Robert. Lars Porsena or The Future of Swearing and Improper Language. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1928. Green, Otis H. “Lo de tu abuela con el ximio (Celestina, Auto I).” Hispanic Review 24 (1956): 1–12. Grismer, Raymond Leonard. The Inﬂuence of Plautus in Spain Before Lope de Vega. New York: Hispanic Institute, 1944. Joly, Monique. “Sémantique et littérature: Nouvelles remarques sur un certain type de plaisanterie (echar pullas).” Actes du XIII e congrès international de linguistique et philologie romanes tenu à l’Université Laval, I. Eds. Marcel Boudreault and Frankwalt Mohren. Quebec: Press de l’Université de Laval, 1979. 843–57. Lida de Malkiel, María Rosa. La originalidad artística de La Celestina. Buenos Aires: EUDEBA, 1970. Lilja, Saara. Terms of Abuse in Roman Comedy. Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1965. Maurizi, Françoise. “Les «Pullas» dans le théâtre castillan de la ﬁn du XVe-début du XVIe.” Fragments et formes brèves. Ed. Benito Pelegrin. Aix-en-Provence: Université de Provence, 1990. 5–17. Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino. Horacio en España. Madrid: Casa Editorial de Medina, 1886. ——. Orígenes de la novela, I. Madrid: Bailly Baillière, 1925. Rivera, Isidro J. “Visual Structures and Verbal Representation in the Comedia de Calisto y Melibea (Burgos, 1499?).” Celestinesca 19 (1995): 3–30. Rojas, Fernando de. La Celestina. Madrid: Cátedra, 1987. Severin, Dorothy S. “Humour in La Celestina.” Romance Philology 32 (1979): 274–91. ——. “Parodia y sátira en La Celestina.” Actas del Sexto Congreso Internacional de Hispanistas. Ed. Alan M. Gordon and Evelyn Rugg. Toronto: Department of Spanish and Portuguese, University of Toronto, 1980. 695–97. ——. “Introducción.” La Celestina. By Fernando de Rojas. Madrid: Cátedra, 1987. 11–64. ——. “Animals and Abuse in Celestina: The Dog and the Ass.” Celestinesca 21 (1997): 111–14. Solomon, Michael R. The Literature of Misogyny in Medieval Spain: The Arcipreste de Talavera and The Spill. Oxford, U.K.; New York: Cambridge UP, 1997. Wickersham Crawford, J. P. “Echarse pullas:—A Popular Form of Tenzone.” Romanic Review 6 (1915): 150–64.

INDEX

This index includes persons, places, and things. Readers may want to be aware of the following guidelines. • Authors of literary works are cited, not the works. Anonymous works are, however, included by title and are in italics. • Alphabetization follows the usage suggested by MLA, Chicago, and other standards. • Page numbers in brackets indicate that an item is referenced many times within a particular chapter. abuse, 23, 24, 32 abusive language, [167–86] address/es, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 101. See also form of address adjective, 133 adverbs, 5 Akehurst, 155, 156, 157, 164 Alain de Lille, 110 Alan of Lille, 26 Albertanus of Brescia, 27 Albigensian/s, 29, 30 Albrecht von Scharfenberg, 8 Albuixech, 16, [167–86] Alexander of Hales, 29 Alexandre de Paris, 145 Algeo, 129 allegoresis, 110 Allen, 35 Alonso Hernández, 182 Amazon/s, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52 Anderson, David, 45, 50 Anderson, Flemming, 65 Anglo-Norman, 148, 154, 159, 161, 163 Anglo-Norman French, 147 Anglo-Saxon, 127, 128, 158 Anglo-Saxonists, 126 anticlericalism, 77 Arabic, 98, 99 Ardente, 26 argumentation, 30, 34, 65 arguing, 110 Aristotle, 23 Armenia, 146 Armistead, 174 Arrathoon, 115 ars metrica, 130 atheist speaking, 23 Athenians, 44

Athens, [43–63] Augsburg, 39 Augustine, Saint, 29, 109, 122 Austin, 7 âventiure, 97 Bach, 4 Bachorski, 65 Bakhtin, 170, 171 Baldwin, 65 Barbera, 174 Bareau, 148 Bataillon, 168 Baugh, 128, 129 Bauman, 1, 5 Beauvaisis, 146 Belgium, 127 Belmas, 31, 35 Bennewitz, 67 Benson, 44, 106, 130 Beowulf, 125, 126 Berceo, 168, 173 Bergmann, 34 Bern, 24 bidialectalism, 12 bilingual, 95, 126, 159 bilingualism, 12, 125 Blank, 87 blasphemy/blasphemous/blasphemia, 24, 26, 28, 31, 32, 34, 35, 38 Blum-Kulka, 13 Blythe, 28 boasting, 10, 23, 28 Boccaccio, 16, [43–63], 65, 66, 87 Bodin, 24 Boethius, 58 Bogner, 24, 34 Boitani, 45 Bordier, 164

188 borrowing/s, 128, 129 Bradley, 128 bragging, 23 Brand, 147 Breton, 26, 105 Brittany, 110 Brocato, 177 Broughton, 16, [43–63] Brown, 4 Brown, Catherine, 83 Bruneau, 152 Bumke, 65, 95, 99 Burger, Douglas, 115 Burger, Glenn, 67 Burghartz, 38, 86 Burke, 174, 175 Burkhard von Hohenfels, 14 Burlin, 117 Burnley, 129, 133 Butler, 67 Cable, 128, 129 Calin, 146 calumny, 23 Cameron, 4 Canet Valles, 170, 185 Cantilupe, 127 Capellanus, 82, 83 Carrión, 173 Cartlidge, 67 Casagrande, 23, 28, 32, 35 Casas Goméz, 181 Cassian, 27 Castilian, 173 Castro Guisasola, 170 Cathari, 29 Celdrán, 173, 182 Celtic, 110, 111, 126, 127, 142 Chambers, 126 Chapman, 142 Chartier, 169 Chaucer, 16, [43–63], 66, 77, 87, [105–24], [125–44], 153 Chaurand, 152 Chinese, 26 chivalrie, 49, 52 Chrétien de Troyes, 3, 8, 152 Christ, 109, 117 Christian/s, 30, 31, 78, 80, 93, 95, 99, 110 Christianity, 94, 95, 99 Christin, 24, 32, 33 Christine de Pizan, 80 Cichon, 30

 Classen, 4, 13, 16, [65–92] Clemence of Barking, 148, 150 code switching, 160 Cohen, 38 communicate/communicating/ communication, 14, [65–92], 112, 113, 146, 147, 158 communicative, 84, 160 communicative abilities, 88 communicative community, 78 communicative competence, 95, 96, 98, 122 communicative skills, 87, 88 communicative strategies, 66, 85 language strategy, 97. See also rhetorical strategy community/communities, 11, 67, 74, 76, 87, 93, 94, 95, 98, 100, 101 complain, 12 complaining, 23, 28, 72 confess, 15 confessed, 81 confessing, 118 confession/s, 30, 33, 54, 55, 72, 96 Constantinople, 145 contract, 105, 116 conventions, 113, 114, 118 conventions of for speaking, 10, 95 conversation, 11, 43, 48, 62, 86, 115, 118, 121 conversational analysis, 6 conversational communication, 16 Cornish, 127 Cornuälle, 67 Cornwall, 5, 126 Coulmas, 147 courtier (as a language), 114 courtliness, 117, 150, 154, 160 courtly behavior, [43–63], 101, 164 courtly conventions, 113, 118 courtly discourse, 112 courtly epic, 8, 93 courtly ideals, 94 courtly language, 112, 117 courtly love poetry, 65 courtly poetry, 111 courtly romance/s, 65, 111, 162 courtly values, 11 courtly vocabulary, 112, 116 Covarrubias, 173, 184 Cramer, 66 Craun, 31 Crespo, 147 Crusade/s, 12, 29, 30, 31, 145



189

cultivation of speech, 30 curse/s, 175, 176, 177 Dallapiazza, 65, 71 Dallos, 67 Danish, 128 Dante, 27 Davis, 135 dawn song, 65 debate, 48 De Dios Luque, 173, 183, 184 delectare prodesse, 168 D’Etallonde, 38 De deux Angloys et l’anel, 148, 161 dialect/s, 3, 5, 16, 125, 126, 127, 137, 143, 148, 152, 154, 159, 161, 163 dialect poetry, 161 dialectology, 1 dialog/s, 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 14, 15, dialogistic realism, 167 dialogue, 131, [167–86] diglossic, 16, 147, 161, 164 Dinshaw, 67 Dinzelbacher, 30 discourse, 58, 65, 110, 129, 148, 153, 162, 167 discourse analysis, 2. See also conversation Domes, 95 Dominican, 27, 30, 32 Dondaine, 27 Dor, 147, 150, 152 double Dutch, 128 double talk, 114 dramatic theories, 109, 117 Die drei Mönche zu Kolmar, 72 Drew, 15 Drexel, 34 Duerr, 67 Dufournet, 155, 161 Dykema, 77

Erasmus, 27 etymologies, 143 evil language, 36

East Anglia, 137 East Yorkshire, 130 Edward the Confessor, 150 Ehrenstrafe, 36 Ehrismann, 93 Eldevik, 135 elegiac comedy, 170 Eleonore of Austria, 68 Elisabeth of Nassau-Saarbrücken, 68 England, [125–44], [145–66] English, 16, [125–44], [145–66] epic narrative, 16 epithets, 52

Gamin, 61 Garrioch, 4 Gaylord, 169, 170, 172 gender/s, 13, 49, 66, 67, 87, 88 gender issues, 46, 60 gender-neutral, 135 gender-speciﬁc communication, 67 gendered, 117 grammatical, 160, 161 gentilesse, 50, 61 Gerli, 184 German, 16, 38, 66, 67, [93–102], 126, 127, 128, 135, 139

fabliau/x, 73, 148, 159, 160, 161 facial expression, 112 Fadrique de Basilea, 181 faith, 58, 109 faith community, 9 false oath/s, 28, 36, 38 falsehood, 110 Feuerbach, 24 Fischer, 68 Fleming, 131, 140 Flemish, 127 Flynn, 184 Folz, 78 Forcadas, 174 Ford, 105 form of address, 96, 97, 105, 113 Fowler, 2 France, 29, 30, 31, 36, 37, 38, 99, 135, 145, 146, 148, 149, 151, 152, 163 francien, 148, 152, 161 françois, 152 Franciscans, 30 François I, 31 Frankfurt, 35 frauendienst, 95 fre wyl, 106 Freiburg, 35 French, 16, 26, 30, 32, 98, 99, 100, 107, [125–44], [145–166] French of Pontoise, 152 garble-French, 128 Parisian French, 163 Pointoise, 163 Frese, 122 Friedrich, 72

190 Germany, 26, 30, 39 German Empire, 145 Gervase of Tilbury, 149 Gesta Romanorum, 158 gesture, 14, 112 gestural language, 117, 120 Gibbs, 94, 100 Gilman, 167, 168, 171, 184 Gordon, 135 Gottfried von Straßburg, 5, 83 government of the tongue, [23–42] Gower, 61 Graves, 180 Gray, 66, 67, 88 Greece, 44 Green, Otis, 174 Green, Richard, 116, 121 Greenberg, 105 greeting, 95, 98 Gregory the Great, 23, 27, 29 Grimm, 34 Grismer, 170 Groos, 2 Grubmüller, 68, 70, 72, 73, 75, 78, 82, 86 Grundtvig, 128 Gumperz, 7 half-truths, 23 Haller, 50 Harnish, 4 Harré, 135 Hartmann von Aue, 3, 8, 78 Harvey, 4, 16, [145–166] Haug, 68 heathen, 78, 80, 93, 95 Hebrew, 73, 141 Die Heidin, 78, 83 Heinen, 101 Heinrich von Morungen, 14 Heinzle, 68 Helen of Troy, 55 Heller, 164 Henri II, 31 Hereford, 127 Heritage, 15 heroic epic, 8 Herrero Salgado, 66 Hertz, 37 Hildesheimer, 31, 38 Hochdeutsch, 127, 128 Hodges, 62 Holy Land, 31, 145 homonyms, 158

 honor, honour, 47, 48, 50, 51, 59, 69, 105, 116, 117, 120, 121 honour punishment, 36 Horace, 168 Horatian, 168 The Horn, 158 Howel, 67 Hoyle, 13 Hufeland, 85 Hugo of Victor, 29 humor, 169, 176 humanist comedy, 170 Hungary, 146 Hymes, 1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 95 idiolect, 133 Ile-de-France, 148, 152 inability to speak, 111 indicative/s, 115, 118 Inquisition, 29 insult/s, 26, [167–186] interference, 159 Ireland, 5 Irish, 127, 142 Isidor of Sevilla, 29 Italian, 16, 45, 127 Italy, 30, 45, 145 Janota, 78 Johnson, L. Peter, 68 Johnson, Sydney, 94 Johnston, 109 Joinville, 145 joke/s, 6, 9, 23, 141, 174 joking, 28 Joly, 184 Jones, Gwyn and Thomas, 107 Jost, 66, 77 Judeo-Christian, 9 Justinian, 24 Karant-Nunn, 71, 85 Karnein, 66 Kaufmann, 37 Kaufringer, 68, 71, 72, 86 Kay, 66 Kelly, 45, 163 Kemper, 65 Kempton, 58 Ker, 126 Kleppel, 98, 99 Kloss, 1, 7 Kröll, 73

 Kruger, 67 Künßberg, 36 La Barre, 38 Labov, 7 Lacan, 40 Lachmann, 97 Laingui, 38 lai/s, 105, 145 lampooning speech, 23 Landis, 67 language identity, 99 language instruction, 96 language of divine love, 58 language of the marketplace/business, 99, 170 language skill acquisition, 96, 99 language transfer, 142 Languedoc, 30 Laon, 100 Lateran Council, 27, 30 Latin, 16, 32, 115, 127, 128, 131, 132, 133, 140, 141, 142, 146, 152, 168, 169 Latin comedy, 170, 176 Latini, 27 Laurent, 146 Lécuyer, 146, 155, 158 Le Goﬀ, 31, 32 Levinson, 4 Lewis, 66 Lexer, 9, 70, 95 lexical, 125, 150 lexicon, 95, 148 Lida de Malkiel, 170 Lilja, 170, 176, 181 Lindorfer, 15, 16, [23–42] lingua-texts, 24 linguistic abilities, 99 linguistic class markers, 126 linguistic competence, 93, 154 linguistic incompetence, 160 linguistic norm/s, 66, 163 linguistic play, 110 linguistic skill, 96 linguistic taboos, 26. See taboo literalist, 110, 117, 119, 121 literary convention, 3 loan-words, 128, 129, 132, 133, 134, 136, 138, 139 Louis IX (King; Saint), 31, 32 Louis XII, 31 Louis XIV, 31 Louis XVI, 31 love poem, 8

191

love triangle, 105, 114 Lucifer, 117 Lumiansky, 44 lying, 28 Lyon/Lyonese, 26, 29, 30 MacBain, 145 mæren, 16, 68, 85, 87 Mainz, 34 maistrie, 105, 110, 120 Mann, 105 Mansﬁeld, 30, 37 Map, Walter, 153 Marchello-Nizia, 146 Marguerite de Navarre, 65, 66, 87 Marie de France, 73, 145 Marriage Group, 105 Matthew of Vendôme, 122 Mauritius von Craûn, 65, 82 Maurizi, 184 Maximilian, 24 McConeghy, 4 McCoy, 46 McEntire, 121 McGerr, 122, 123 McGregor, 105, 107, 110, 114 medieval ways of speaking, 45 Menéndez Pelanyo, 168 mercantile language. See language of the marketplace Mertens, 93 Middle English, 132, 133, 134, 138, 139, 156 Middle High German, 67, 95 Millet, 73 Milroy, 5 miscommunication, 66, 87 misogynist, 114 misogynous, 71, 77, 86 mispronunciation, 160 Modern German, 97 monoglots, 140 monologue, 141 Montaiglon, 159, 161 morphology, 148, 161 Mühlhäusler, 135 Müllenhoﬀ, 126 Müller, 65 multilingual, 126, 127, 140, 142, 143 mutilation/s, 37 negotiated, 118, 119 negotiated language, 121

192



negotiating, 120 negotiation/s, 67, 118 Neumann, 14 New Criticism, 126 Newhauser, 27, 30 Newman, 65 Nøjgaard, 65 nonce-words, 143 Norman, 142 Norman Conquest, 126, 128, 129, 146 Normandy, 146, 147, 150 Norse, 128 North Italy, 127 Northern English, 138 nouns, 94, 143 Nürnberg, 39 oath/s, 69, 105, 107, 110, 114, 116, 118, 120, 121 Oberman, 77 occupatio, 44, 45 Oranges, 99, 100 Occitan, 26, 30 Old English, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 138, 139 Old Norse, 130, 136 opera, 8 Oriental, 73 Owen, 153 Paix aux Anglais, 148 Paris, 27, 152 Parra Membrives, 101 passive (voice), 60 Pearsall, 105, 134 Peraldus, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 39 Person, 3 persuasion, 65 Peter the Singer, 26, 35 Peterborough Chronicle, 129, 134, 142 Petrarch, 170, 171 Petrus Lombardus, 29 Philippe de Beaumanoir, 163 Philippe de Remy, [145–166] phonological, 125 Pisa, 36 Plautus, 170 poetry, 16, 112 polyglot, 94 Pont-Sainte-Maxence, 152 Pope, M. K., 161 Pope Innocent III, 29 Pratt, Robert, 45

prayer/s, 9, 48, 110 praying, 110 preaching, 77 promise/s/d, 16, 86, 105, 106, 114, 115, 116, 120, 121, 179 pronoun/s, 96, 132, 133, 135, 143, 160 pronunciation, 148, 150, 161 prose, 16 Provence, 30 public humiliation, 37 Puddervaelske, 128 Pulham, 105, 107 pullas, 169, 174, 175, 176, 178, 184. See insults punishment/s, 23, 24, 25, 31, 32, 33, 36, 37, 39 punishment of honour, 36, 39 punishment of (the) tongue, 24, 33, 34 Pyles, 129 Raybin, 107 Raynaud, 159, 161 realismo dialogístico, 167 Regensburg, 38 Reichel, 75 Reichert, 164 Reinfried von Braunschweig, 78 Reinitzer, 65 Reinmar von Hagenau, 14 Reiss, 110 religion, 9, 99 Renart, 163 re-speaking, 118 rhetorical illusions, 65 rhetorical strategy, 46, 48 Richter, 126, 127, 146 riddle/s, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 164 Riedinger, 106 ritual of punishment, 36 Rivera, 181 Robert of Glouster, 147 Robert of Sorbon, 23, 29 Robertson, 72 rogue speech, 32 Rojas, [167–86] Roloﬀ, 33, 34 Romaine, 5, 113 Roman comedy, 170, 176 Roman de Renart, 148, 161 romances, 145, 146. See courtly romances Rome, 146

 Roper, 87 Rose, 72 Rosenplüt, 75, 78 Rothenburg ob der Tauber, 39 Rothwell, 126, 146, 152 Rufus, 129 rules of communication, 26 rule of speaking, 98 Sabean, 35 Sacchetti, 66 Saint-Evroul, 150 Salamanca, 184 Sands, 66 Sargent-Baur, 146, 164 Sarrazin, 126 satirical poems, 148 Saunders, 72 Saville-Troike, 5, 7 Saxon, 142 Scanzoni, 67 Scheler, 128 Schendel, 160 Scherzer, 1, 5 Schiﬀman, 147, 161 Schild, 36, 37 Schnell, 15, 65, 93 Schnyder, 68, 72 Scholasticism, 37 Schröter, 71 Schücking, 126 Schulze-Busacker, 145, 159, 163 Schutz, 4, 7, 15, 16, [105–24] Schwerhoﬀ, 24, 34, 35, 38, 39 Schwyzertüütsch, 128 Scotland, 146, 163 Scots, 142 Scots Gaelic, 127 Scott, 142 Scythia, 43, 44, 45, 54, 57, 59, 61 Searle, 7, 15 Sercambi, 66 sermon/s, 24, 130, 131, 138 Severin, 167, 169, 171, 172, 182 Shakespeare, 3, 161 Sheridan, 110 Shippey, 4, 16, [125–44] Short, 126, 146, 153, 163 sign/s, 108, 110, 112, 143, 163 silence, 33, 60, 61, 81, 95, 97, 109, 180 silent, 27, 28, 35, 94 silently, 44, 97 Silverman, 174

193

sins of (the) tongue, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 30, 33 slander/ed, 23, 26, 28, 36 social networks, 4 sociolinguist/s, 4, 126, 137 sociolinguistic, 2, 4, 6, 7, 148, 161, 162, 164 Södergård, 150 Solomon, 171 Sorbian, 26 South Tirol, 127 Spain, 145, 175, 176 Spanish, 16, 26, 170, 184 speaking, 16, 23, 27, 33, 94, 100, 101 speaking skills, 97 ways of speaking without speaking without saying, 112 speech/es, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 11, 16, 23, 25, 32, 45, 46, 47, 52, 54, 55, 56, 58, 59, 60, 101, 106, 109, 119, 120, 131, 132, 133, 135, 137, 138, 141, 143, 146, 159, 161, 169 speech act/s, 1, 6, 9, 10, 16, 23, 95 speech community/ies, 1, 5, 6, 10, 12, 15, 94, 101, 106, 108, 109, 113, 119, 161 speech event/s, 1, 8, 12 speech oﬀences, 25 speech situation, 1, 8 speech violation/s, 23, 24, 25, 38 speechless, 162 Spencer, 148 Spiegelstrafe, 36 Spiewok, 95 spoken language, 98, 101 spoken word, 31, 105 Sprachbund, 7, 113, 122 Sprechbund, 7, 113, 117, 119, 120, 122 Staines, 107 Stede, 72 Steinhoﬀ, 68 Stoeber, 36 Strang, 129, 133 Straßburg, 39 subjunctives, 115, 116, 118 Suchier, 146 suezer munt, 94 Sussman, 4, 93 swearing, 13, 28, 169 Swiss German, 128 Switzerland, 24, 38, 127 synonyms, 95 syntax, 148, 161 syntactic, 150

194 taboo/s, 26, 99 Tannen, 3, 4 taunts, 100 Taylor, Mark, 107, 113 Taylor, Talbot, 4 Terence, 170 Tervooren, 67 textual community, 108 Thebes, 57, 58, 60, 61 Thomas of Brittany, 5 Thomas of India, Saint, 141 Thoran, 4 Tierepik, 93 Tolkien, [125–44] tongue, 10, [23–42], 146, 148, 170 surrogate tongues, 48 Tranter, 128 Traugott, 2 Trigg, 61 trouthe, 106, 107, 115, 116, 119 Trotter, 147 Troubadour lyric, 30 Trudgill, 137 Urrea, 185 Urscheler, 100 van Dülmen, 36 Van Dyke, 105, 107 van Helmont, 39 Vecchio, 23, 28, 32, 35 ventriloquist, 61 verb/s, 95, 115, 129, 133, 160, 161 verbal verbal appeal, 43 verbal behaviour/s, 24, 30, 31 verbal ﬁght, 71 verbal insults, 16 verbal mood, 115 verbal oﬀense/s, 25, 34 verbal realism, 185 verbal sins, 26, 28

 vernacular, 154 verse narrative/s, 67, 86, 87, 88 verse novella/s, 65, 67, 68, 75, 86 verse romances, 66 vices of tongue, 23 Vincent of Beauvais, 32 Vital, 150 Vitz, 2 Voltaire, 38 vow/ing/s, 105, 107 Waldensians, 29 Wales, 126 Walker, 117 Walter of Bibbesworth, 152 ways of speaking, 48, 109 medieval ways of speaking, Weber, 88 weeping, 60 Weise, 3 Welsh, 107, 127, 142 Wenzel, 27, 28 Wertheimer, 15 Wickersham Crawford, 176 Wieland, 30 William the Conqueror, 126, Williams, 67 Willoweit, 37 Wodehouse, 111 Wolfram von Eschenbach, 8, [93–102] Wolfstan of Worcester, Saint, Wolter, 66 writing conventions, 3 Yonglin, 3 Yorkshire, 130, 136 Zedler, 35, 38 Zelle, 36 Ziegeler, 83 Zurich, 35, 38

45

127

78, 83, 127

CULTURES, BELIEFS AND TRADITIONS medieval and early modern peoples Cultures, Beliefs and Traditions is a forum for an interdisciplinary sharing of insights into past popular experience in the European and European-related world, from late antiquity to the modern era. The series covers studies in a wide range of phenomena, among them popular rituals and religion, art, music, material culture and domestic space, and it favors a variety of approaches: historical anthropology, folklore and gender studies, art- and literary analysis, and integrative approaches employing a combination of disciplines. It contains monographs, text editions (with translation and commentary), collections of essays on defined themes, acta of conferences and works of reference.

1. HEN, Y. Culture and Religion in Merovingian Gaul, A.D. 481-751. 1995. ISBN 90 04 10347 3 2. MEGGED, A. Exporting the Catholic Reformation. Local Religion in EarlyColonial Mexico. 1996. ISBN 90 04 10400 3 3. SLUHOVSKY, M. Patroness of Paris. Rituals of Devotion in Early Modern France. 1998. ISBN 90 04 10851 3 4. ZIOLKOWSKI, J.M. Obscenity. Social Control and Artistic Creation in the European Middle Ages. 1998. ISBN 90 04 10928 5 5. POSKA, A.M. Regulating the People. The Catholic Reformation in SeventeenthCentury Spain. 1998. ISBN 90 04 11036 4 6. FERREIRO, A. (ed.). The Devil, Heresy and Witchcraft in the Middle Ages. Essays in Honor of Jeffrey B. Russell. 1998. ISBN 90 04 10610 3 7. SÖRLIN, P. ‘Wicked Arts’. Witchcraft and Magic Trials in Southern Sweden, 1635-1754. 1999. ISBN 90 04 11183 2 8. MITCHELL, K. & I. WOOD (eds.). The World of Gregory of Tours. 2002. ISBN 90 04 11034 8 9. FRIEDLANDER, A. The Hammer of the Inquisitors. Brother Bernard Déli-cieux and the Struggle Against the Inquisition in Fourteenth-Century France. 2000. ISBN 90 04 11519 6 10. FRIEDMAN, Y. Encounter Between Enemies. Captivity and Ransom in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. 2002. ISBN 90 04 11706 7 11. COHEN, E. & M.B. de JONG (eds.). Medieval Transformations. Texts, Power, and Gifts in Context. 2001. ISBN 90 04 11728 8 12. TAYLOR, B. Structures of Reform. The Mercedarian Order in the Spanish Golden Age. 2000. ISBN 90 04 11857 8 13. ROLLO-KOSTER, J. Medieval and Early Modern Ritual. Formalized Behavior in Europe, China and Japan. 2002. ISBN 90 04 11749 0

14. JONES, P.M. & T. WORCESTER. (eds.) From Rome to Eternity. Catholicism and the Arts in Italy, ca. 1550-1650. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12469 1 15. FROJMOVIC, E. Imagining the Self, Imagining the Other. Visual Representation and JewishChristian Dynamics in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Period. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12565 5 16. GODSALL-MYERS, J.E. Speaking in the Medieval World. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12955 3 17. PETKOV, K. The Kiss of Peace. Ritual, Self, and Society in the High and Late Medieval West. 2003. ISBN 90 04 13038 1

ISSN 1382-5364