Controlling Readers: Guillaume de Machaut and His Late Medieval Audience 1442615540, 9781442615540

Table of contents :
Cover
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction: Reading and the Laity
PART I: Inscribed Readers: The Invention of the Lay Reader in Text and Image
1 Reading between the Lines: Responses to Lay Literacy in Late Medieval Manuscripts
Early Models of Reading: The Private Reader and the Docile Student
Filtering Professional Reading Practices through Lay Books
The Vernacular Author as a Learned Reader
The Lay Reader of Vernacular Literature
2 Lay Readers in Guillaume de Machaut’s Voir dit
The Lay Reader: Variations on a Theme
The Reader as Author: A Critical Gaze on the Power of Delivery and Interpretation to Alter Texts
Creating Boundaries: Strategies in the Voir dit to Limit Reader Involvement
PART II: Intermediary Readers and Their Shaping of Machaut’s Voir dit
Catering to the Professional Reader: The Earliest Copy of the Voir dit (BnF, MS fr. 1584)
Attracting the Patron’s Gaze: A Competing Copy of Machaut’s Manuscripts (BnF, MSS fr. 22545–22546)
Making Space for Performance: Resuscitating a Maligned Codex (BnF, MS fr. 9221)
3 Instructing Readers: Metatext and the Table of Contents as Sites of Mediation in BnF, MS fr. 1584
Seeing and Finding the Text: Deictic Marks and Readers’ Encounter with the Material Artefact
How to Read the Voir dit: Guidelines for the External Audience
Machaut’s Intermediary Readers and the Genesis of the MS A Table of Contents
4 Illustrations and the Shape of Reading: Pictorial Programs in BnF, MS fr. 1584 and MSS fr. 22545–22546
Illustrations as Organizational Tools
Illustrations as Interpretative Tools
The Art of Reading and Writing in MS F
5 Layout and the Staging of Performance in BnF, MS fr. 9221
The Status of Music in Copies of the Voir dit
Music in MS E
Reciprocal Reading and the Architectonics of the Text: Reconstructing the Voir dit through Song, Letters, and Poems
The Impact of Layout on Delivery
PART III: Inventive Readers and the Struggle for Control
6 Eustache Deschamps as Machaut’s Reader: Staking out Authority in the Master(’s) Text
Constructing Identity through Machaut: Deschamps’s Recycling and Reinvention of the Master’s Poetic Identity
Redefining the Lay Reading Experience: The Case of Ballade 127 and Deschamps’s Public Performance of Machaut’s Voir dit
Collapsing the Book: Deschamps’s Reading of Guillaume Reading Livy
7 ‘Nouveleté gaires ne gist’: Jean Froissart’s Reinvention of the Author–Reader Relationship
Facing the Reader: The Virelay Episode and the Poet’s Reception
The Text Makes the Man: The Purloined Letter Episode and the Question of Authenticity
Poetic Collaboration: The Reader’s Contribution to Literary Creation
The Material Artefact as a Site of Collaboration
8 Reading and Salvation: The Case of Pierpont Morgan, MS M 396
Modernizing Machaut: The Pm Alterations within Their Cultural Context
The Voir dit Alterations
Salvation and the Ethics of Reading
Conclusion: The Residual Text, the Fading of the Author, and the Role of Technology
Appendix I: Pictorial Content for the Voir dit in MSS A, F, and Pm
Appendix II: Pm Manuscript Alterations
Appendix III: Illustration Key
Notes
Bibliography
Index
A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
R
S
T
V
W
Illustrations

Citation preview

CONTROLLING READERS: GUILLAUME DE MACHAUT AND HIS LATE MEDIEVAL AUDIENCE

Guillaume de Machaut (1300–77) was the master poet of fourteenthcentury France. He established models for much of the vernacular poetry written by subsequent generations, and he was instrumental in institutionalizing the lay reader. In particular, his longest and most important work, the Voir dit, calls attention to the coexistence of public and private reading practices through its intensely hybrid form: sixtythree poems and ten songs invite an oral performance, while forty-six private prose letters as well as elaborate illustrations and references to its own materiality promote a physical encounter with the book. In Controlling Readers, Deborah McGrady uses Machaut’s corpus as a case study to explore the impact of lay literacy on the culture of late medieval Europe. Arguing that Machaut and his bookmakers were responding to contemporary debates surrounding literacy, McGrady first accounts for the formal invention of the lay reader in medieval art and literature, then analyses Machaut and his bookmakers’ innovative use of both narrative and bibliographical devices to try to control the responses of his readers and promote intimate and sensual reading practices in place of the more common public performances of court culture. McGrady’s erudite and exhaustive study is key to understanding Machaut, his works, and his influence on the history of reading in the fourteenth century and beyond. (Studies in Book and Print Culture) deborah mcgrady is an associate professor in the Department of French and Italian at Tulane University.

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Controlling Readers Guillaume de Machaut and His Late Medieval Audience

DEBORAH M C GRADY

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

©

University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2006 Toronto  Buffalo  London Printed in the U.S.A. Reprinted in paperback 2013



ISBN 978-0-8020-9020-1 (cloth) ISBN 978-1-4426-1554-0 (paper)



Printed on acid-free paper



Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

McGrady, Deborah L., 1967– Controlling readers : Guillaume de Machaut and his late Medieval audience / Deborah McGrady.

(Studies in book and print culture) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8020-9020-1 (bound).--ISBN 978-1-4426-1554-0 (pbk.)



1. Guillaume de Machaut, ca. 1300–1377. Voir dit.  2. Guillaume de Machaut, ca. 1300–1377 – Technique.  3. French poetry – To 1500 – History and criticism.  4. Nobility – Books and reading – France – History – 14th century.  I. Title.  II. Series: Studies in book and print culture.



PQ1483.G5M35 2006   841’.1   C2006-902037-X

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

To my beloved parents, Ralph and Darleen McGrady

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Contents

Acknowledgments

xi

Introduction: Reading and the Laity

3

PART I: Inscribed Readers: The Invention of the Lay Reader in Text and Image 17 1 Reading between the Lines: Responses to Lay Literacy in Late Medieval Manuscripts 21 Early Models of Reading: The Private Reader and the Docile Student 24 Hugh of St Victor’s Model of Private Study 25 Scholasticism and the Submissive Reader 28 Filtering Professional Reading Practices through Lay Books The Vernacular Author as a Learned Reader 34 The Lay Reader of Vernacular Literature 39 2 Lay Readers in Guillaume de Machaut’s Voir dit 45 The Lay Reader: Variations on a Theme 47 The Loving Reader 47 The Masterful Student 52 The Mocking Listener 55 The Reader as Author: A Critical Gaze on the Power of Delivery and Interpretation to Alter Texts 61 Creating Boundaries: Strategies in the Voir dit to Limit Reader Involvement 67

32

viii

Contents

PART II: Intermediary Readers and Their Shaping of Machaut’s Voir dit 77 Catering to the Professional Reader: The Earliest Copy of the Voir dit (BnF, MS fr. 1584) 81 Attracting the Patron’s Gaze: A Competing Copy of Machaut’s Manuscripts (BnF, MSS fr. 22545–22546) 83 Making Space for Performance: Resuscitating a Maligned Codex (BnF, MS fr. 9221) 84 3 Instructing Readers: Metatext and the Table of Contents as Sites of Mediation in BnF, MS fr. 1584 88 Seeing and Finding the Text: Deictic Marks and Readers’ Encounter with the Material Artefact 89 How to Read the Voir dit: Guidelines for the External Audience 91 Machaut’s Intermediary Readers and the Genesis of the MS A Table of Contents 98 Staking out Territory through Addenda 100 The Hidden Significance of Erasures 101 4 Illustrations and the Shape of Reading: Pictorial Programs in BnF, MS fr. 1584 and MSS fr. 22545–22546 106 Illustrations as Organizational Tools 109 Illustrations as Interpretative Tools 111 Portraying Written and Oral Messages in MS A 111 Letters in Motion in MS A 112 The Art of Reading and Writing in MS F 118 The Site of Reading 121 5 Layout and the Staging of Performance in BnF, MS fr. 9221 The Status of Music in Copies of the Voir dit 129 Music in MS E 130 Giving Voice to the Text 134 Reading the Voir dit in Song 136 Reciprocal Reading and the Architectonics of the Text: Reconstructing the Voir dit through Song, Letters, and Poems 138 Polyphony and the Multi-Voiced Text 139 The Impact of Layout on Delivery 142

127

Contents ix

PART III: Inventive Readers and the Struggle for Control 147 6 Eustache Deschamps as Machaut’s Reader: Staking out Authority in the Master(’s) Text 152 Constructing Identity through Machaut: Deschamps’s Recycling and Reinvention of the Master’s Poetic Identity 153 Redefining the Lay Reading Experience: The Case of Ballade 127 and Deschamps’s Public Performance of Machaut’s Voir dit 157 Collapsing the Book: Deschamps’s Reading of Guillaume Reading Livy 163 7 ‘Nouveleté gaires ne gist’: Jean Froissart’s Reinvention of the Author–Reader Relationship 170 Facing the Reader: The Virelay Episode and the Poet’s Reception 173 The Text Makes the Man: The Purloined Letter Episode and the Question of Authenticity 180 Poetic Collaboration: The Reader’s Contribution to Literary Creation 185 The Material Artefact as a Site of Collaboration 187 8 Reading and Salvation: The Case of Pierpont Morgan, MS M 396 190 Modernizing Machaut: The Pm Alterations within Their Cultural Context 192 The Voir dit Alterations 196 Pruning the Lover’s Correspondence 199 Silencing the Author 200 Revising the Reader’s Role 205 Salvation and the Ethics of Reading 207 Conclusion: The Residual Text, the Fading of the Author, and the Role of Technology 211 Appendix I: Pictorial Content for the Voir dit in MSS A, F, and Pm Appendix II: Pm Manuscript Alterations Appendix III: Illustration Key

242

225

221

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Contents

Notes

245

Bibliography 285 Index

305

Illustrations follow p. 156

Acknowledgments

This book has taken shape over many years and its present print version is thanks in large part to friends and colleagues who gave so willingly of their time and wisdom. Much of the current project was written during my tenure as a Postdoctoral Fellow at the Medieval Institute of Western Michigan University (1997–9) and as a Mellon Fellow at the Medieval Institute of the University of Notre Dame (2002–3). The intellectual community of both institutes spurred me on to think about reading in a broader context. Along the way, a number of scholars have read and commented on this project, and their observations often led me in new and unexpected directions. I am grateful for brainstorming sessions with Cynthia J. Brown, Paul Szarmach, Lori Walters, Amy Ogden, and Marilynn Desmond; for thought-provoking readings of my work from Elizabeth Poe, Barbara Altmann, Robert Sturges, R. Barton Palmer, Daniel Hobbins, Robert Meyer-Lee, and Lezlie Knox; and for contagious enthusiasm, fine espressos, and most importantly, a liberal sharing of his insight into medieval music, from Calvin Bower. I benefited tremendously from the extensive comments of Lawrence Earp, Paul Saenger, and Helen Solterer, who under the aegis of the Mellon Fellowship spent a weekend at Notre Dame discussing with me an early version of this manuscript – a highlight of my professional life! Two colleagues deserve my particular gratitude for their willingness to read, reread, and discuss my work: Anne McCall never tired of listening to me outline chapters on early morning runs and never ceased to show an interest in the project through her close readings, and Maureen Boulton, my principal Mellon reader (and rereader), proved to be the most engaging and encouraging reader imaginable. I could not have completed this work were it not for the generosity of librarians and researchers at the Bibliothèque Nationale de

xii Acknowledgments

France, the Arsenal de Paris, the Pierpont Morgan Library, the IRHT, and the British Library. My annual returns to Paris to examine Machaut’s manuscripts would not have been as fruitful as they were without the delightful hours I spent discussing my project with Emmanuèle Baumgartner, Christine Reno, and Liliane Dulac. I would like to thank Jill McConkey at the University of Toronto Press for her unwavering support, and my two anonymous readers, who gave me reason and renewed excitement to return to my study and refine my argument. Tulane University and more specifically Dr. Teresa Soufas, former Dean of Liberal Arts and Sciences, generously supported this project. Let this study serve as a record of the dialogue I have relished with my pre-print readers over the years; I hope that they will enjoy reading one last time a study they so profoundly marked. Finally, to Terry Lippmann, my cherished husband, who proposed the title of the book and whose love kept me writing, I sing Toute-Belle’s song: Pour vivre en joieuse vie, / J’ai mis mon cuer en amer/ Le meilleur c’on puist trouver.

CONTROLLING READERS: GUILLAUME DE MACHAUT AND HIS LATE MEDIEVAL AUDIENCE

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Introduction: Reading and the Laity

Reading, not writing, was the dominant literary mode in the Middle Ages – John Dagenais1

Reading has a history that marks time by the responses of writers, bookmakers, and audiences to conventional interpretative practices.2 When evolving theories on the purpose and value of texts, changing modes of delivery, advances in book technology, and newly acquired skills and preferences of a given audience converge, the resulting reading experience announces a rupture with the past. Late medieval France offers especially fertile ground to study the influence of these variables on reading because of the progressive realignment of book culture in response to a growing literate laity. From the twelfth century onward, French society increasingly depended on a literate culture to organize its legal, religious, and social structures.3 By the fourteenth century, the nobility had fully recognized the written word as a key source of power, prestige, and pleasure. The resulting upsurge in the demand for manuscripts was so great that industries and schools introduced over the course of the high Middle Ages to cater to clerics and academics expanded to answer the more profitable demands for books by court culture.4 This passion for books affected every aspect of daily life, including bureaucracy,5 religious observance,6 familial relations,7 and even living spaces, as manors and palaces carved out room for libraries and studioli.8 Artisans responded by creating new furnishings, such as improved lecterns, prie-dieux, and chests, to display and store books.9 In the codices produced for the nobility, workshops transferred to vernacu-

4  Introduction

lar writings layouts and designs previously reserved for university textbooks.10 Hence they altered book dimensions and added apparatuses, such as tables of contents, indices, illuminations, and chapter headings. They instituted a layout more conducive to reading, creating an aerated page through consistent punctuation, greater interlinear and intercolumn spacing, and new scripts that reduced the need for obscure abbreviations.11 This new lay constituency also affected the types of books written and reproduced.12 For example, the translation campaign instigated by John the Good and enhanced by his son Charles V spoke to the needs of  a growing literate public untrained in Latin but interested in learning  and in promoting the royal family, the vernacular language, and nationalism.13 Yet further proof of the influence of lay literacy on book production is exhibited in Books of Hours, as they constitute the  earliest example of a genre created exclusively in response to this new audience.14 Alongside efforts to accommodate the laity were the bitter complaints of learned bibliophiles concerning the actual skills of this so-called  literate public. In 1344, Richard de Bury provided a scathing portrait of the lay reader: ‘Laymen,[...] who look in the same way at a book lying upside down as when it is open in its natural way, are wholly unworthy of  the intercourse of books.’15 According to Richard de Bury, the lay reader might covet books and hold them in his grubby hands, but he would  never be worthy of them or in possession of the skills necessary to  unearth their riches. Malcolm Parkes’s study of medieval literacy bolsters the claims in the Philobiblon. His research shows that there was a striking difference between the skills of professional readers (clerics), pragmatic readers (bureaucrats), and recreational readers (the laity).16 But whether the laity mastered the reading methods of the learned, or indeed even expressed interest in doing so, matters little. For an entire industry  sought to foster a lay reading experience that would introduce a more intimate and personal encounter with books in place of the dominant paradigm of public readings at court, where the audience was physically distanced from the written word. In the case of the long-established domain of court literature, a laity  now in possession of at least rudimentary reading skills instigated changes not only in the presentation, but also in the structure, content, and intended use of these writings. Traditionally composed for oral performance, courtly literature was typically mediated by performers and their interpretations sanctioned through community discussion.17 But to ca-

Reading and the Laity

5

ter to a new type of audience, the industry reshaped the codex and populated vernacular books with textual and visual allusions to lay readers handling the written word. Already in the twelfth century, vernacular writers had made space in their texts for fanciful depictions of more intimate reading experiences: Yvain falls upon the scene of a young woman reading to her parents in a garden in Chrétien de Troyes’s romance; a lady desperate to memorialize her love wraps the body of a nightingale in a fabric embroidered with text in Marie de France’s Laüstic; and innumerable lovers in vernacular romance, from Tristan and Yseult to the Châtelain de Coucy and the Dame de Fauvel, depend on the written word to assure intimacy when distance or losangers renders physical meetings impossible. In a similar vein, thirteenth-century writers and bookmakers increasingly depended on the material artefact to give texture to similar lived reading experiences. For example, Richard de Fournival anticipates that his lady will be seduced by both sound and sight when studying his Bestiaire d’amour.18 The influx in the thirteenth century of hybrid books, that is, works that conjoined multiple genres and media, must be viewed as an effort to move earlier fictional accounts of intimate reading experiences to another level. For the hybrid text makes possible a multi-sensorial reading, as it requires an audience to mix reception technologies (e.g., singing, speaking, viewing) to access the text.19 Reading scenes play an integral role in the next generation of vernacular writings, where audiences found compelling models of intimate reading practices. Later vernacular poets populated their stories with private readers seeking out solitude and secluded settings, such as gardens and bedrooms, so as to read romances alone or with a lover. Dante’s Paulo and Francesca reading the prose Lancelot, Toute-Belle in the Voir dit (1363–5) hiding from the court to read Machaut’s Fonteinne amoureuse, and Flos’s patron in the Prison amoureuse (1372–3) rereading and meditating on the poet’s writings are only a few of the lay readers crowding late medieval literature. These authors also inserted reproductions of letters in prose into their narratives to incite audiences to extend the private reading practices favored for these intimate texts to the larger frame of the courtly romance. Late medieval writers and bookmakers further enhanced the portrait of the individual reader through direct reference to actual book recipients. They used these moments to reshape the poet and patron relationship into that of a learned writer and a privileged reader. In spite of the

6

Introduction

clear advantages associated with public performance as a venue for ‘publicizing’ a poet’s fame,20 many late medieval vernacular writers nevertheless aspired that their books would penetrate the camera regis, moving from the loud banquet halls to the bedside tables and lecterns of their readers.21 This shift also entailed favouring small group gatherings or, better, emphasized the individual reader’s retirement from crowds so that silent meditation on the written word could be cultivated. For example, Jean Froissart insists on registering an intimate reading scene afforded his books. On two separate occasions in his Chroniques he details the translation of his courtly texts from the public halls to lords’ privy chambers. In the first case, Froissart recounts his evening visits to the private chambers of the Count of Foix, where he read aloud his lengthy Arthurian romance, Meliador.22 In the final volume of his Chroniques, Froissart speaks of Richard II’s receipt of his love poetry. Here again, Froissart offers a vivid portrait of the book moving from the public space to a more intimate realm. He boasts that King Richard first paged through the book while inquiring about its subject matter. Once he learned of its amorous content, the king ordered a servant to place the book in his private chambers for later reading.23 Thus even within the context of a public book presentation, allusions to the potential for individual reading practices emerge.24 For vernacular writers, the concept of the individual reader promised for them and their works an aura of authority traditionally reserved for spiritual and political counsellors. In an early fifteenth-century copy of the complete works of Christine de Pizan offered to Isabeau de Bavière, the Cité des Dames Master insists on the intimate reading experience in the frontispiece (British Library, MS Harley 4431, fol. 3).25 Foregoing the conventional setting of a reception hall for the book presentation, the illuminator relocates the event within the walls of the queen’s private chambers. In this extraordinary scene, Christine offers up her sizeable book to the queen, who is seated on the edge of her bed. A tightly knit circle of ladies-in-waiting frames the event. Devoid of distractions yet decorated with sumptuous fabrics, ample seating (including a bedside chair and table), and space and light to accommodate various forms of intimate reading (whether individual or small group study), the room provides an ideal setting for the type of serious study Christine hoped the queen would bring to her compendium of didactic writings. In the accompanying dedication, Christine offers the queen the model of learned readers who seek in books wisdom rather than simple entertainment:

Reading and the Laity

7

Car, si que les sages tesmoignent En leurs escrips, les gens qui songent De lire en livre voulentiers, Ne peut qu’aucunement n’eslongnent ygnorence [For as wise men testify in their writings, people who think of reading books willingly can only chase away ignorance]26

Disposing of modesty topoi, Christine expresses the ambitions of late medieval vernacular writers that they be viewed as equals to wise men or the auctores and that their books be approached as the most effective remedy against human ignorance. The efforts of vernacular authors to associate intimate reading strategies with their writings altered the roles of all who came in contact with the text. For bookmakers, the push to conceive of vernacular literature as worthy of private study and serious meditation secured the value of the material artefact at the same time that it enhanced their own role as intermediaries responsible for translating the work into material form. This increased emphasis on the benefits of reading secular writings also assigned greater responsibility to the audience. For the private reader, individual study was the first step to physical, moral, and spiritual improvement.27 A shift from listening to fables and poetry as respectable entertainment to studying the vernacular work for deeper meaning resulted in an influx of debate poetry in which writers refrained from recording a judgment in their texts, deferring instead to their real audiences.28 Increasingly called upon to expound on the text, to interpret its significance, and to take from it moral and ethical lessons, the laity was presented as only steps away from practising the meditative solitude associated with the learned. Encouraged to pick up books once produced for banquet halls, the laity was urged to retire to bedchambers, studioli, or even a recessed window seat, where the book became an escape route from the noise of contemporary life and an entrance into a more contemplative and personal space of quietude. The consequences of situating Froissart’s Arthurian romance and love poetry or Christine’s courtly literature within the parameters of the intimate and increasingly private realm of the bedroom should not be overlooked.29 Romances and lyric poetry, long viewed as texts to be recited or read aloud, passed into an experimental period in late medieval France. Courtly works could be and were approached through different technologies that

8

Introduction

spanned the reading spectrum from oral recitation to silent study.30 Like professional readers, the laity was called upon to add to and enhance the vernacular text through meditative reflection. No late medieval author engaged so intensely with the new status afforded courtly literature or helped institutionalize the lay reader more than Guillaume de Machaut (1300–77). In particular, his Voir dit calls attention to the coexistence of public and private reading practices in late medieval society through its intensely hybrid form. Within the frame of a 6867–line narrative, he includes a panoply of genres and registers, each distinctive because of its anticipated delivery mode. The sixty-three poems and ten songs invite an oral performance, while deictic references to the book’s materiality, forty-six private prose letters, and elaborate pictorial programs privilege a physical encounter with the book. Through this complex structure, Machaut problematizes the text’s material presentation and destabilizes the traditional aural experience. These issues take centre stage in the storyline, where a love affair serves as a backdrop for an unprecedented account of the composition, confection, circulation, and reception of the very book we read. The resulting presentation of the reading and writing experience in the Voir dit proved so tantalizing that over the next seven decades, bookmakers and poets would restructure, recycle, and rewrite the work in direct response to these issues. The present study explores the construction of the lay reader and the lay reading experience in late medieval vernacular art and literature through a case study of Guillaume de Machaut’s Voir dit (1363–5). The actual lay readers who may have encountered Machaut’s work are less the subject of this study than the way in which they were imagined by the author, his bookmakers, and subsequent readers. This approach provides valuable insight into efforts to negotiate the varied reading behaviours that coexisted during this transitional period and the startling liberties adopted by an audience of scribes, artists, and poets who ultimately took control of the author’s corpus. Scholars frequently praise the Voir dit for its seminal portrait of authorship, yet their studies rarely consider the primary role Machaut assigns readers in the construction of the author or the formidable contributions of bookmakers and poets to the master’s authority.31 Robert Sturges is an exception and his scholarship offers an invaluable analysis of the fictional Guillaume struggling with his audience to fix meaning and authority, although he stops short of extending his findings to Machaut’s immediate readers.32 Building on

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this important scholarship, I argue that Machaut’s self-conscious articulation of authorship emerged in response to a perceived aggressive audience that threatened to appropriate and rewrite his text at every turn. Ironically, it was the irreverence of his diverse audience of bookmakers, poets, and the laity towards his claims of ownership that ultimately bolstered his authority. New philology demands that we acknowledge the many hands involved in the production of a codex and the multiple layers of interpretation that constitute a medieval work as it passes from author to a complex web of bookmakers before moving on to merchants, librarians, and audiences.33 These once ignored or denigrated participants in book production are now aglow in the aura of authority previously reserved for writers. John Dagenais insists on the active engagement of bookmakers in particular. Identified first as ‘readers,’ bookmakers progressively assume the role of authors when they transform a source text through ‘translation, amplification, prosification, rehandling, and rethinking into “new” texts.’34 The present study pursues the argument that the manuscript matrix is the production of many hands. But it qualifies this sweeping statement by breaking down Dagenais’s active readers into two subcategories referred to here as intermediary readers and inventive readers. On one side of the spectrum, intermediary readers are individuals who fulfil an intercessory role when producing a material rendition of a work. These readers include the many individuals conveniently grouped as bookmakers, such as editors, scribes, artists, and limners, but can also include public lectors and translators. They fulfil an intermediary position between author and audience or text and reader, and it is their influence on guiding the public’s interpretation of the text that is emphasized.35 Inventive readers are distinguished from their intermediary counterparts by the degree to which they appropriate the text as material for new creations. Whereas intermediary readers are focused on translating the author’s text to an audience in a manner that harmonizes the demands of the text with the skills, interests, and intentions of the projected audience, inventive readers interfere with the smooth continuation of a work. They intercept the master text and proceed to reshape and redefine the work as a means of creating new distinctive writings. Inventive readers, functioning as writers while sometimes working under the guise of editor or performer, use previous compositions as fodder for new, wholly distinguishable works. They relocate the concepts and structures of earlier texts into their own imaginative landscape, thereby staking out new territories at the same time that they radically

10 Introduction

alter our perception of earlier works.36 This categorization of readers can give the false impression of a binary construction, yet this study will emphasize the fluidity between the two reading identities, frequently lingering over evidence that reveals editors and artists using the material artefact to communicate their own message or conversely, a poet guiding audiences in their reception of Machaut’s corpus. Nevertheless the distinction is necessary to appreciate the full spectrum of reader engagement recognizable in medieval artistic production and, as shall be discussed in chapter 1, expressed by such luminaries as Hugh of St Victor and John of Salisbury, both of whom distinguished between subservient study and creative reading. The Voir dit is particularly well suited to a study of the material and literary reception of texts because it self-consciously reflects on these very issues within its narrative frame. The Voir dit depends on both structure and content to explore the impact of lay literacy on vernacular literature. It incorporates three distinct registers – an octosyllabic verse narrative, lyric poetry, and prose writings – and three distinct media – text, music, and image – to recount first the love affair born of an epistolary exchange, and second the rendering of the affair into a coherent narrative. Adding yet another layer of complexity, Guillaume the narrator, a fictional double of Machaut the author, reflects on the hybrid performance of his work, as he composes and has copied songs, poetry, and romances to be presented at court by himself or Toute-Belle. The narrative details the reception of the book we read by a widely diverse audience that encompasses the poet’s lady qua co-author, editor, and patron; the narrator’s servant, friends, and lords; and a wider audience unknown directly by the fictive author but including both members of several courts and city dwellers. Some members of this audience read Guillaume’s works privately but most hear them read aloud. The most remote members of the audience often only hear of his texts by way of performances or loose summaries that are closer to gossip than true recitations of the text. Guillaume experiences numerous frustrations at the hands of his readers who misinterpret, revise, and eventually reject his compositions as the ramblings of an old and naive man. In spite of his failure to convince his immediate readers of the value of the work, the poet proceeds with the production of the Voir dit. He incorporates into his book, which is ostensibly prepared for his lady and his ‘seigneurs,’ the same songs and letters already read by this inscribed audience. He acknowledges on multiple occasions that at this next stage of reading, his future audience will most likely imitate the majority of

Reading and the Laity

11

inscribed characters and listen to the text. But with equal frequency, Guillaume expresses the wish that each individual examine the documents gathered and physically engage in locating hidden materials embedded deep within the codex. Thus while detailing the poet’s acceptance that the private communication of the lovers will be subsumed into public performance, the Voir dit also records the poet’s efforts to persuade the external public to encounter courtly literature in a more intimate manner. He teases his public into studying the page through deictic references to the material existence of his poetry and letters as well as through the detailed description of images upon which he gazes and that are then reproduced in his books. He tricks the audience into actually examining the written word in order to decipher anagrams interspersed throughout the text. Inviting his readers to seek out additional materials elsewhere in the codex, he coaxes them into engaging physically with the material artefact. By implying through the title Voir dit the conjoined acts of seeing (a play on the shared orthography of ‘truth’ and ‘to see’ in Old French) and speaking (a play on the second meaning of dit), Machaut makes his ‘True Story’ a tale of the competing desires of a poet who wants his text studied and a court culture that would expect an oral performance. To appreciate fully the complexity of the Voir dit, a three-tier approach is adopted in this study. Part I examines the representation of readers in late medieval textual and visual culture. Machaut’s entire corpus depends on the coalescence of multiple reading technologies ranging from public performance (e.g., readings, recitations, re-enactments) to intimate reading (e.g., small group readings, private study) as well as multiple established reading models ranging from the professional to the devotional experience. He and his bookmakers drew from a rich storehouse of conventional imagery to articulate a new way of reading vernacular literature. They evoked through text, image, and layout the interests, social status, and wealth of various audiences, as well as their preferred forms of delivery, reading abilities, and interpretative skills.37 This study will thus begin with an investigation of the sources for this novel reading experience. As late medieval artists and writers joined forces to construct this new readership, they drew from scholastic, monastic, and devotional iconography and methodologies to break the court audience down into individual readers who intimately encountered the written word. 38 Chapter 2 takes as its focus the actual accounts of reading in the Voir dit. We witness in Machaut’s magnum opus the premier poet of the fourteenth century struggling to reconcile the boon

12 Introduction

represented by a literate laity with the potential threat it constituted regarding the production of coherent texts. By examining in detail Machaut’s assimilation and revision of established reading models to delimit a new role for the laity, we also gain access to a number of textual strategies he implements so as to control readers’ engagement with, and reception of, his texts. Neither the structural complexity of the Voir dit nor its metacommentary on delivery and reception escaped its first audiences, and both intermediary and inventive readers drew inspiration from Machaut’s inscribed readers to define their relationship to the text. A limited but rich codicological and literary history of the Voir dit provides ample evidence of real readers engaging with the text. In Part II, we shall turn our attention to the codices containing the Voir dit to investigate the strategies adopted by intermediary readers when shaping the text for future audiences. Thus this section investigates multiple sites of amplification and contamination in the transmission of Machaut’s Voir dit. The Voir dit survives in only four copies produced over approximately sixty years (1370–1430). In each case, the text appears within the larger frame of the author’s collected works. The four extant copies of the Voir Dit considered here are Bibliothèque Nationale de France (hereafter BnF), MS f.fr. 1584 (MS A); BnF, MSS f.fr. 22545–6 (MSS F–G); BnF, MS f.fr. 9221 (MS E); and Pierpont Morgan, MS M 396 (MS Pm).39 So distinctive is the fifteenth-century copy of the Voir dit in MS Pm that it will be treated in Part III as a product of an inventive reader. The remaining three versions of the Voir dit document unique attempts to harmonize competing reading models anticipated by or inscribed in the text with new contexts represented by the imagined recipients of each codex. We will explore three forms of mediation. Chapter 3 addresses the ordering of the poet’s collected works along with paratextual and metatextual guidelines introduced as a means of dictating readers’ encounters with the text. In chapter 4, I investigate the role of illuminations in (re)constructing the reading experience and in guiding interpretation. Part II closes with a consideration of the role that layout plays in encouraging specific delivery practices. Contemporary readers necessarily encountered Machaut’s works through manuscript copies, whether they were members of audiences listening to the text or private readers holding the book. Having explored the reactions to the Voir dit first by its inscribed audience and then by the scribes and artists who served as intermediary readers, we turn in Part III to inventive readers who reimagine Machaut’s hybrid

Reading and the Laity

13

work. Chapter 6 presents the particular case of Eustache Deschamps, who shapes his own authorial identity through attentive and celebratory readings of Machaut’s corpus. In addition to many intertextual allusions filtered throughout his writings, Deschamps’s account of his public reading of the Voir dit reveals the important role this later poet assigned to the reading act and the written artefact in establishing a writer’s authority. His documented performance makes apparent his use of reading and meditating to differentiate between professional readers like himself and the laity who should submit to the author’s authoritative status. In chapter 7, we turn to Jean Froissart, long considered Machaut’s most avid and respectful imitator. Froissart’s Prison amoureuse will be revealed to be an engaged response, rather than a subservient imitation, of Machaut’s work. In the Prison amoureuse, Froissart takes Machaut to task for his unfavourable presentation of a potentially destructive readership and substitutes his complaints with a masterful fantasy of his own: an author capable of reining in his readers so that their energy and curiosity nourish rather than undermine the master(’s) text. In the closing chapter, we turn to the last extant copy of the Voir dit (MS Pm), where substantial editorial revisions reveal the remanieur’s determined efforts to reinvent Machaut’s work as a story of personal salvation. The codicological and literary history of the Voir dit provides ample proof that as a text moves through a ‘circuit of communication,’ passing from the hands of the author through those of intermediary and inventive readers, the inevitable alterations and interpretations of the text contribute substantially to the creation of a literary work.40 Each instance where readers exert an influence on the shape and meaning of a text results in a unique rendition of the text. Subsequent audiences may reject or build on those moments of intervention; regardless, these interpretations become integral to the text and contribute to subsequent iterations of the literary work. Moving from reception to interpretation also depends on the methods and technologies applied to the text by a given audience. By incorporating the cacophony of the many internal competing readers, the Voir dit forces us to face our own disruptive and disrupted reflection in its very pages and draws us into Machaut’s system. As France’s first vernacular writer to be accorded the coveted title of poete, Machaut earned his status through his double act of subduing his readers and challenging them to disseminate, disperse, recoup, and rewrite a hybrid and resilient text.41 In spite of bookmakers’ dramatic re-imaginings of the work’s presentation and later writers’ aggressive recouping of the text and editorial efforts to abridge, rewrite, or

14 Introduction

dismantle Machaut’s text, the Voir dit has resisted complete disintegration for over 600 years. Indeed, it owes its continued popularity to its capacity to subsume readers’ responses into its corpus.42 The present study draws inspiration from reception theory to plot the development of the lay reader and to explore the relationship between late medieval concerns regarding audiences’ authority and modern theories of reading. Scholars of reader response theory have increasingly drawn attention to the complex dance of codependency joining readers and the books they study.43 What distinguishes the Voir dit from earlier accounts of the reading experience and what enriches contemporary theories of reception is the intense focus Machaut places on delivery as an instrument to control interpretation. In the Voir dit Machaut clearly indicates his sensitivity to a ballooning audience that defied easy categorization. The Voir dit conjures up a stunning image of ‘reading’ in late medieval France, an image that resists such encompassing terms as ‘readership’ or even the notion of a single ‘implied’ or ‘intended’ reader so predominant in modern inquiries. Machaut envisages an audience of distinct individuals set apart by their chosen reception modes and their intentions. He intersperses his narrative with asides addressing a listening audience; at the same time, he alludes to individual readers who might hold a written copy in hand; finally, he surreptitiously instructs scribes and artists as to the layout of his work. Similarly, his hybrid composition speaks to a number of delivery modes ranging from musical performance to instances of intense meditation on the physical page. The work instigates a wide range of responses including lively debate among its audience as well as crossreferencing that requires flipping through surrounding texts in the hefty codices that contain the Voir dit. Furthermore, the structure of the work along with the narrator’s reflections on the reading and interpretative process carve out space for an aesthetic reading of the text that could range from casual entertainment to a studious reading attuned to its didactic message. Yet the Voir dit also contains abundant evidence of strategies intended to restrain the freedoms of individual readers. Through these restraints, the text brings its diverse, unruly, and powerful audience under control, although its success in fully subduing this audience remains questionable. Foregoing established conventions that stated that reading alone as opposed to listening to a text in public afforded the individual greater freedom of interpretation, Machaut presented the practice of individual study as a means of pulling the reader into the poet’s system. As we shall

Reading and the Laity

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see, Machaut can easily be accused of taunting his readers by leading them down circuitous paths that repeatedly deny access to the truth of his ‘True Story.’ His real readers, including bookmakers, poets, and members of nobility, either played along or actively rejected his attempts to control their reading experience. Either way, their responses secured his authority because they became part of the complex literary web constructed to attract and subdue subsequent audiences. As we witness one poet struggle to control the production, circulation, and interpretation of his text, we fall upon one of the most accomplished hoaxes of reading history. For it is here unveiled that France’s first publicly proclaimed vernacular poete secured his fame through an attempt to rein in the power of an increasingly literate, savvy, and engaged audience intent on asserting its own authority over literary creation. As such, the Voir dit stands alone as not only the first vernacular metanarrative to tackle the issue of reader involvement in all stages of literary creation in both prescriptive and descriptive manners, but as one of the earliest explorations of the epistemological and hermeneutic questions that preoccupy modern reader response theory. Because Machaut faced a burgeoning lay audience that embraced a distinctive and dizzying array of reading experiences, he was impelled to approach these questions from various angles that have also been adopted by modern reception theorists but that have rarely been embraced by a single theory. Machaut’s study of readers simultaneously explores a text’s potential for controlling the reader and the reader’s control of the text. Who creates, owns, defines, delimits, and names a work? By exploring the diverse and often conflicting responses of a noisy and raucous group consisting of poets, scribes, artists, page designers, bookbinders, patrons, contemporary poets, court audiences, and clerics living within and outside the Voir dit, the twenty-first-century reader is compelled to reevaluate current definitions of author, text, and reader. By returning to a period and a literature influenced by an emerging literate laity, we discover a distant relative who may have more to tell us about reading in the era of postmodernism and the hypertext than is easily visible to our over-texted eye. Indeed the extreme efforts of Machaut to control his audience and the success of many to take control of his corpus illuminate the continued struggle of authors and readers played out in modern texts. Guillaume de Machaut, as many scholars acknowledge, had a profound influence on late medieval literature and musical production. What has been ignored until now is the active role he, his bookmakers,

16 Introduction

and his audiences played in redefining the reading experience during a period in French literary history when the laity was at least perceived as aggressively vying for control of the literary process. In the next chapter, we begin our exploration of the Voir dit by canvassing the vast terrain of visual and textual portraits of readers that would serve as fodder for Machaut and his bookmakers engaged in their own construction of the lay reader.

PART ONE Inscribed Readers: The Invention of the Lay Reader in Text and Image

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In the triangle of author, work, and public the last is no passive part, no chain of mere reactions, but rather itself an energy formative of history. Hans Robert Jauss1

In his seminal essay on reception theory, ‘Literary History as a Challenge to Literary Theory,’ Hans Robert Jauss argues that to appreciate a work’s distinctiveness, we must shift our perspective away from the author and the text to consider the relationship between text and reader. This shift is necessary, according to Jauss, because a work is not defined by its production but rather by its reception. As the opening epigraph eloquently states, Jauss does not view the public as a byproduct of literature but as an active participant in its creation. To take into account the contributions of an audience to any given text, the scholar must implement a tripartite analysis. This analysis requires close examination of internal cues to readers, a synchronic study of cultural expectations that shaped both text and its anticipated audience, and a diachronic survey of responses to the work. Only through this multilayered approach in which the reader occupies a primary role can the literary scholar perform an ethical reading of literature, a reading that captures both the uniqueness of a work and an understanding of the role it fills in the greater scheme of literary and social history. With Jauss’s theory structuring this study, the present section establishes first the visual and textual representation of readers in manuscripts and vernacular texts produced from 1300 to 1500 for a French-speaking audience. We will then turn to the Voir dit, where Machaut’s reactions to cultural expectations and social realities surrounding the issue of readers’ role in literary production will be considered. As already noted in the Introduction, a large corpus of scholarship has shown the influence of literacy on the laity’s worldview as early as the twelfth century. From bureaucracy to vernacular literature, the written word progressively emerged as a means of fixing the law, assuring a stable history, and promising social cohesion. Yet if the twelfth-century laity increasingly approached books as storehouses, subsequent communities saw in books material vehicles that shaped a reader’s experience. The physical page as much as the words it registered was viewed as worthy of meditation. In addition, new practices insisted on readers’ physical engagement with the material book-object. The next two chapters detail the emergence of the lay reader in late medieval culture. Chapter 1 explores key texts, iconography, and educa-

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The Invention of the Lay Reader in Text and Image

tional changes in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries that became fodder in later periods for constructing the lay reader. Guillaume de Machaut’s use of multiple models of lay reading will be the focus of chapter 2. As the first metanarrative in French literature that self-consciously anticipates its own reception by an unpredictable audience equally apt to listen to a text performed as to meditate on its material transcription, the Voir dit provides a rich tapestry testifying to the diversity of practices associated with the lay reader. At the same time, the text registers the value system that one of France’s major medieval writers assigned different reading methods. Machaut’s reflections on interpretative methods had a profound effect on the literary landscape. In later sections, we will look to his bookmakers and his learned readers for evidence of their own recorded engagement with the work in general and more specifically with its inscribed audience.

1 Reading between the Lines: Responses to Lay Literacy in Late Medieval Manuscripts

Around 1412, the Boucicaut Master produced a deluxe edition of the Livre des merveilles for the Duke of Burgundy, Jean sans Peur (BnF, MS f.fr. 2810). The compendium, consisting of 297 folios, includes five travel narratives that cover a span of roughly eighty-five years, beginning with the voyages of Marco Polo around 1271 and ending with the adventures of Sir John Mandeville in 1356.1 Of the 265 images decorating the manuscript, only the frontispiece to Jean Hayton’s Fleur des histoires d’Orient includes a portrait of the patron.2 This penultimate frontispiece depicts Jean sans Peur in a conventional book presentation event (Figure 1: MS f.fr. 2810, fol. 226r). Similar scenes fill late medieval manuscripts and are frequently treated as visual evidence of lay society’s increasing role in book production. These images identify the written artefact as a commodity, a treasure whose contents are buried behind weighty clasps, gold leaf, and rich leather. The treasures contained within are not simply the recorded adventures of wayward travellers or the heroic acts of knights. Instead they represent an elaborately orchestrated event that allows the patron to appropriate both books and history.3 Yet to limit interpretation of presentation scenes to visual displays of princely power is to ignore an equally compelling pictorial narrative of the changing portrait of lay readers in late medieval art. For, as Brigitte Buettner maintains, ‘miniatures were not passive illustrations of texts or mirrors of existing cultural patterns; rather they incorporated thoughts, fears and desires, and solidified them into discursive lines.’4 Like the literature they decorate, illustrations can serve as vehicles for exploring cultural shifts. In the case of the frontispiece to Hayton’s Fleur des histoires d’Orient, close inspection of the

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The Invention of the Lay Reader in Text and Image

image shatters any reading that would view it as an uncommented account of book-exchange practices. In the case of folio 226r, if we expand our focus beyond the duke’s body, we discover that the book is located at the nexus of vibrant activity. While the conventional presentation scene is said to celebrate the patron as the owner of a coveted treasure, the surrounding events distract the viewer, arousing the desire to take hold of the gift-book, to unlatch its clasps, and to leaf through its pages. The miniature’s architectural structure, with its arched entries and open windows, invites exploration. Arches penetrate walls to allow us full view of the furthest recesses of the room, where we discover an audience beyond the patron. Closest to the duke stands a group of courtiers observing the donation scene. If the courtier in red facing the activity returns our attention to the duke with his concentrated gaze, his companion in profile, with his back turned to us in a three-quarter stance, appears to gaze out the open window. That window, with its intricately patterned glass shutters swung open, offsets the opening across the room, where two additional men turn their backs to the book-exchange scene and stand transfixed by another book opened on the ledge. Their fascination with the codex before them catches our attention and like so many of the components of the illumination reverberates throughout the miniature. The small open book the two men examine counterbalances both the hermetically sealed gift-book in the author’s hands across the room and the open windows. The very page the two readers scrutinize echoes the exchange between the duke and Jean Hayton. On the verso leaf held in place by the reader’s firm grasp, we barely make out the sketch of a kneeling figure before a seated patron (Figure 2: MS f.fr. 2810, fol. 226r, close-up). This embedded donation scene invites external viewers to revisit the portrait of the Duke of Burgundy and Jean Hayton. A second look confirms that far from painting a traditional scene of princely power as sketched in the miniature of the small open book examined by the two men, the Boucicaut Master fills the frame with references to alternative reading experiences. For example, if the duke initially appears to sit on a throne, closer inspection reveals that beneath its burgundian cover, the duke’s seat extends the length of the room to suggest a bed. Furthermore, if at first blush the overhang above the duke appears as a typical extension of a royal chair, closer scrutiny suggests a chimney. Is our patron sitting on the edge of a bed? Is he blocking our view of a hearth? Are we in his public receiving room or in his private chambers? Such blurring of boundaries invites the viewer to read between the lines, to see beyond

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the architecturally delineated space of book reception so as to catch a glimpse of the complexity that defined late medieval book culture. Attempting to capture the full spectrum of reading practices available to the laity, the Boucicaut Master merges public and private scenarios with stunning adroitness. His efforts to imagine different iterations of the reading event reflect common practices in late medieval France. Many medieval artists and writers generated composites of the lay reading event in their works through the use of hybrid expressions, multidimensional accounts of reading, and innovative hybrid compositions that joined together delivery-specific genres, such as song and poetry or text and image. The verbal equivalent of the Hayton frontispiece appears in the numerous direct addresses to lay audiences in courtly literature that conjoin sound and sight to describe the reading event. Hybrid expressions that gain popularity in the thirteenth century, such as oÿr lire, lire entendre, and lire doucement intertwine aural and text-based reading practices. These hybrid terms anticipate a conflation of reading extremes when dealing with vernacular literature. The current chapter retraces the emergence of this portrait of the literate laity in the texts and images decorating vernacular literature from the thirteenth through the fifteenth century. To appreciate the fluidity of the lay reading experience, we first consider the monastic and scholastic models of study that were institutionalized in the twelfth century. We then turn to vernacular writings to examine the impact of these models on the figure of the lay reader in subsequent centuries. Devotional and didactic writings prove most insistent in reproducing these reading models for a lay audience. As for vernacular romance, it presented its own distinctive issues, as it was traditionally associated with public performance. Rather than rewrite the relationship between text and audience, artists and vernacular writers proposed hybrid scenes that translated the intimate reading experience of the learned into the public domain, thereby blurring the communal experience of performance with the intimate reading of the private communiqué. The vast arc promised by this survey of textual and visual portraits of the reading laity has the advantage of spotlighting the pivotal role played by Machaut’s Voir dit. As the first French metanarrative to engage with not only the proliferation and diversity of the lay reading experience but the actual impact reading practices could have on the value and meaning assigned a text, the Voir dit bears witness to an active negotiation of established reading models inherited from the twelfth century with the actual practices, skills, and desires of late medieval lay audiences.

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The Invention of the Lay Reader in Text and Image

Early Models of Reading: The Private Reader and the Docile Student The earliest pictorial use of books in Western art established the written word as a synecdoche for the Law of God. The book held open in apocalyptic imagery implied the unfolding of truth as much as the codex in later medieval Annunciation scenes recalled the Old Testament promise of a Saviour. By extension, the books and scrolls held in the hands of Gospel and Patristic authors identified them as purveyors of God’s word. In the twelfth century, books took on a new role as conduits that communicated both Divine Wisdom and secular knowledge to readers. With the first lay schools run by the Victorines in France and the ensuing universities of the thirteenth century, the learned assumed the role of mediators and the laity, obedient students. Hugh of St Victor went so far as to identify study as an obligation of all Christians, for only the ‘contemplation of truth’ recorded in books could help ‘restore the divine likeness in man’ (‘Duo vero sunt quae divinam in homine similitudinem reparant, id est, speculatio veritatis et viritutis exercitum,’ I, ix).5 No longer the sacrosanct object exclusively associated with the divine author, God himself, or with the respected auctores of a learned tradition, the book descended from clouds, dropped from the hands of God and from the lecterns of Church Doctors, and landed in the laps of the common reader.6 Retracing the emergence of the Western lay reader demands full coverage of rhetorical, scriptural, monastic, and scholastic sources that fuelled medieval visual and verbal presentations of readers. Such an ambitious undertaking overreaches the current study, where a compromise will be made by restricting attention to two key twelfth-century works that communicated the practices of professional or learned readers to the laity. These works are Hugh of St Victor’s Didascalicon (1120s) and John of Salisbury’s Metalogicon (1149).7 The two texts oftentimes overlap in their description of the reading experience and in the techniques proposed for training readers. Their shared similarities stem from the authors’ mutual interest in training a new generation of readers to distinguish between the casual and superficial reading associated with vernacular literature and the learned model applied to sacred and classical texts. The Didascalicon, while reiterating an established monastic reading method, imagined new practitioners in the young boys who frequented Victorine open schools. Only a few decades later, John of Salisbury again refashioned monastic reading methods to fit a scholastic

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setting. In both instances, the writers addressed a lay audience. As a result, Hugh and John were instrumental in instituting a new style of reading, a forma laicorum, that would eventually shape even the most secularized reading experiences that transpired in the banquet halls and privy chambers of court society.8

Hugh of St Victor’s Model of Private Study Hugh of St Victor’s Didascalicon exercised the greatest influence on late medieval reading models. While dependent on Augustine’s De doctrina christiana and Cassiodorus’s Institutiones divinarum et saecularium lectionum, Hugh’s model differs from these two works in important ways. First, as a text addressed to lay students of the open school of the Abbey of St Victor, the Didascalicon reveals one of the earliest efforts to instruct the laity in monastic reading practices.9 Accordingly Hugh fuses the monastic model with an introduction to the trivium, quadrivium, and mechanical sciences. A second difference between the Didascalicon and its precursors resides in Hugh’s reversal of Cassiodorus’s order so as to treat first secular writings (Books I–III) and then Scripture (Books IV–VI). In this manner, the student moves from the familiar habits and interests of the laity to the more refined approaches of monastic culture. Hugh specifies that secular knowledge is a good beginning for anyone interested in studying Scripture.10 Thus the Didascalicon first covers the analysis of secular texts through a discussion of a tripartite exposition that explores the letter, the sense, and the inner meaning of a given text (III, ix). When performed in conjunction with intense meditation, this reading method – regardless of the subject matter – leads the student to a contemplative state, where he may gain a foretaste of ‘eternal quiet’ (III, x).11 While secular texts according to Hugh of St Victor are limited in the riches they can offer the reader, Scripture is shown to lead to operations of ever-greater complexity. Secular texts allow a reader to move from lectio to meditatio (III, ix–xi), but Scripture permits advancement to higher stages. Beginning with lectio sive doctrina and meditatio, the student of Scripture must then proceed to oratio, operatio, and contemplatio. These three additional stages – prayer, performance, and contemplation – underscore the active relationship that binds readers and Scripture. The final stage bears spiritual fruit, where the penultimate stage suggestively points to a more terrestrial harvest in the form of ethical actions that reinforce, realize, and perpetuate the wisdom found in texts. Thus as the student advances in his study of Scripture, reading as ruminatio or medita-

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The Invention of the Lay Reader in Text and Image

tio eventually leads to the reader’s complete sublimation of the text. Having fully digested a work through memorization and meditation, the student nourishes his soul and generates new works – whether in the form of actions or composed responses. The difference in achievable reading stages in secular and scriptural study also points to different technologies of reading. Recognizing the richness associated with the term lectio, Hugh distinguishes between the reading of teachers, learners, and the solitary individual (III, vii). In the acquisition of a liberal arts education, he explicitly assigns an important role to the teacher who guides the novice in his studies (III, iii; III, vii). Independent reading marks a later stage of study and becomes especially crucial in the reading of Scripture, an activity that Hugh identifies as a necessarily private undertaking. Indeed his ‘independent reader’ is unlike the two other types of readers he evokes – the teacher and the student – because he reads in solitude (III, vii). The Didascalicon presents as its culminating goal the training of this independent reader. It is for this reason that Hugh details the skills he must master, including the multiple degrees of reading, the art of literary exposition, and the seven guiding principles for studying Scripture (V, iv). In the latter case, Hugh establishes these rules as tools that can be used to check the validity of personal interpretations of sacred texts. He follows this description with a warning of the intrinsic danger of eschewing interpretation and approaching divine writings in the same manner as one approaches secular works. Here as elsewhere in the Didascalicon, Hugh acknowledges an underlying fear that students might apply to Scripture the casual reading habits cultivated by secular society and nourished by pagan literature. Rather than read divine works for their ethical import, these students would restrict their study to the poetic skill and erudite knowledge quickly appropriated through superficial study (V, vii). On a number of occasions, this surface reading is associated with casual entertainment and most often, public performances, such as theatrical, musical, and spoken presentations (e.g., II, xxvii; III, v). In his reflections of the casual reader of Scripture, Hugh deliberately defines them as listeners – ‘quos audire verba Dei et opera ejus discere delectatat.’ He continues: What else can I call their conduct than a turning of the divine announcements into tales? Is it for this that we are accustomed to turn to theatrical performances, for this to dramatic recitations – namely, that we may feed our ears, not our minds?

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[Hos ergo quid aliud agere dicam, quam praeconia divina in fabulas commutare? Sic theatralibus ludis, sic scenicis carminibus, intendere solemus, ut scilicet auditum pascamus, non animum.] (V, x.)

His manifest anxiety toward such casual reading leads him to distinguish between the listener who is incapable or unwilling to scrutinize the written word and the reader who is equipped to contemplate the profound significance of sacred writings. As we shall see, this binary depiction of aural versus visual reception of texts informs the writings of later vernacular authors who privilege the examination of the actual material artefact as opposed to a mediated, oral delivery. In early copies of the Didascalicon, it is the independent and private reader who emerges as the dominant iconographic manifestation of his theory. A late twelfth-century redaction of the Didascalicon uses this iconography to establish the author as the quintessential reader. The opening illumination presents a tonsured monk seated before an open book on a lectern. In legible script, the first lines of the Didascalicon are recorded: Omnium expetendorum prima est sapientia in qua perfecta (perfecti boni) forma consistit (Of all things to be sought, the first is that Wisdom in which the Form of the Perfect Good stands fixed). So that we not take the monk for the anticipated audience of the Didascalicon, the inscription across the top section of the miniature identifies him as Magister Hugo. With his hand resting on the page, his head turned slightly downward to the book, and his evident seclusion suggested by the solitary lectern and raised chair, the master models the private reading experience taught by the text.12 This fusion of writing and reading activities differs sharply from the conventionalized iconography of learned writers in which the author was typically depicted writing. The image conveniently benefits from Hugh’s own blurring of boundaries through the textual inscription. For at the same time that this text echoes the first lines of the Didascalicon, it is also a citation from Boethius’s De consolatione philosophiae. This literary homage would have not gone unnoticed by its medieval readers and as a result, they would have seen in the frontispiece a double portrait of Hugh the reader and Hugh the author. By spotlighting Hugh’s dual identity, the illumination provides a formidable model for students who will master meditative methods through careful study of his book. The impact of the Didascalicon cannot be overstated. That Hugh of St Victor undertook to introduce the laity to an education previously reserved for clerics may explain the success of the Didascalicon through the

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The Invention of the Lay Reader in Text and Image

end of the Middle Ages. As testified by the nearly 100 extant copies dating from the twelfth through the fifteenth century, the work had a wide audience. Besides being present in numerous monastic and scholastic collections, copies of the work in the late Middle Ages are preserved in approximately forty-five secular libraries.13 Not only was the work potentially used to train lay readers who frequented these collections, but vernacular authors and illuminators of later centuries drew inspiration from it to portray both devotional and secular readers. In the late Middle Ages, few authors exhibit such indebtedness to Hugh’s reading method as Christine de Pizan. Generously quoting from Hugh’s writings throughout her corpus, Christine overlays her early didactic study of mythology in the Epistre Othea with the tripartite structure he privileged in the analysis of Scripture. Thus she systematically details a historical, allegorical, and tropological reading of each myth. Furthermore, in later copies whose production she most likely supervised, Christine enhances each myth with a complex, symbolically charged illustration, thereby rendering meditation on the physical page the only appropriate manner of reading the work.14 In the Livre de la cité des dames, Christine again draws liberally from the Didascalicon to determine the structure of her work. Clearly inspired by Hugh’s comparison of the reader to the mason who must start with a firm foundation upon which he then places each stone to build his palace, she details the digging undertaken to assure a secure foundation for her city before describing the smoothing out of each faulty misogynist account to construct the city wall.15

Scholasticism and the Submissive Reader At the same time that many late medieval portraits of the lay reader were inspired by Hugh’s description of the most advanced stages of study as private acts, the iconography of reading was also influenced by the emerging scholastic theory that favoured the initial phases detailed in the Didascalicon. In contrast to Hugh of St Victor’s campaign to equip students with skills necessary for private study, the Metalogicon approached reading as an activity monitored by the magister. This subjugation of students to their teachers was writ large in scholasticism and it played itself out in the layout of books purchased by university students. With their interlinear and marginal glosses, student copies of the auctores revealed a concerted effort to direct readers’ access to primary texts. As Suzanne Reynolds cogently argues, this glossing did not open texts to reader involvement; rather, it served as a barrier between reader and

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text.16 Glossing initiated a controlled reading experience that stood in stark contrast to the active private reading proposed by Hugh of St Victor. Visually replicating the dialectic method implemented in university teaching that moved from the quaestiones to the disputationes, glossed school books presented reading as a practice which the magister always dominated. John of Salisbury’s discussion of reading within the university setting underscores the crucial role fulfilled by teachers in shaping students into responsible readers of learned works. In the Metalogicon, John addresses the issue of private reading and interpretation when he reflects on the inherent ambiguity of the term legere. Noticeably drawing from Hugh’s discussion of the three levels of reading, John, nevertheless, reduces reading to two overarching types: The word ‘reading’ is equivocal. It may refer either to the activity of teaching and being taught, or to the occupation of studying written things by oneself. Consequently, the former, the intercommunication between teacher and learner (id est quod inter doctorem et discipulum communicatur), may be termed (to use Quintilian’s word) the ‘lecture’ (praelectio); the latter, or the scrutiny of the student, the ‘reading’ (lectio), simply so called. [Sed quia legendi uerbum aequiuocum est, tam ad docentis et discentis exercitium quam ad occupationem per se scrutantis scripturas, alterum, id est quod inter doctorem et discipulum communicatur, ut uerbo utamur Quintiliani dicatur praelectio. Alterum quod ad scrutinium meditantis accedit, lectio simplificeter appelletur.] (I, xxiv)17

What follows this explanation is a detailed description of praelectio. Some modern scholars adopt John’s distinction between praelectio and lectio as a convenient way to refer to the public and private reading of texts.18 Reducing the two terms to such a simplified reading, however, ignores the context of the passage. John of Salisbury does not use praelectio to identify all cases of reading in public, but a public reading by an authority within a university setting. That is, praelectio refers to the magister who expounded on a spoken text. The university lecture typically included a lector who read the passage to be studied, to which the magister then offered a formal interpretation of the text. Furthermore, the prefix marks praelectio as a preliminary and obligatory stage in reading. Lectio, on the other hand, refers to a second stage of reading – the private study of a text occurring after the master’s sanctioned reading. Thus, while

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John of Salisbury may introduce for the first time the monastic reading process into an academic framework,19 he does so by subordinating private study to public lecturing. The master must oversee interpretation, which is a public rather than individual undertaking. John of Salisbury follows his detailed distinction between the two reading methods first with discussion of the appropriate content and layout of a lecture. He then presents a paragon in Bernard of Chartres. In discussing the latter’s teaching style, John of Salisbury emphasizes that private study followed on the heels of a public pre-reading or detailed exposition offered by the teacher and under the master’s watch. Even when sent to study on their own, Bernard’s students were required to report back to the teacher on their individual work. He required continual evidence that students had truly read in the tripartite sense of lectio, meditatio, and imitatio: each student was required daily to commit a portion of his private reading to memory and then to compose prose and poetry modelled on his readings. The magister then tested students’ memory in class and examined their imitative responses. Where the monastic model promoted by Hugh of St Victor required that the reader learn to evaluate his own interpretations through the seven cardinal rules detailed in the Didascalicon, the scholastic model recorded in the Metalogicon defers judgment, once again, to the magister. Thus as the textual tradition limited interpretation to the sanctioned reflections of the master expressed through weighty glosses, John of Salisbury locates the private lectio and meditatio of the reader securely within a controlled frame. The scholastic tradition with its systematic subordination of the readers qua students inspired a rigid iconography. The magisterial guidance implied by praelectio dominated scholastic iconography in which master and student were distinguished by their relationship with the book. In early manifestations, students listened attentively as the lector read from an open book or more commonly, as the magister expounded on a text. This undivided and admiring attention that students reserved for the teacher gave way to greater individual freedoms in later illustrations of university life, where the proliferation of books among the student body coincided with a lessening of the magister’s perceived authority. For example, a mid-fourteenth century manuscript copy of a commentary of Aristotle’s Ethics includes a striking scene of a university lecture hall populated by students in possession of books (Figure 3: Berlin, Staatliche Museen Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, MS 1233). The illustration retains for the magister his position of authority by way of his

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raised seat and the massive open book placed before him. His supremacy is further validated by a scattering of students with and without books who gaze up at him. The illuminator Laurentius de Voltolina is attentive to portraying a broad swath of medieval society, including laymen and clerics in the audience. Yet a number of these students challenge the academic’s authority. A few appear lost in the private reading of their own books, while others not in possession of personal copies are preoccupied with writing notes, chatting among themselves, or even catching a quick nap. This scene offers vivid evidence of the impact that the book industry had not only on the dissemination of written matter but on study and reading dynamics that were also undergoing dramatic change. In this novel depiction of the university classroom, the magister might assume the seat of authority as a master reader, but his literate students refuse submission. If some students assume the posture of docile listeners, others appear disengaged from the communal event. A number of students talk among themselves and one student in the back row, with eyes closed and body slumped, appears deep in sleep. In other words, no amount of effort in academic circles to normalize learning behaviour could stave off advances in reading and writing, and the concomitant devaluation of the academic’s superior role as a literate individual. Monastic and scholastic traditions inspired unique iconographies of reading that distinguished pictorially between the active, independent reading privileged by monastic culture and the structured reading of the university. Although the imagery sometimes appears interchangeable (there are as many scenes of clerics teaching their attentive brethren as there are university students reading along in their books with the magister), the two iconographies point back to distinct philosophies. These two traditions finally coalesced in the emerging iconography of the lay reader of the later Middle Ages. Revisiting the development of scholastic and monastic iconography of reading prepares the way for a subsequent analysis of the complex negotiations of late medieval artists and authors who exploited these past models to carve out space for the new lay reader. Late medieval artists and authors superimposed learned models of reading onto liminary motifs common to secular manuscripts – including book presentation scenes, author portraits, and images of fictional lovers – with reflections on reading methods, thereby grafting onto grids of power and domination issues of reception. By retracing the origins of these images, we can successfully dismantle a series of received notions that cloud our ability to analyse this iconography. Among the many notions to be challenged

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are the belief that artists uncritically drew from stock images to imagine a new audience, that the devotional model of reading found in Books of Hours was unconditionally extended to the reading of secular texts, and most importantly, that reading scenes are transparent images devoid of sophistication. On the contrary, late medieval artists acknowledged reading as a complex enterprise that required training if one was to move from the ‘pragmatic’ and ‘recreational’ literacy of lay culture to the interpretative study of works long associated with the ‘professional readers’ trained in monasteries and universities.20

Filtering Professional Reading Practices through Lay Books The influence of the reading practices so vividly captured in the Didascalicon and the Metalogicon are filtered to the laity via devotional, didactic, historical, and courtly writings. Let us begin with devotional works, such as Psalters and Books of Hours, since they represent the books most commonly owned by the laity. These works are distinctive because of the dual role they fulfilled in medieval lay culture. The laity’s first contact with these works often occurred in the earliest stages of literacy, when Psalters doubled as primers to teach children to read. These same books along with Books of Hours also accommodated private meditation later in one’s education, which in turn led to spiritual and ethical improvement. In essence, devotional books produced for the laity were intended as lifelong companions that would answer the needs of the most rudimentary to the most advanced reading practices. To guide readers in their use of books as intercessory vehicles, thirteenth-century artists decorating devotional manuscripts turned their attention to two intercessory figures par excellence, the Virgin Mary and St Anne, whom they reinvented as model readers for the laity. Marian iconography underwent fundamental changes in the thirteenth century, when we see the systematic replacement of her spindle by a book in Annunciation scenes. On one hand, the book fulfilled a purely symbolic role by recalling the Old Testament prophecy of Christ’s birth. On the other hand, the prominent placement of the book in the scene extended to the written word the same intercessory role long associated with Mary.21 Where Mary could approach God on the sinner’s behalf, the book could serve as a gateway to enlightenment. This new association of books and visions helps explain the frequent repositioning of Gabriel in Annunciation scenes so that he stands before Mary, as if his presence was predicated on her meditative reading, rather than behind her, as if

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directing her study. In a similar manner, images of St Anne were altered in the later Middle Ages so as to insist on her intimate familiarity with books. Responding to stories that St Anne taught Mary to read, late medieval artists depicted St Anne with book in hand.22 An extraordinary example decorates The Bedford Hours (c. 1422). The frontispiece portrays Anne, the Duchess of Bedford, praying before her namesake. St. Anne sits with an open book on her lap. Alongside the kneeling duchess stand the Virgin and the Christ child. St Anne, however, remains impervious to their presence for she directs her attention to the open book.23 Lost in her own study, she adopts the posture of a learned reader. In this multilayered reading scene, the duchess looks up from her book to discover not simply the familial trinity before her, but its matriarch modelling ideal reading practices. The meditative reader common in devotional works also makes an appearance in contemporary historiographical and didactic writings. Since Notker’s reference to Charlemagne’s insatiable desire to learn Latin, later chroniclers, biographers, and artists responsible for constructing the public image of kings invariably referred to their lords’ enthusiasm for study. Even two kings as distinctive as St Louis and Charles V shared a similar heritage that emphasized their intense interest in book culture. For St Louis, reading scenes from his formative years are standard fare in his illustrated lifecycles. The miniature cycles to both the Vie de Saint Louis and the Grandes Chroniques de France document a reading education that occurs under the protective eye of his mother and the guidance of his tutor. In the latter example, St Louis holds a book on his lap while his tutor points to the written word. In the former, the young king writes in the very book he and his tutor jointly hold.24 Similarly in an early copy of Nicole Oresme’s translation of Aristotle’s Ethica Nicomachea, a four-part frontispiece underscores Charles V’s passion for books and study. In the upper left segment, Charles V assumes the conventional posture of the patron accepting the writer’s book. Directly below this image, the lower left medallion portrays a seated magister before a group of students. Among these pupils is a crowned figure holding an open book. By pairing the portrait of the studious young king with the mature patron of books, a pattern of lifelong dedication to texts and the wisdom they contain is established in the Ethica frontispiece.25 Along with these scholastically inspired scenes, numerous manuscripts adapt the iconography of the devotional reader to the secular experience. For example, a fifteenth-century copy of the Orlage de Sapience illustrated by the Master of Jean Rolin depicts the patron kneeling in prayer before an open book. Above the patron,

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clouds part to reveal Wisdom also holding an unfastened book. A contemporary copy of the Mare historiarum decorated by the Master of Jouvenel also begins with an image of the patron kneeling before an open book. Above him, the clouds separate to unveil the Trinity grouped around the pristine pages of a bound codex.26 These examples challenge the traditional view of secular writings as containing only meagre riches. In later medieval culture, artists established these works as sources of profound wisdom. In numerous frontispieces to secular writings, the author emerges as a mediating figure working between the patron and the book. The Boucicaut Workshop underscores the status of the author as mediator when depicting the reading experience that Jean le Bon could enjoy thanks to Bersuire’s translation of Livy in BnF, MS fr. 259. Here the opening frontispiece extends the conventional book presentation scene beyond the confines of a receiving room to evoke in vivid detail several events recounted in the text. Bersuire, with book in hand, physically demarcates the space of the exchange with the patron from that of the imagined world detailed in the work. Over the shoulder of the translator, we capture a glimpse of the shepherd’s discovery of Romulus and Remus; in the background, the city of Rome looms large. Like the saintly visions that stem from meditation on the written word in devotional works, the codex presented to Jean le Bon holds the promise of secularized illumination.27 In these enhanced presentation scenes, it is the vernacular writer who takes the place of the intercessory figure presented in devotional scenes and the magister of scholastic iconography. In the frontispiece to Bersuire’s work, the translator and the book he holds function as gatekeeper and doorway to the promised vision.28 Such scenes offer far more than a confirmation of the gift-exchange economy or the power and influence of a patron on book culture; they vividly document the transference of the learned traditions of scholastic and monastic cultures to the laity. By articulating the author and patron relationship as one of magister and student, intercessor and Christian, writers were, in turn, positioned as purveyors of a learned culture, which they extended to their secular patrons. To gain access, the patron needed to recognize the meaningful intercessory role of the writer.

The Vernacular Author as a Learned Reader The mediating role associated with translators, historiographers, and didactic writers also influenced the depiction of the courtly author-

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figure. Bookmakers and writers involved in producing courtly literature eschewed the recreational function that these texts typically fulfilled within the context of banquets, court gatherings, or late nights in the camera regis to evoke a more learned context through visual references to scholastic and monastic culture. Frequent in courtly books with didactic overtones are depictions of lay readers as students before the writer qua magister. These illustrations underscore the need for the text to be mediated by a trained reader. Such is the case with Machaut’s Remede de Fortune. The work recounts the poet’s efforts and ultimate success in attracting his lady’s attention through his lyrical compositions. Along the way, the text inserts such a range of poetic and musical forms that it doubles as a quasi treatise on the art of poetic composition. Framing the intimate dialogue between the lover and his lady recorded in song and poetry, the introductory matter, consisting of a frontispiece and a 122line prologue, emphasizes a more learned, text-bound relationship. Opening with the line ‘Cilz qui veult aucun art aprendre’ (He who wants to learn any art), the prologue continues with a list of the characteristics and practices that a true learner must have. The first forty-four lines stress the need for humbleness, eagerness, assiduity, and application if one is to learn, no matter the subject – ‘Armes, amours, autre art, ou lettre’ (Arms, love, other arts or letters) (l. 40).29 Four of the eight copies of the Remede privilege this learned discourse in the opening miniature.30 In a late fourteenth-century copy of Machaut’s collected works, the Remede de Fortune begins with an image of the author seated before his students (Figure 4: BnF, MS f.fr. 22545, fol. 40r). Two earlier copies insist to an even greater extent on the work’s didactic function by presenting a child standing before a magister.31 These images invite reflection on the power dynamics that distinguish vernacular authors and their public. In other instances, the magister motif is implemented to insist on didactic intentions embedded deep within a courtly collection. Such is the case with Christine de Pizan’s two florilegia, Les proverbes moraux and Les enseignemens moraulx, included in the supervised copy of her works presented to the Queen of France, Isabeau de Bavière, around 1415 (British Library, MS Harley 4431). The inclusion of an opening miniature to each text makes the queen’s copy distinctive from all other extant copies.32 The first image places Christine at a desk, before which a group of men stand (fol. 259). They appear to listen attentively as she reads from the open book (Figure 5: British Library, MS Harley 4431, fol. 259r). The second illumination depicts Christine’s son as an attentive student stand-

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ing before his mother who again points to an open book on the desk before her (MS Harley 4431, fol. 261v). The opening rubric announces that Christine composed the work for her son to teach him how to live a moral life. These images prove all the more striking within the context of the Harley miniature cycle, for they are the only illuminations besides the frontispiece to depict the anticipated audience engaging directly with Christine’s books. As in the Remede, these scholastically inspired scenes reiterate a rigid power structure in which the vernacular authorfigure retains complete mastery over the written artefact and fulfils an essentially mediating role as a learned figure not simply capable of writing but of teaching poetic, ethical, and spiritual values. Where the conflation of the author-figure with the magister might be justified in the late medieval cases studied thus far, the use of this iconography in the thirteenth-century copy of the Roman de Fauvel (BnF, MS f.fr. 146) strikes one as out of character. Inserted between Books I and II, a triptych depicting the author-figure calls on the main stages of reading to establish identity. Beginning with a scene of studious meditation on the written word, the series then references the writer’s magisterial role before finally evoking his authorial responsibilities. In the first image, the author-figure assumes the posture of a devotional reader by kneeling, with hands clasped in prayer, before an open book. The bird descending from the clouds, a common symbol in sacred texts that alludes to divine intervention in the interpretative process, underscores his extraordinary authority. In the second miniature placed directly alongside the first in the third column of fol. 10r, the author-figure now assumes the seat of the magister, who reads from an open book to a group of pupils gathered before him (Figure 6: BnF, MS fr. 146, fol. 10r). On the next folio, the final miniature of the author triptych depicts the tonsured monk with open book in hand and three figures standing before him (Figure 7: BnF, MS fr. 146, fol. 11r). This last image marks the beginning of Book II, as announced by the preceding rubric: Si finist le premier livre de Fauvel. Et se commence le segont qui parle de la noblece de son palais du conseil que il a. Et comment il se veut marier a Fortune et comment Fortune le maria au Vainne Gloire. (fol. 11r) [Here finishes the first book of Fauvel and thus commences the second (book) that speaks of the nobility of his palace of council. And how he wants to marry Fortuna and how Fortuna weds him to Vain Glory.]

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Immediately following this statement, the miniature potentially portrays the council. Read in this manner, the open book alludes to the narrator’s recorded dispute. Thus figured as learner, teacher, and writer, the author-figure in the MS 146 miniature cycle comes to his authorial role through his multi-faceted reading experience.33 Efforts to endow the vernacular writer with the authority of a learned reader infiltrated even visual cycles whose content was fixed. A case in point is a fourteenth-century copy of the Roman de la Rose. The opening folio presents a two-part image in which the first compartment presents a magister reading to a crowd of engaged listeners (Figure 8: BnF, MS fr 1569, fol. 1r). This image of the author as teacher declaiming his text to a group of pupils sits alongside the more traditional Rose imagery contained in the second half of the image, where the poet is depicted in bed and Dangier stands before him. Privileging the vernacular writer’s status as a professional reader, the two-part frontispiece precedes the more traditional image in Rose iconography of the vernacular poet as a dreamer with a visual allusion to the author’s learned status. This reversal of chronology effectively redefines the vernacular author as first a scholar and only second as a poet.34 Besides authorizing the text through association with learned practices, this image has the added benefit of claiming for the vernacular poet the status of a professional reader instead of the lesser but more common role of entertainer or jongleur. This insistence on the author as a magister or a learned reader structures an early copy of Guillaume de Machaut’s collected works. A double frontispiece introducing the Prologue to his corpus consists of two separate miniatures that take up nearly three-fourths of two folios. Their size and artistry overwhelm the viewer with their stunning portrait of the vernacular author as reader. In the first miniature, the poet rises from a lectern upon which an open book rests; outside his doorway appears a vision of poetic inspiration.35 There stands Lady Nature with her three children, Sens, Rhetorique, and Musique. The accompanying text teaches that she calls on the poet to master the skills her children represent so that he will create pleasant poetry (Figure 9: BnF, MS f.fr. 1584, fol. Er). In the second illumination, the poet has now advanced to the door, leaving behind his books to study what the God of Love identifies as the material needed to compose poetry. The God of Love calls on him to ‘study’ (ll. 65 and 67) Sweet Thoughts, Pleasure, and Hope (represented here by his three children) (Figure 10: BnF, MS f.fr. 1584, fol. Dr). Like

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the Christian reader who acquires wisdom through meditation on sacred texts, so the narrator Guillaume acquires secular knowledge necessary for poetic creation through study. Guillaume must then use this knowledge to write his own compositions. In fact, the third and last image in the illustration cycle decorating the Prologue depicts the poet writing in an open book (fol. Fv). This succession of images decorating the Prologue in MS 1584 traces Guillaume’s passage from reading to meditation and performance, the latter understood here as the composition of new works. In a similar vein, the Cité des dames Master responsible for the decoration of several of Christine de Pizan’s collected works produced between 1408 and 1415 draws from sacred and devotional models of reading to assert Christine’s authorial role at the beginning of the Livre de la cité des dames. The opening scene uses both text and image to depict Christine’s counterattack on misogynist literature as the result of a careful, meditative reading modelled on methods detailed in the Didascalicon.36 The frontispiece to the Cité des dames in MS Harley 4431 complements the opening scene recounted by the narrator in which she discusses her quotidian engagement with books. Christine explains that it is her ‘maniere’ (habit) and ‘usaige’ (custom) to engage in ‘la frequentatcion d’estude de lettres’ (study of the liberal arts). Physical evidence of her commitment to reading abounds in her cell, where she is ‘avironnee de plusieurs volumes de diverses mateires’ (surrounded by many books on various matters). Having spent a full day in her study, Christine puts aside learned works and seeks out some light reading to amuse herself (‘m’esbatre’). Yet, even her engagement with the small book of Mathéolus, the Lamentations, reinforces her learned status, as we are told of her ‘visitant un pou ça et la et veue la fin’ (reading here and there and then examining the end).37 The disappointment in discovering in the Lamentations yet another learned figure who joined the ranks of ‘philosophes, poètes et moralistes’ known for their attacks on women pushes Christine into deep meditation on the true nature of women. Having fallen into a stupor (‘personne en etargie,’ I.1.1c), Christine laments her fate. Her prayers are answered by the arrival of three women, Ladies Reason, Rectitude, and Justice. They guide Christine to the most advanced levels of study operatio and contemplatio, as she embarks on a journey to reread history. Her literary pursuits centre on unearthing women’s accomplishments and constructing a new space for her female readers. The much-celebrated accompanying frontispiece divides the reading event into two parts demarcated by an architectural structure. The first

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scene collapses into one act Christine’s passage from lectio to meditatio. In the second portion of the miniature, Christine moves between operatio and contemplatio. On the left, the Cité des dames master portrays Christine standing before her desk upon which several books rest, including an open book that connotes the reading event. As in the earlier images, the open book indicates that lectio has occurred. The desk functions as a physical barrier distinguishing the first stage of lectio from meditatio, here evoked through the appearance of the three allegorical figures. Finally, the Cité des dames Master documents Christine’s progression to the stage of operatio, which entails putting into action acquired knowledge. Depicting Christine and Lady Reason before the wall of the City of Ladies, the artist anticipates the association between building and writing that Christine will develop in the narrative. The scene portrays Lady Reason holding a large stone, which represents the revised account of an individual woman’s story, while Christine applies the mortar with her trowel, a metaphor later associated with pen and ink.38 Once again, the vernacular writer organically emerges through discussions of the poet’s professional reading abilities.

The Lay Reader of Vernacular Literature The visual frame of courtly literature reveals efforts to apply these intensely private reading practices to the lay experience.39 Vernacular writers frequently address their anticipated lay audiences to urge them to study, reread, and meditate on the written word. For the actual lay audience, models of intimate, tactile, and private reading abound. Lovers were frequently portrayed in text and image handling and studying written matter in the form of exchanged letters. To assume a similar relationship with books the laity only needed to follow the path of the lovers. The hybrid format adopted by several late medieval vernacular writers bespeaks a particular interest in drawing the audience’s gaze to the page and then to contemplation on their relationship with books.40 Combining song and private letters, text and image, or poetry and prose, hybrid compositions problematize the reading event and encourage reflection on the differences between aural and material readings of texts. Some of the most important textual and visual evidence concerning lay reading appears in hybrid compositions such as the Roman de Poire, the Bestiaire d’amours, and the rich collections of Guillaume de Machaut, Jean Froissart, and Christine de Pizan. While many of these hybrid writings maintained

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the façade of an oral experience by presenting recorded dialogues or debates, they also incorporated anagrams, acrostics, illustrations, and private letters as a means of drawing the audience closer to the material object. Poets enhanced this new insistence on the material nature of their texts with statements attesting to the need to implement a tactile, visual, and meditative approach to enjoy fully the reading experience. Thus the narrator of the Roman de Poire recounts his story through dialogue form at the same time as he generously uses acrostics and anagrams in his work. He calls on this mixture of vocalized and material reading practices to describe the unique powers his book possesses. Anticipating his lady’s reception of his work, the narrator reasons that her meditation on the page will trigger a spoken dialogue linking the lover and his lady: Car cist romanz que ge ci voi Savra molt bien parler pour moi Et mostrer pleinement a l’ueill Que ge demant et que ge veil.41 [For the romance that I see here will know how to speak well for me and will show clearly to the eye what I request and what I want.]

This anticipated dialogue remains firmly associated with the written word, for the lady must see with her eyes what the lover requests. In a similar manner, Richard de Fournival calls attention to the intrinsic role of the written word as a means of commemorating orality at the outset of his Bestiaire d’amours, where he writes: Toute escripture si est faite pour parole monstrer et pour che ke on le lise; et quant on le list, si revient elle a nature de parole.42 [All writing is thus done to show itself in word and so that one will read it; and when one reads it, so it is able to return to its natural state as spoken word.]

Again the written word transports the spoken word across space and time. According to Fournival, the book is a storehouse that when opened returns words to their original orality – ‘revient elle a nature de parole.’ Key to his discussion is the value placed on the actual reading experience. For implicit in his statement is the supernatural quality of reading

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that allows written words, here the lover’s pleas, to penetrate the reader’s body and take on renewed life. Elsewhere in the Bestiaire, Fournival makes more explicit the power of the written word and the actual reading of texts to give life to stories. The narrator interrupts his tale to point out that through reading, distant events, such as the story of Troy, can be brought back to life. In a fourteenth-century copy of the Bestiaire d’amours, an illuminator gives credence to these claims by illustrating the passage with a reader holding an open book. Standing on the other side of the bound book is a group of soldiers ready for battle.43 We witness both through the text and its accompanying image the transference to lay readers of a monastic concept of reading, a process that can lead to an actual ideation of recorded events and concepts. Guillaume de Machaut establishes the reading experience as a viable subject of poetic inquiry. Fascinated with the reiteration of his texts, Machaut imagines multiple reception scenarios for a number of his lyric compositions. Within a single codex, one lyric piece may first appear as part of a collection of formes fixes, only to reappear as a song among musical compositions, and again as a linking text within a longer narrative.44 Each reincarnation demands a distinctive delivery mode – whether spoken, sung, or studied in its material form – and each reception method, in turn, assigns a unique function to the text. The intertwining of delivery modes evidenced in Machaut’s collected works appears in microcosmic form in the Voir dit, a work especially attuned to the power of delivery modes to determine meaning. Of particular novelty in the Voir dit is the inclusion of the forty-six prose letters said to represent the private correspondence of the lover and his lady. Due to their quantity, their verisimilitude, and their selfconscious treatment of their own reception, these letters become a vehicle through which Machaut investigates the impact of delivery on reception. This epistolary genre is particularly well suited to an exploration of delivery modes because it is a genre recognized as blurring the boundaries between public and private realms. For where the ars dictaminis defined letters as intended for oral delivery before a public, Ovid had already established letter writing as the ideal mode of expression for lovers.45 Inspired by these competing traditions, French and Provençal poets assimilated the rules of the ars dictaminis to create salutz or saluts d’amour, and writers of courtly romance inserted versified letters that recorded lovers’ sentiments into their texts. From Abelard and Heloise’s letters to Christine de Pizan’s Livre du duc des vrais amans, medieval

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romance recognized the epistle as a central feature of courting. Epistolary exchange emerged as an essential component of late medieval courtly literature, where the letter functioned as a synecdoche for the lover. As seen in the Roman de Poire example, letters doubled as the lover’s voice. They also were often treated as the written incarnation of the lover’s body; letters were taken to bed, where they enjoyed the kisses and caresses typically reserved for the lover. In the case of Guillaume’s correspondence with his lady, his letters benefit from all of the privileges typically afforded the lover. Proclaiming her joy in reading his epistles, Toute-Belle writes: je le [le plaisir] pren plus grant a veoir ce que vous m’ avez envoiét; que, par ma foy, il ne fu jour depuis que je les ressus que je ne les baisasse deulz ou trios fois tout du mains. (Letter III, p. 94b) [I take greater pleasure in looking over those things you sent; for by my faith, no day has passed since I received them that I haven’t kissed them two or three times at least.]

The iconography associated with epistolary exchange maximized the sense of intimacy developed in courtly romance by establishing the bedroom as the private space of reading. Illustrations frequently located the transference of letters from messenger to recipient in a bedroom, a space long identified in monastic tradition as the private realm of study and one rapidly appropriated by courtly writers.46 By the fifteenth century, as Alain Chartier attests, the bedroom had become the only appropriate place to read and write love letters: Or veult l’amant faire dis et balades, Lettres closes, segrectes ambaxades; Et se retrait Et s’enfermë en chambre ou en retrait Pour escripre plus a l’aise et a trait. (ll. 319–23)47 [For the lover who wants to write dits and balades, closed letters, secret ambassadors, he is to isolate himself and closes himself up in a room or in a retreated space to write more at ease and more freely.]

It is important to note that even when a narrative failed to attest to the lover’s presence in the woman’s bedroom, courtly iconography system-

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atically recorded the image of the lover or his messenger penetrating the lady’s private chambers. A typical example introduces Christine de Pizan’s Complainte amoureuse in an early copy of the work. Here, the lover kneels at the foot of the lady’s bed, even though the poem underscores the physical distance separating the lovers (BnF, MS fr. 835, fol. 50).48 Such comments and images emphasized the need to escape the bustle of court life to find a quiet, secluded, and even intimate if not entirely private space if one wanted to read a correspondence. These images also suggest that, like devotional works that assured a mystical experience for the contemplative reader, so too the recipient of a love letter could anticipate the appearance of the sender. In this manner, contemplation became a means of ‘reproducing’ the distant lover. Laurel Amtower argues that ‘early medieval art mystified the book, distancing it from lay culture’ whereas by the late Middle Ages, the book figured as ‘a personal symbol – a symbol not of obfuscation, but of accessibility and universality.’49 A more attentive examination of late medieval iconography of reading reveals that while the written artefact did indeed drop from the grip of God and auctores to pass into the hands of a secular audience, the book did not become a symbol of universality. While no longer a distant and ominous icon, written matter could only be accessed by a small portion of lay society and then only typically through careful mediation of scholars and writers. Illustrations depicting written material and reading scenes systematically placed limitations on lay readers’ ability to access the wisdom and knowledge contained in books without the assistance of authors and artists who served as mediators. Yet late medieval authors were clearly set on encouraging a more intimate relationship between vernacular texts and the laity. Turning to the courtly couple as a potential model for this intimate form of engagement, these writers used the amorous relationship to reflect on the ties binding readers to texts. Like love letters, vernacular books were presented as containing countless secrets and as instigators and supporters of intimate affairs. Where oral readings and performances encouraged the community to unite around the recited text, depictions of individual readers or small intimate groups encouraged privacy, an eye that would linger over a book’s contents, hands that would caress pages, and tongues that would voice secrets. Rather than symbolize communion with an entire society and convey universality, these works stressed intimacy among the select few. As the frontispiece to Jean Hayton’s Fleurs des histoires d’Orient makes clear, bookmakers desired that the works they so carefully decorated and

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produced be closely examined. Rather than continue to promote secular texts as material intended for public performance, they invited the audience to peruse the material artefact. But lest we conclude that late medieval bookmakers and writers uncritically extended to the laity the reading skills associated with professional readers, we shall turn in the next chapter to the Voir dit, where Machaut explores the potential threat associated with lay readers. In particular, his meta-reflections on the reception of courtly literature reveal a special concern for the ability of lay audiences to claim ownership of texts, to pass judgment on content, and eventually, in their unprecedented intimate contact with books as ‘material’ readers, to rewrite, refute, and ultimately claim literary texts as their personal property.

2 Lay Readers in Guillaume de Machaut’s Voir dit

Having examined the traditions drawn on to shape the lay reading experience as a private, intimate act in the late Middle Ages, we now turn to the specific case of Guillaume de Machaut, who made of reading a subject of romance. In the Voir dit, Machaut challenges conventional wisdom regarding reading by neither reducing the event to a uniform experience nor blindly accepting the model of lay readers espoused by his contemporaries. He first imagines a new reader that fuses models drawn from monastic and scholastic cultures with the courtly couple to create a ‘loving reader,’ an individual who would cultivate a material reading of the textual body. But when Guillaume discovers that even his lady falls short of his ideal and that he faces a number of aggressive readers who threaten to silence him forever, he takes steps to shape them forcibly into his ideal audience. Depicting the reading event as a site of a constant struggle for control waged by author and audience, Machaut identifies the material artefact as a tool wielded to manage rather than empower readers. The Voir dit recounts the love affair of the aged poet Guillaume and a young noble lady identified as Toute-Belle. The Voir dit begins when Toute-Belle sends a letter along with a poem to Guillaume. Declaring her love and admiration for the poet whom she has never met, TouteBelle announces that should he reciprocate her feelings, he can prove his commitment by responding to her letter, correcting her poem if needed, and composing a virelay about his love. From this inaugural epistolary exchange, a lengthy correspondence is born. Recording the predictable stages of a love affair, the couple’s letters provide details about the first kiss, jealousies, trysts, and confrontations with the médisants

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who threaten to destroy the relationship. Eventually Toute-Belle commissions a book that will document their affair. That book is the very one we read, the Voir dit. Beyond sharing textual space with a compelling metanarrative that documents its own production, the romance also attests to its early  dissemination and reception. From the outset, Guillaume distributed excerpts of the book to his patrons, but it is Toute-Belle’s dealings that prove most disturbing. In the midst of composition, the poet receives word from his patrons that Toute-Belle is making a public mockery of him first by reading aloud his writings to a court audience and second, by her behaviour, which profoundly contradicts his account of their relations. As a result, those familiar with his work question the veracity of his ‘true story,’ and encourage him to abandon the relationship and the book project. When confronted with these accusations, Toute-Belle proclaims her innocence. The book concludes with the poet informing his readers that he and his lady have reconciled, and that the Voir dit provides solid evidence of his eternal love for Toute-Belle. Scholars agree that the Voir dit deals less with its purported principal concern, the love affair, and more with the poet’s efforts to produce a compelling written record of that affair.1 Yet these same studies that seek to spotlight the extraordinary portrait of the writer frequently do so at the expense of an equally unprecedented account of the reading experience. In their efforts to prove the author’s dominance over the literary process, scholars relentlessly avoid discussion of the invasive role that the inscribed audience – including Toute-Belle, Guillaume’s servants, friends and lords, multiple court audiences, and even common folk – assumes in  the production and interpretation of his writings.2 Involved at every stage of book production, Guillaume’s inscribed readers co-write, circulate, interpret, gloss, reinvent, and ultimately reject the author’s literary  version of his ‘true story.’3 Guillaume, in turn, becomes wary of his increasingly aggressive, mocking, and ungovernable audience. As will become evident, Guillaume’s efforts to protect the integrity of his story centre on creating a material artefact that resists public performance at every turn. He produces a voluminous work that overwhelms the audi-  ence with ‘evidence’ and that defies efforts to appropriate, synthesize, or  reinvent its contents. Beckoning to his audience to separate from the typical crowd of listeners, Guillaume offers a book that demands one to  engage in a sensual experience consisting of touching, gazing, and  meditating on the written word.

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The Lay Reader: Variations on a Theme The Loving Reader When imagining a new reading experience for vernacular literature, Machaut reinvents romance, beginning with the amorous couple.4 Machaut first undermines courtly convention by troubling the expected dynamics of amorous attraction. Roles are destabilized when Toute-Belle actively seeks out the poet rather than striving to attract his gaze. Moreover, whereas she represents the paragon of the beautiful lady, the man she desires lacks all qualities normally associated with the lover. At the outset of the poem, Guillaume portrays himself as an old, used man who only desires poetic inspiration, not an actual romance. The Voir dit opens with the unconventional scene of an aged and ill author suffering from creative stagnation in spite of the onset of spring, the season of poetic renewal. In an effort to find inspiration, Guillaume has risen from his sickbed, left behind his study, and reclined in an enclosed garden – the locus amoenus of poetic creation. Yet his new locale only serves to accentuate his artistic impotence: Si que parfondement pensoie Par quel maniere je feroie Aucune chose de nouvel Pour tenir mon cuer en revel. Mais je n’avoie vraiement Sans, matiere ne sentement De quoy commencier le sceüsse Ne dont parfiner le peüsse. (ll. 57–64) [And I was deep in thought as to how I would make something new to keep my heart happy; but I didn’t really have an idea, material, or feelings, as far as I knew, with which to begin, nor was I able to rework anything.]5

Guillaume puts aside his melancholic reflections when he sees an old acquaintance approaching. To his delight, he learns that his friend bears a message of love from a young, beautiful, and talented lady. Like the muses of classical poetry, Toute-Belle appears to Guillaume (albeit in written form rather than in a vision) to present him with the divine riches of poetic inspiration. Toute-Belle’s first message will supply

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Guillaume with all three poetic ingredients he previously lacked – ‘Sans,’ ‘matiere,’ and ‘sentement.’ He is immediately enamoured, but it must be emphasized that he falls in love with a text rather than a body,6 a potential reader rather than a lady. It becomes immediately apparent that Guillaume is less interested in the bodily sensations that the lady could revive and more enthusiastic about the artistic creativity she stirs back to life. His ardent but unsubstantiated praise for her beauty and his impatience to meet her quickly wilt when the poet reflects on his own aged appearance. Forgoing arrangements for a first meeting, Guillaume longs instead for letters and a portrait of Toute-Belle. More than his lady’s embrace, he desires her hungry gaze devouring his letters; in place of sweet-nothings falling from her lips, he hopes she will sing his songs; and rather than fantasize of teaching the adolescent about love, he promises to share his secrets for writing poetry and composing songs. These desires rekindle the poet’s creative energies. Guillaume credits Toute-Belle with his reawakening, claiming that she has given life to one who was previously ‘assourdis, arudis, mus et impotens’ (deaf, dull, mute, and impotent) (L. II, p. 78a). In essence, it is not the man Toute-Belle resuscitates but the poet who was deaf and hardened to artistic inspiration, mute, and impotent when it came to lyrical expression. Machaut challenges courtly convention on a second front when he defines the couple with relation to a scholastic model of master and student.7 Couched in amorous discourse, Toute-Belle’s desires are those of a literary enthusiast, an infatuated follower, an avid reader, and an eager student.8 In her first rondeau, Toute-Belle declares her undying love for the poet and grounds her amor de loin not in Guillaume’s reputation as a fearless knight or a great lover, but as a composer. The service she demands of Guillaume, as stated in her first letter, is not that he protect her from harm or rumour, but that he send her copies of his writings, new songs, and musical notations for her own lyrical compositions: Et qu’il vous plaise a faire .I. virelay sur ceste matere, et le vous plaise a moy envoier note, aveuc ce rondel icy, aveuc les .II. autres: celli que je vous envoiay, et celli que vous m’aves envoiet par li meïsmes. De ce vous mercy de tout mon cuer ... Je vous pri, treschiers et bons amis, qu’il vous plaise a moy envoier de vos bons diz notez, quar vous ne me poés faire service qui plus me plaise. (L. I, p. 72b/d) [And if it would please you to write a virelay on this matter and send it to me notated, along with the rondel here, as well as the two other works; that is,

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the one that I sent you and the one you sent me by itself, I would thank you with all my heart ... I beg you, most dear and good friend, that it please you to send me your best notated works because in doing so you would do for me a service that pleases me greatly.]

Poetry is the love token of choice in the Voir dit. In her later missives, Toute-Belle continues to request compositions, ranging from discrete lyric and musical texts to copies of the poet’s longer dits, typically adding on multiple occasions that she only finds pleasure in reading Guillaume’s works (e.g., L. III, p. 94c; L. V, p. 138a; L. VII, p. 162g). Foregoing the pedestal reserved for the courtly lady, Toute-Belle submits herself to the poet’s authority: she is eager for Guillaume to correct her poetry, teach her to write better, and provide her with copies of works that she promises to study, memorize, perform, and imitate (e.g., L. I, p. 72b; L. III, pp. 94–6b, e–f, L. VII, p. 162e). Toute-Belle and the poet are passionate readers who surpass even the intensity associated with monastic study. Beyond sharing certain qualities with the monastic reader, such as studying, rereading, memorizing, and meditating on poems and letters, both lovers also see in one another’s letters a surrogate for the lover. The sensuality of their reading experience is expressed in their dealings with texts. Even before reading Toute-Belle’s first poem, Guillaume covers the sealed missive in kisses, expressing little interest in its actual contents (ll. 197–202); and in his first letter, he stresses the pleasure enjoyed every time he sees, hears, or holds her writings (L. I, p.78a). Toute-Belle also treats Guillaume’s letters with great affection. She welcomes them with kisses, hides them in her bodice, and professes that she can never get enough of their contents (‘ne puis je assez lire ne resgarder ce que vous m’envoiez’) (L. VII, 162g). Privacy and secrecy are of the first order for these literate lovers. They assure this aura of intimacy in multiple ways, ranging from their careful selection of trustworthy and discreet messengers to their habit of absconding themselves from the court bustle at every chance. In fact, in the more than forty references in the framing narrative to the lovers’ reading practices, only a half-dozen allude to listening to an oral reading performed by someone other than the couple. Otherwise, the two lovers prefer to sneak off to their bedrooms to read in peace. Toute-Belle even locks her bedroom door to assure privacy (‘et clouy l’uis,’ l. 1341; ‘fermai ma chambre, et leu vos douces lettres,’ L. XXII, 408b). Guillaume underscores the intensity and isolation of his own reading experience:

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‘plusieurs fois sa lettre lui/ Tous seulz, qu’il n’i havoit nullui/ Fors moy sans plus et son ymage’ (I read her letter several times when I was completely alone and there was no one save me and her image) (ll. 4761–4763). Like Toute-Belle, Guillaume relishes his solitude, repeating that he was ‘tous seulz’ and ‘fors moy sans plus.’ Both lovers frequently draw out the emotional experience by rereading letters, sometimes twice, four times, and even as much as twenty times (L. XXVII, 448a). When surrounded by others, the lovers mentally divorce themselves through their actions. Toute-Belle confesses that her constant reading of Guillaume’s writings draws the attention of her servants and family who are surprised by her desire for solitude. So much does she lose herself in his books that she fails to fulfil her regular obligations at court (L. XVIII, p. 460g; L. V, p. 138a). In situations where they are required to read in the presence of others, the lovers create a sanctified space through their devout mumblings. Thus Guillaume reads ‘between his teeth’ (Eins les lisoie entre mes dens) (l. 783); when standing before a messenger, Toute-Belle ‘reads quietly’ (doucement a lire) (l. 3060). Whether alone or in a crowd, the lovers find in reading a means of reunion that transcends space and time. The discretion, intimacy, and dedication afforded the lovers’ letters extend to lyric creations and Guillaume’s dits as well. To encourage an astute reading of his lyric pieces, the poet often ignores his lady’s requests for notation by sending first the lyrics and only later the musical score. Although Toute-Belle always responds by voicing her desire for the music so that she can perform his songs, she concedes the pleasure experienced in reading these texts. Guillaume’s strategies appear effective, for even when privy to a performance by the author himself during their first meeting, Toute-Belle requests that he have the poem immediately transcribed so she can study it. Guillaume describes the scene as follows: Adonc par son tresdoulz regart Me commanda qu’elle l’eüst Par quoi sa bouche la leüst, Car, en cas qu’elle la liroit, Assez mieulz l’en entenderoit. Et je le fis moult volentiers Et de cuer; mais endeme[n]tiers Que mes escrivains [l’escrisoit] [Ma douce dame] la lisoit, Si qu’elle en sot une partie Ains que de la fust departie. (ll. 2364–74)

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[Then with a very sweet look she commanded that she have a copy of [the poem] so that with her own mouth, she could read it because by reading it herself she would better understand it. And I did this willingly and wholeheartedly. At the same time that the secretary wrote it, my sweet lady read it so that she knew a part before she left.]

As the poet recites the piece so that his secretary can record it, TouteBelle prefers to read and memorize the text as it is written rather than concentrate on the poet’s second oral delivery of the work. We will return to this passage later in the chapter when examining the visual depiction of this scene in an early manuscript, for the accompanying miniature offers a strikingly different account of events. Lengthier compositions also appear to enjoy the luxury of private study when offered to Toute-Belle. After receiving a copy of the Fonteinne amoureuse, Toute-Belle speaks of the consolation she derives from rereading the text when alone at a foreign court: ‘Si n’est nulz esbatemens que j’aie, se ce n’est de lire vostre livre et ce que vous m’avés envoié, et de penser a vous’ (There is no other enjoyment I have besides reading your book and what you sent me, and thinking of you) (L. XXIX, p. 506d). Reading the Fonteinne not only leads her to think about her lover, but it also informs her interpretation of troubled dreams, as if it were a learned work rich with wisdom (L. XXIX, p. 506c). Similarly her first requests for an early draft of the Voir dit are framed by promises that she will keep the work secret (L. XXIX, p. 508d). Once in possession of the first instalment, she rereads the entire book twice (L. XXXVIII, 600b) and resists returning it because it represents her sole source of pleasure – ‘c’est tout mon esbatement’ (L. XLVI, 782c). The clear advantage of these intimate reading practices that entail a studious and material contact with the written word, as even Toute-Belle seems to recognize, is the profound understanding it provides the individual who can linger over meaning and reread the work for pleasure, consolation, and/or wisdom. But accessing a work through its material embodiment is also advantageous for the author who can take comfort in knowing his text enjoys material stability. Guillaume frequently expresses concern that his works will circulate before they are stable bodies. He informs Toute-Belle early on that she should refrain from sharing his writings with others, unless otherwise instructed. He counsels Toute-Belle to guard his correspondence and the book-in-progress from others (L. XXXIII, 558e; L. XXXVII, 592d). Regarding his music, he explains his reluctance to send her a copy before having heard the performance himself so that he can assure its success. In fact, in hearing the performance, Guillaume is able to

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ascertain in part that the scored parchment correctly reflects his intentions. Nevertheless he specifically requests that she refrain from sharing with others even these written records of his music (e.g., L. XXXV, p. 572h). Once he has fixed his letters, poems, and music in the Voir dit, he informs Toute-Belle that she can now show the work to whomever she likes (L. XLII, 730d). Thus before accepting the circulation and public performance of any of his writings, Guillaume insists on the opportunity to shape, stabilize, and supervise delivery through the production of the physical text. In spite of these efforts to assure the integrity of his work, the poet discovers that his texts fall subject to readers’ individual desires and needs. Indeed, his final pronouncement that she may show his book to everyone is laced with clear resentment. At this point in the narrative, he has heard that she has already read his texts at court and that she has systematically misrepresented and misinterpreted his intentions. Thus while Guillaume insists on an intimate, material encounter with his works and while he fantasizes about an unconventional relationship in which his reader is an accommodating admirer, Toute-Belle reveals herself to be a very different type of reader.

The Masterful Student The extraordinary union of the courtly lady and the ideal loving reader imagined by Guillaume belies Toute-Belle’s stated ambitions at the outset of their relationship. Where Guillaume prefers to see Toute-Belle as his student, muse, and most importantly as a submissive and admiring reader, she presents herself as an active reader intent on fulfilling the dual role of co-author and editor of the Voir dit.9 Toute-Belle’s initial poem reveals her to be an already formidable student, as Guillaume concedes. Apparently expecting to read an awkward work written by a novice, Guillaume discovers instead that her first rondel ... n’estoit pas rudes ne let, N’il n’estoit mie contrefais, Ainçois estoit si tresbien fait Et en tous cas si bien servoit Que nulz amender n’i savoit. (ll. 184–8) [... was neither amateurish nor ugly, and it was hardly poorly written. In fact, it was so well done and in every way, so well presented that there was nothing that needed amending.]

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This initial acknowledgment that the poet has little to offer his pupil is the first hint of the threat Toute-Belle will quickly come to represent. Moreover, this same poem provides substantial inspiration for Guillaume. After reading it, he sets out to imitate the student by composing a rondeau patterned on her example (‘Et par tel rime mon rescript / Ferai comme elle m’a escript,’ [And with the same rhyme with which she had written me, I composed my response] (ll. 366–7). Similarly Guillaume’s subsequent literary production owes as much to TouteBelle’s requests for works as to the sentiments she incites. She includes a lengthy list of demands in her first letter. In addition to appeals that he correct her work, she asks for a virelay, three notated rondeaux, and samples of his dits. Guillaume scrambles to fulfil her requests. Included with his first response are a rondel and a promise that the music will come with his next letter (although it never does) (L. II, 78–80b). In a subsequent letter, he reports that a copy of his Fonteinne amoureuse has been undertaken in her honour (L. IV, 124–6f). Roles shift and blur again when Toute-Belle the student calls on the poet to enhance her poetic works with his words and music rather than compose new independent works: Et sur l’autre chanson baladee [composed by Guillaume, here ‘Je ne me puis saouler’], je en ai fait une autre; et, s’il vous semble que elles se puissant chanter ensemble, si les y faites: Je n’en ai encores fait que une couple, car les vostres sont si bonnes que elles m’esbahissent toute, si vous pri que vous y veuilliez amender ce qui y sera a amender. (L. V, p. 140e) [And based on the other chanson baladee, I have composed a new work. If it seems to you that they can be sung together, make it so. I have only composed a couplet because yours are so good that they amaze me. I pray that you will want to amend what needs amending.]

Maintaining the discourse of an admiring reader, Toute-Belle’s request nevertheless transforms the poet’s earlier poem, an independent and monophonic text, into a polyphonic composition that assigns equal value to the voice of the ‘student.’ Thus by her fifth letter, Toute-Belle has officially abrogated the role of the subservient and respectful student to adopt a more authoritative position as a demanding, involved, and insatiable reader. Over the course of their relationship, so accomplished a poet does Toute-Belle reveal herself to be that Guillaume can no longer ignore her threat. Referring to a particularly successful poem that closely imitates

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an earlier composition by the poet, Guillaume likens her achievement to a literal erasure of his own poetic talent: Si fis ce rondel en chemin Et li tramis en parchemin; Mais elle y fist tele response Que mon ouvrage efface et ponce. (ll. 2785–8) [I composed this rondel on the road and transcribed it on parchment, but  she composed such a response to it that my work was erased and scraped away.]

Toute-Belle’s careful reading and subsequent adroit imitation of the  poet are compared to the medieval practice of scraping and erasing  previous writings on parchment to inscribe new compositions. This  technical process would transform the poet’s work into a palimpsest,  thereafter undetectable to the human eye. In essence, Toute-Belle’s mastery of the skills taught by Guillaume threatens to render the master irrelevant not only to his student, but to poetry in general and specifi-  cally to the Voir dit. He implies that by appropriating the poet’s territory – the parchment itself – Toute-Belle stifles his writings with her own words. While having been presented earlier as breathing life into the poet, over the course of their affair, Toute-Belle quickly becomes a suffocating  force that threatens Guillaume’s poetic manhood. Yet this poetic game of imitation is far from out of the ordinary. TouteBelle adopts the same rhythm and rhyme scheme as her lover to produce her own poetry on several occasions (e.g., ll. 2887–900). Nevertheless, these early remarks indicate an important shift in Guillaume’s own  understanding of Toute-Belle’s role in the literary process. Later in their  relationship, when Guillaume begins to suspect her betrayal, he selfconsciously responds in poetic form to a complaint written by Toute-  Belle in a manner that noticeably differs from the model she provided. For fear that the audience would fail to notice this fact, he points to the uniqueness of his piece: Vescy la response de fait Que j’ay a sa complainte fait; Mais nulle rime n’i est prise Qui soit a la sienne comprise, Et si n’est mie de tel mettre (ll. 6203–7)

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[Here is the answer I wrote to her complaint; but in my response there is not a single rhyme that was first included in her work nor is there any sign of her metre]

This assertion reinforces the couple’s rupture and reasserts Guillaume’s status as the more accomplished poet. When Toute-Belle solicits a written version of their love affair, the future Voir dit, she supersedes the poet to an even greater extent. No longer his student, muse, or even lover, she presents herself as his coauthor and editor; her letters and poems represent nearly half of the physical material of the book, and her involvement in the production and ordering of the final work is amply recorded. Functioning as editor, she requests copies of the work in progress (L. XXIX, p. 508d), refers to necessary corrections that the couple will discuss in person (L. XXXVIII, p. 600b), and refuses to return the sole copy of the book until they have met and discussed together the final changes (L. XXXVIII, p. 600b; L. XLVI, p. 782f). Defying Guillaume’s earlier image of her as a submissive student, Toute-Belle presents herself as a textbook case of an active reader who passes through the early stages of study and meditation emphasized in monastic and scholastic texts to ascend to the level of performance, where a new creative work is born of the student’s masterful imitation of the teacher. Like Bernard of Chartres’s students discussed by John of Salisbury who end every reading assignment with the creation of a new composition, so Toute-Belle matches every text composed by the poet with her own response and every passage of the Voir dit with her glossing. Toute-Belle’s actions make her ambitions transparent to the attentive reader. She approaches Guillaume’s writings and his willingness to teach her as a means of securing her own fame, a practice that Hugh of St Victor harshly criticized in his comments to lay students.10 Her success is manifest in the Voir dit. The intricate intertwining of the couple’s works renders impossible the disassociation of author and student.11

The Mocking Listener The dissonance created through Guillaume’s initial portrait of his lady as an accommodating, submissive student and Toute-Belle’s self-portrait as an active reader establishes a pattern replicated in Guillaume’s dealings with other inscribed audiences. Such is the case with his patrons who, early in the story, hear rumours of the epistolary affair. They send a

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messenger to gather samples of letters and poems from the poet in order to investigate the case. Interpreting the patrons’ request as a sympathetic gesture toward the couple, Guillaume willingly prepares a legal voir-dire that serves as both a mini-dossier and an early version of the Voir dit.12 He anticipates that their knowledge of the affair and access to the lovers’ correspondence will protect the couple from future attacks, an argument he develops in a later letter to Toute-Belle: Mon doulz cuer et puis que il est ainsi que ou royaume et en l’empire que nos amours sont sceues et revelées, et especialment des meilleurs, bien seroit ores de male heure nez cilz qui fausseroit de nous .II., car jamais n’aroit honneur. (L. XXV, p. 424c) [My sweetheart, since it is such that throughout the kingdom and the empire our love has been made known and revealed, especially the best parts, it would be a very bad moment for anyone who would tell lies about the two of us, for he would never find honour.]

The lords’ initial requests lead Guillaume to believe that they will carefully study the contents, take to heart the information contained within, and benefit from this information later to counter the médisants who would threaten to misinterpret events. It is for these reasons that he willingly furnishes his lords with copies of the couple’s poetry, displays Toute-Belle’s portrait before their messenger, and produces a brief written testimony of the affair (L. XXV, p. 422b). This final document, which is not reproduced in the Voir dit, would empower the poet to shape the desired response by orienting his patrons’ reception of events. The poet claims to have singled out in his attached testimony Toute-Belle’s greatest qualities: ‘si leur ai escript a vostre loenge le bien et la douceur qui y est’ [I wrote to them in praise of your goodness and sweetness] (L. XXV, p. 422b). Evidently his description of the relationship assigns a submissive role to Toute-Belle, whose goodness and gentleness are privileged over her ambitions and incessant demands. But his attempt to smooth out Toute-Belle’s aggressive nature fails to convince his new readers. What Guillaume fails to anticipate in these early dealings with his lords is that they, like Toute-Belle, reject from the outset the role of a loving reader and the practice of material reading. They approach him as already doubting interlocutors and demanding patrons who have previous knowledge of his story. They are aware of the correspondence and

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even of the portrait that Toute-Belle communicated secretly to Guillaume. When they send a chaplain to gather materials regarding the affair, they are seeking out proof to substantiate rumours rather than evidence of the poet’s fame or samples of his talents as a loving reader would do. While there is no recorded account of the princes’ responses to the gathered materials, their future dealings with the poet suggest disbelief in Toute-Belle’s sincerity and their disinterest in the writing project. Where Toute-Belle asserts her authority by commissioning the Voir dit, Guillaume’s patrons express their power by forestalling its progress towards completion. Rather than support the writing of the Voir dit, they make new demands, beginning first with the call for copies of the couple’s works. Then they order that Guillaume compose new songs and attend court to help promote a lively and entertaining atmosphere. On several occasions, the poet must defer visits to Toute-Belle because of obligations to attend his patrons’ courts (L. XIII, p. 282a); at other times, his lords impede him from seeing his lady, his very source of inspiration, either by retaining him at court long after he wishes to depart (ll. 3469– 80) or by staying at his home for extended and distracting visits (L. XXXIII, p. 558e; L. XXXV, p. 566b). The poet bitterly complains that these obligations at court leave little time for writing the book: Et, mon très-dous cuer, se je n’ay envoié par devers vous si tost come je déusse, si le me vueilliez pardonner: car Dieus scet que ce n’a mie esté par deffault d’amour ne de bonne volenté. Car monseigneur le duc de Bar et pluseurs autres seigneurs ont esté en ma maison: si y avoit tant d’alans et de venans, et me couchoie se tart et me levoie si matin, que je ne l’ay peu amender; ne de jour n’y povoie entendre, ne à vostre livre aussi se po non, dont moult me poise: lequel je vous envoie par ce messaige, ce qui en est fait. (L. XXXV, 566b) [And my dear sweetheart, if I have not sent word to you as quickly as I should, I hope you will forgive me because God knows it had nothing to do with a lack of love or desire. Instead my lord the Duke of Bar and many other lords were at my house and there were so many comings and goings, and I went to bed so late and got up so early that I was able to do only a little revision. Nor during the day was I able to think about or work on your book. All of this weighs on me greatly. I send with this message what is done.]

In this instance, the Duke of Bar bothers him so much with his requests for poetry that Guillaume composes ‘par force’ a rondel so that he will

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be ‘left in peace’ (L. XXXV, p. 570f). While these events can be read as self-flattery that testifies to Guillaume’s popularity, the constant demands of his various patrons hinder Guillaume from functioning as an author. They prove to be more interested in maintaining Guillaume as a faiseur, a composer of brief and entertaining pieces, and a jongleur or performer than with promoting his status as a respected poete.13 Beneath Guillaume’s initial assertions that his audience admires and respects him resides abundant information debunking such a quaint notion of the reader. Toute-Belle may well profess to read, reread, memorize, and imitate his works, and Guillaume does brag of numerous patrons who seek him out; nonetheless, this inscribed audience uses the poet’s compositions to answer their own needs. Guillaume’s readership is swift to question his authority, eager to direct literary production, and even prepared to reinterpret, if not rewrite, his works. Guillaume’s inscribed readers master the skills of both imitation and argumentation that defined the professional author-reader of medieval culture studied in chapter 1. It becomes vividly apparent that in Machaut’s world, such talents when possessed by the laity threaten to impede poetic creation rather than stimulate creativity. Indeed the polemical debates instigated by his lords rapidly drown out Guillaume’s poetry and threaten to silence the poet forever. Stifling literary production, Guillaume’s lords and patrons misuse the works they do acquire. When lords send messengers for copies of poems, when the Duke of Bar demands poetry, and when court life requires the poet’s constant participation, literary creation takes on a more pedestrian role than Guillaume would desire. No longer a medium for expressing the private sentiments of the two lovers nor a conduit for profound reflections, poetry and song function solely as public entertainment in court culture. Machaut signals the move of writing from the private to the public domain with a shift in modes of reception. The public performance, lively debates, and the general chatter of the court drown out the intense reading experience imagined for the literate lovers who previously claimed to read and memorize the same texts. The court audience dismantles the complex work presented by Guillaume’s capacious writings and dilutes the story until it resembles gossip and hearsay (voisdie) rather than lived events (voir dit).14 When Guillaume catches wind of the oral version of his story, he realizes that his lady has broken their covenant. More damaging still is his realization that his ideal reader is but a literary construct. Rather than treating his works to gentle caresses, impassioned kisses, and the

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fervent, amorous gaze of a lover, Toute-Belle, he discovers, has indiscriminately shared them with others and uses his writings to entertain the crowds. Guillaume learns of this betrayal when he decides to visit Toute-Belle after an extended separation. Upon announcing his intentions to his secretary, Guillaume endures the long and convoluted reflections of his servant, who attempts to dissuade him. Too fearful to express openly his suspicions regarding Toute-Belle, the secretary evokes the poet’s health, the weather, and the dangers associated with travelling to dissuade him from undertaking the trip. Only after the master fails to hear the secretary’s hidden accusations against Toute-Belle does Guillaume’s own lord step forward to announce what the secretary dare not say: Amis, par Dieu, c’est chose voire, Qu’il ha plus d’un asne a la foire. Car vo dame ha pluiseurs acointes, Jeunes, jolis, appers et cointes, qui la vont viseter souvent. Et encor(e) vous ay-je en couvent Que par tout vos lettres flajole Et moustre, ne(i)s a la carole. Dont ce n’est c’une moquerie, Et poi y ha qui ne s’en rie. Par tout de vostre amour se vante ... (ll. 7360–70) [Friend, by God, it is true that there is more than one ass at the fair, for your lady has several admirers, who are young, handsome, attractive, and agreeable, and who visit her often. Furthermore, I tell you in truth that she flaunts and shows your letters everywhere, giving occasion to song/dance. It is one big joke and there is no one who does not laugh. She vaunts your love everywhere.]

Beyond accusing Toute-Belle of infidelity, Guillaume’s lord conjures up a strikingly different portrait of Toute-Belle as reader. Her cavalier treatment of the poet’s writings as described by the lord stands in stark contrast to her numerous references to rereading and meditating on Guillaume’s texts. The poet’s lord relies on a vocabulary of play and merriment to depict Toute-Belle’s actions as yet another form of casual entertainment. In the hands of Toute-Belle, so his lord implies, the poet’s works (his private letters no less) become amusing accompani-

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ment to the gay music of flutes (flageolets) and light-hearted court dances (carole).15 Several weeks after hearing claims of Toute-Belle’s deception, Guillaume encounters yet another seigneur. This lord proves less sympathetic and openly taunts the poet in front of a court audience by associating his courtship of Toute-Belle with the beating of bushes: Aprés environ .III. semaines, Chevauchai par mons et par plaines, Pour visiter un mien signeur, Mille fois de l’autre gregneur. Quant il me vid, il prist a rire; Et puis me commança a dire: ‘Amis, vous [b]atés les buissons Dont autres ont les oisillons.’ Mais il le dist en audience, Devant tous, et en ma presence. (ll. 7524–33) [For about three weeks, I rode through mountains and fields to visit one of my lords who is a hundred times greater than the other. When he saw me, he took to laughing and he greeted me by saying, ‘Friend, you beat the bushes from which others capture the little birds.’ He said this before an audience, in front of everyone, and in my presence.]

The lord’s proverbial pronouncement simultaneously evokes Guillaume’s failings as a lover and a writer. If the most immediate reading of the aphorism refers to Guillaume’s efforts to seduce Toute-Belle as the source of others’ successes, the lord’s comment also evokes the poet’s inability to maintain control of his work. Like birds in the trees, his writings disperse in all directions when performed by Toute-Belle for the court’s amusement. Instead of comparing the oral readings with the sound of flutes, here it is the squawking of birds that fills the air. The debasement is complete when the narrator, fleeing his patron’s mockery, encounters a jeering mass in the streets. This last group is identified specifically by their distance from the original text, as they know the story only by word of mouth. These beneficiaries of Guillaume’s disseminated text know neither the lovers nor the book and are unanimously presented as bad readers of the love narrative.16 Ignorant and malevolent, they publicly ridicule the poet:

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Nes en alant parmi la rue Chascuns un estrabot me rue En disant, et par moquerie: ‘Je voi tel qu’ha bele amie.’ Ainsi chascuns me rigoloit Pour ce que ma dame voloit Que nos amours fussent chantees Par les rues & flajolees; Et que chascuns apperceüst Qu’elle m’amoit & le sceüst. Et c’estoit chose asses commune Et a chascun & a chascune. (ll. 7546–56) [Even walking in the street, everyone taunted me with a jibe and mocked me by saying, ‘I spy someone who has a beautiful lady.’ Thus everyone mocked me as a result of my lady’s desire that our love be sung and flaunted so that everyone would see and know that she loved me. Thus it [our story] had become common knowledge to all men and women.]

Guillaume blames Toute-Belle for the dissemination far and wide of his texts. Her performance of his songs and her readings of his letters lead to a total dilution of his work that can now be summed up in a single mocking sentence: ‘Je voi tel qu’ha bele amie.’ The poet’s version of events is no longer distinguishable over the laughter of his lords and the common folk, an unintended audience that has effectively transformed his version of the truth into lively banter. The sardonic crowd re-enacts Toute-Belle’s threatening erasure of the poet’s words noted earlier in the tale. Where she superimposed her writings on his poetry, Guillaume’s larger public overpowers his poetic laments with bawdy innuendos and raucous accounts.

The Reader as Author: A Critical Gaze on the Power of Delivery and Interpretation to Alter Texts The power of audience to transform a text becomes apparent in the final moments of the story when Guillaume realizes that his work has become the ‘common property’ of everyone through its oral transmission (‘chose assez commune,’ l. 7555). His efforts to produce a written document are thwarted by an audience who has little need for the material artefact.

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The public is capable of appropriating the poet’s ‘property,’ as it were, by divesting his book of its content and disseminating it through performance. This refusal to respect the text or to meditate on the poet’s works leads to a complete breakdown of communication that threatens the very existence of Guillaume’s ‘true story.’ Truth is no longer what resides in the text but what is taken from the text. That is, truth is in the delivery and interpretation of the work, not in the material evidence inserted into the dit. Machaut is unprecedented in the role he assigns to reception modes in determining the value and meaning of texts. The Voir dit in particular demonstrates the impact of delivery by registering the numerous presentations of interpolated pieces and the varied interpretations they inspire. Most texts experience a first reading by Guillaume’s lady, but they typically make their way to an ever-expanding secondary and sometimes tertiary audience. Once a text leaves the hands and heart of the lady, it slowly dissolves into oral renderings that spread rapidly through courts and cities, apparently often because of Toute-Belle’s initial actions. Through this process, Machaut imagines a wide spectrum of experiences ranging from a material study of the written word to a performance of discrete poetry and songs. He defines the different levels in relation to the tangible distance created between the audience and the material artefact; the greater the distance, the greater the chance that the work will be distorted. A case in point is his disconcerting encounter with the jeering crowd. Having escaped the taunts, Guillaume’s ensuing concerns centre on how the people have come to know the story, not what they actually know about the affair. Foreign to this swelling crowd of readers is either the intimate experience first fostered by the poet or the loving attention Toute-Belle was believed to have lavished on his writings. Of course, Toute-Belle as the ideal reader now seems but a figment of Guillaume’s imagination as he runs from his very real and very spiteful public. His patrons, the court, city dwellers, and even Toute-Belle – if the rumours are true – do not view the letters either as love tokens worthy of lavish treatment or as serious material deserving of meditation. Instead these texts are material for entertainment, debate, and song. And the story they recount conjures up a caricature of a foolish lover and a babbling clerkly writer. As Guillaume’s texts move into the public domain, their value, the aura surrounding them, and the respect attributed to them fall away like pages ripped from books.17 The intimate bond imagined for author and reader is broken once private study of the written word is abandoned for public accounts of the same events.

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Where an ‘interpretive community’ has gathered, an author finds himself chased from their presence.18 As his text degenerates into little more than gossip, Guillaume abandons his authorial identity and adopts instead the role of a listener and reader of others. The shock of such a radical rereading of his story by the public leads Guillaume to revisit and reinterpret Toute-Belle’s actual intentions. If in the first part of the work the narrator Guillaume provided a detailed account of his amorous affair with a young lady of noble stature, the second half, following the accusations lodged against TouteBelle, turns in on itself. Faced with a dearth of events to record and, more importantly, a shortage of exchanged letters and poems to copy into the book we read – ‘matere me faut’ (I need material) (L. XLII, 730c), laments the poet on repeated occasions – the narrator writes about what he has written, dreams of past events, and turns over in his head, like any anxious lover, the rumours that consume him. In an attempt to explain the dramatic shift in direction, scholars argue that these digressions are ‘stuff’ intended to fill the book or represent ‘new directions’ to attract a different type of reader.19 Yet a closer study reveals a poet increasingly preoccupied by the various interpretations of the affair, both by himself and later audiences, and progressively more concerned about waylaying casual listeners who inevitably wreak havoc on his text than about setting the story straight. The amount of textual material covered in the second half of the Voir dit is astounding. In dreams and in his waking hours, Guillaume listens to lords, friends, and servants retelling the fates of great figures from biblical, classical, and vernacular sources in an attempt to make him understand the absurdity of his situation. The shift in narratorial perspective is marked by a dream in which Guillaume witnesses the fading of the dress of Toute-Belle’s portrait from blue, the colour of fidelity, to green, the colour of infidelity. In a subsequent dream, Guillaume recalls his fear that Toute-Belle is unfaithful. His oneiric interlocuter, the ‘roy qui ne ment’ [the king who does not lie] draws on an unlikely collection of sources to interpret the poet’s previous dream. Guillaume’s own claim to have witnessed the portrait of Toute-Belle turning away from him at the same time that her dress fades to green leads the king to evoke the fate of Lot’s wife and the metamorphosis of various gods (ll. 5514–33). This weak attempt to link Guillaume’s vision with scriptural and classical scenes of transformation further underscores the poet’s ludicrous situation. The king makes clear in his closing statement that he himself is as unsuitable to the role of wise adviser as is Guillaume to the role of

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courtly lover. The king counsels the poet to cease wasting time on worldly love and to return to his true talents as a learned cleric, a role he has too willingly abandoned (ll. 5620–3, 5702–7). Thus the second half opens with Toute-Belle’s effective replacement by her oneiric double, just as Guillaume’s role as active lover and writer is displaced by his new status as observer. Days later, Guillaume seemingly attempts to use his professional training to his benefit. He stirs his memory to recollect the tales and bits of wisdom from his learned past in the hope of shedding light on TouteBelle’s behaviour: A toutes ces choses musoie Et es exemples me miroie ... Mais rien n’i pooie trouver Que pour bon peüsse prouver Adfin que ma dame veÿsse. [ll. 6391–7] [I reflected on all these things and compared myself to these exempla ... but I could find none that offered a positive means of seeing my lady.]

His reflections on the doomed loves of Leandre, Lancelot, Paris, the Chatelaine de Vergi, and even the gods fail to illuminate his crisis. In the weeks following, as already noted, patrons, friends, and servants confirm his growing suspicions. Yet reflecting on the opinions, gossip, and exempla provided by others or drawn from his own memory, Guillaume remains incapable of action vis-à-vis Toute-Belle. The most he can do is dethrone the ‘ymage’ of Toute-Belle placed at the head of his bed, which he locks in a chest. This act triggers yet another curious dream in which Toute-Belle’s portrait reappears before him to argue for her release. As others have done before her, the portrait turns to classical mythology to find an exemplum to clarify events. She privileges the tale of the crow who reports to Phoebus that Coronis has deceived him (ll. 7719–8106). What better myth for Machaut to borrow than the raven’s tale to explore the many accusations lodged against his lady? Yet rather than absolve Toute-Belle, the tale does just the opposite. Since the crow found his feathers turned black when he spoke the truth regarding women’s infidelity, the cautionary tale seems to validate the rumours concerning Toute-Belle and the message linked with the fading of her dress in

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the earlier dream. The portrait, however, downplays this aspect of the myth and emphasizes instead the injustice of the crow’s fate. She concludes by comparing her own unfair imprisonment to the crow’s punishment. The dream sequence is all the more compelling for the complex intertextuality that occurs in this passage. The portrait quotes extensively from the Ovide moralisé, the quintessential late medieval work on interpretation, presented as the ‘final word’ on Ovid’s masterpiece. The Ovide moralisé represents the ambitious efforts of a Franciscan monk to apply a tripartite interpretation that sets forth all possible readings of myths with reference to their historical, allegorical, and anagogic significance, yet the portrait’s retelling of the story of the crow in the Voir dit defies the monk’s claim to closure by registering another interpretation of the tale. By shifting the poet’s gaze with this new version of the story, the portrait proposes a radically new reading that allows her to succeed where all others failed, for she moves Guillaume to action. He frees the portrait from the locked chest upon awakening. Nevertheless he remains incapable of applying the portrait’s exemplum to the real events of his love affair.20 He saves the artistic reproduction of his lady from oblivion, but he refuses to extend such generosity to Toute-Belle. This solution adumbrates his actual dealings with Toute-Belle in the final book version of the Voir dit. Before turning to Guillaume’s formal treatment of Toute-Belle, we must examine the events that transpire immediately after this final dream, for he also draws important lessons from these experiences. Dissatisfied as ever by the counsel he receives – both in his waking hours and in his sleep – Guillaume isolates himself to seek solace in the pages of a book. Having picked up his personal copy of Livy, Guillaume studies a portrait of Lady Fortune. The narrator details his own reading experience as it unfolds, and we read Livy’s portrayal of Fortune through Guillaume’s mediated study of the work. The shift in Guillaume’s attention to Livy marks the first time in the Voir dit that he is portrayed reading learned works, and thus the scene brings the poet full circle. Let us recall, the Voir dit begins with the poet’s departure from his study, the locus amoenus of clerkly identity, to seek inspiration in a garden, the locus amoenus of the lyrical lover.21 Machaut emphasizes the physical experience of reading a text on one’s own in the Livy passage. Guillaume takes in hand the book (‘prins un livret a manier,’ v. 8184) and meditates on the image of Fortune decorating Livy’s text:

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Following this detailed description of the text and image before him, Guillaume then records his response to the text in the form of a meditation on the similarities between fickle, unfaithful Fortune and TouteBelle (ll. 8255–336). Through this active engagement with the text, Guillaume shows himself applying strategies similar to those of his own audience. Just as Toute-Belle’s earlier engaged reading strategies led to new works and just as other readers’ relaxed performances of his texts gave rise to entertaining interpretations, so Guillaume’s glossing of Lady Fortune generates yet another version of the story. This point is reinforced when, following Guillaume’s comparison of Fortune and his lady, Toute-Belle’s confessor visits the poet and openly challenges his analysis by proposing yet another reading of Fortune. Drawing on different sources – he refers to the pagans’ description of Fortune as opposed to Livy’s – the confessor replaces the comparison of Toute-Belle to Lady Fortune with a comparison of the poet to Lady Fortune (ll. 8606–851). The presentation of the two conflicting readings carries a profound statement on the multivalent nature of texts and, therefore, proves once and for all the failure of Guillaume’s intended project. There can be no true story, for every individual can use texts as creative fodder to generate new meaning and purpose. Depending on delivery modes, skills, desires, and needs, each individual is free to do as she sees appropriate. It may be for this very reason that the final pages of the Voir dit are so enigmatic. The confessor appears to be so persuasive that Guillaume and Toute-Belle reconcile their differences and the text comes to an abrupt end. But is there true reconciliation? Does Guillaume accept the multivalent nature of truth and texts? Does he acknowledge the freedom of all readers as well as listeners to take possession of his writings? The final letters exchanged between the lovers give reason for caution in answering these questions. For at the same time that the poet proclaims

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reconciliation, the lovers’ correspondence becomes sporadic and cryptic: the lovers acknowledge writing less (L. XLV, p. 766c; L. XLVI, p. 780d), they refrain from writing about certain issues (L. XLV, p. 768d and p. 770i; L. XLVI, 782f), and Toute-Belle reasons that to protect themselves against the médisants, the poet should discontinue writing letters and only send poetic compositions (L. XLVI, 782d). Toute-Belle concludes that no one can ever truly understand their relationship, excepting those who witnessed it, namely herself, an unnamed lady, and the poet’s secretary (L. XLVI, 780d). In spite of the couple’s initial ambition to relay a true account of their affair to the public (‘ja n’i menterai,’ l. 520), Toute-Belle ultimately recognizes the futility of their efforts. Better to end the correspondence and the story, suggests TouteBelle, than to believe any further in the possibility of creating a transparent record of their relationship. Of course Toute-Belle’s claim rings with irony since it was Guillaume’s secretary who first expressed doubt regarding her fidelity to the story and its transmission. Furthermore in her failure to mention Guillaume in her list of witnesses, she insinuates that even he as the author misunderstands the story he writes. Finally while she advises that they defer all discussions until they can meet in person, effectively stifling all communication, she proposes that they continue to exchange poetry. The writing continues, but what Toute-Belle does end is any future negotiations with the couple’s audience (or between the lovers for that matter). In response, Guillaume rapidly wraps up the Voir dit. This decision contradicts Toute-Belle’s final call for the couple to exercise complete and total secrecy, and to privilege oral communication over the written word. To understand the poet’s final actions, we must rethink the repercussions of his ‘ymage’ dream and his experience of reading Livy. In both instances, he discovered first-hand how texts could be manipulated to express readers’ desires. Since Toute-Belle effectively reduces their relationship to poetry in her final letter and since Guillaume has already replaced his lady with artistic representations in the form of the ‘ymage’ and then the unflattering comparison with Lady Fortune, it is but a small step to reinventing the affair in literary form to express the author qua reader’s ambitions.

Creating Boundaries: Strategies in the Voir dit to Limit Reader Involvement Machauldian scholars often debate the existence of Toute-Belle. R. Barton Palmer offers the most detailed analysis to date of the possible evidence pointing to an actual second author of the Voir dit.22 To a

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certain extent, whether a real woman penned the letters and poems attributed to Toute-Belle is beside the point because when Machaut orchestrates a book version of the affair, those writings become fodder to be manipulated by the poet. Were scholars ever to ascertain the true existence of Toute-Belle, they would still be obliged to recognize that Machaut transforms the lady into fictional matter. Within the narrative, we catch glimpses of Guillaume doing just that – rewriting Toute-Belle’s role in literary creation to establish her as its product rather than its author.23 On the surface, Toute-Belle’s decision that readers must be kept at bay for the couple’s relationship to survive appears to bring her more closely in tune with Guillaume, who preached secrecy and discretion from the outset. But in its final form, the Voir dit groups Toute-Belle with the larger audience. Throughout the narrative are indicators pointing to Guillaume’s efforts to control Toute-Belle through a complicated game of instructions and restrictions that prescribe her relationship with his texts. Early on, Guillaume addresses issues such as who may read the text, whether it can be presented to an audience, and, if so, how it is to be performed. For example, in response to Toute-Belle’s request for lyric pieces to sing at court, Guillaume stipulates that she must refrain from providing material copies of his work to others: ‘ne bailliés nulles copies de ce que je vous envoie.’ (Don’t distribute copies of what I send you) (L. IV, pp. 126–8k). Similarly Guillaume discourages circulation of early versions of the Voir dit, requesting that Toute-Belle limit access to a select group: ‘... je vous pri ... que vous ne moustrés le livre que a gens qui soient trop bien de vostre cuer ...’ (I beg you to show the book only to people who are very dear to your heart) (L XXXIII, p. 558e). Regarding the delivery of lyrical texts, in one instance Guillaume frames a song with ample suggestions for its performance: Si vous supplie que vous le daigniez oÿr, & savoir la chose ainsi comme elle est faites, sans mettre ne oster, et se vuelt dire de bien longue mesure; et qui la porroit mettre sur les orgues, sur cornemuses ou autres instrumens, c’est sa droite nature. (L. X, p. 188c) [I beg that you accept to listen to and learn the thing [the song] exactly as it has been composed without adding or taking anything away, and it should be recited in a very long measure and it could be set to an organ, a bagpipe or other instruments, which is its appropriate lot.]

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By admonishing Toute-Belle to respect entirely the accompanying composition, changing neither the text nor the music, the poet seeks to maintain authority over his text but also over its delivery. In essence, he appears to have suspected even at the outset of the affair that TouteBelle would circulate his works, and he took precautions to secure their faithful rendition. Guillaume also directly confronts Toute-Belle’s aggressive stance when transforming their epistolary affair into the book we read. Circling back on events and rereading the correspondence as he does in the second half of the book, Guillaume remoulds Toute-Belle’s role from the outside in. The book project, while Toute-Belle’s idea, develops into an important tool wielded by Guillaume. First, the project authorizes the poet to override Toute-Belle’s assumed status as co-author and editor. Guillaume the writer carefully charts Toute-Belle’s involvement; she may dictate the book project, but he controls the process. For example, the external reader discovers early on that the poet has left out portions of the correspondence in the final version of the story. Guillaume first refers to these excisions when, en route to see his lady, he receives a message from her. He writes: Je ne met pas icy sa lettre, Que ce seroit trop long a mettre. De si petitettes lettrelles, Ja soit ce qu’elles soient belles, Qu’a li tous les jours envoioie Et elle a moi. (ll. 1810–15) [I include neither her letter here because it would be too long to include nor the little love letters that we sent to one another every day, although they were pleasant.]

Besides the untold loss of letters, there is a striking diminishment of Toute-Belle’s poetic production in the second half of the text. Of her twenty-eight poems, only two follow the pronouncements of her betrayal. In the first case, an incomplete chanson balladée is presented. The narrator informs us that Toute-Belle was ‘tant ... lasse et adolee,/Triste, dolente et esplouree’ that she stopped her lament after only two stanzas (so worn out and forlorn, wretched and weepy) (ll. 8490–1). Are we to surmise that her lyrical voice dissolved into unintelligible tears and

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moans never to reassert itself?24 In the second example, Toute-Belle’s final poetic word in the book is in the form of a cryptogram of the poet’s name (ll. 8958–65), a rondeau closely modelled on the poet’s own cryptogram in which he inscribed his lady’s name (R17). Thus where the poet’s first lyric composition in the work imitated Toute-Belle, the final poem by his lady is in imitation of Guillaume’s earlier poem. Even more telling is her decision to replace her name with his in her last work. Toute-Belle may have originally threatened to erase Guillaume’s voice, but her final work celebrates his authority through her ventriloquism. In contrast to Toute-Belle’s claims as co-author and editor of the Voir dit, Guillaume ultimately affords his lady a subordinate role in book production. The poet’s letters are replete with requests that she fulfil menial tasks: Could she date all future correspondence to facilitate the ordering process (L. XXVII, p. 450f)? Will she please return uncopied letters and poems (L. XXXV, 566b)?25 But to his requests that she read and correct the work according to whether he has said ‘trop ou po’ (L. XXXIII, p. 558e) or that she let him know if he erred in including her unaltered letters (L. XLI, p. 680e), silence dominates. She eventually alludes to possible changes that they will discuss later in person, as already mentioned, but her concerns are never recorded in the Voir dit. In fact, Toute-Belle defers all suggestions until a final meeting that never transpires within the time frame of the narrative (L. XLVI, p. 782). When the Voir dit ends, Toute-Belle remains in possession of the only copy of the work. Should we immediately assume that during an undocumented meeting, Toute-Belle returned her copy (with corrections)? Could we not as easily posit that the Voir dit we read is a separate version, possibly never seen by Toute-Belle, or at least free of her intended corrections? In the absence of any record, the external reader can only speculate that Toute-Belle actually influenced the shape and content of the final version of the Voir dit. Ultimately Toute-Belle’s editorial voice is as minimal in the Voir dit as her poetic presence in the second half of the book. The redefinition of Toute-Belle’s status in relation to the book project appears to have had an effect on the illustration programs of extant copies, where her authorial claims never take shape.26 Instead TouteBelle systematically figures as lover, muse, or reader. Moreover, the first pictorial reference to Toute-Belle in the earliest extant copy, which the author is believed to have supervised, explicitly undermines any claim of authority on Toute-Belle’s part.27 In the first miniature depicting poet

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and lady together in BnF, MS fr. 1584, the artist presents the poet, with pen in one hand and a sheet of music in the other, seated before his lady (Figure 11: MS fr. 1584, fol. 242r). The image elaborates on the preceding account of the couple’s first face-to-face encounter, when, as discussed earlier, Toute-Belle requested that he compose and then have copied in her presence a ballade (ll. 2312–74).28 Let us recall that this scene contributed to Guillaume’s initial portrayal of his lady as a reader rather than a listener of his works. Yet a comparison of the textual and visual renditions of the same scene leads to disturbing inconsistencies. If the text valorizes Toute-Belle’s part in commissioning and reading the text, the miniature dramatically reconfigures her role. With the poet’s pen directed toward Toute-Belle, the artist identifies the lady as the muse. This supporting role is then paired with the traits of an accommodating listener. With her open palm near her chest, Toute-Belle adopts a common gesture expressing her status as a listener as opposed to the commanding patron or reader presented in the text.29 The poet’s authority is not only asserted by Toute-Belle’s body language in this illustration but also by the placement of the composition firmly in his hands, even though the narrative refers to a secretary transcribing the poem (l. 2371). Finally, the artist resolves questionable power dynamics by placing Toute-Belle in a subordinate position; she stands in reverence before the seated poet.30 Rather than portray her unconventional roles as poet, editor, or even reader, the artist offers the portrait of an accommodating muse in the text’s final rendition. Ultimately the miniature cycle distances Toute-Belle from the material form of the literary enterprise, just as Guillaume does in his final account.31 Guillaume’s other readers enjoy an even more circumscribed fate than Toute-Belle’s in the final version of the Voir dit. Inscribed readers, including his secretary, his lords, the court, and the common folk, are never visually portrayed engaging with texts in the extant manuscripts.32 But like Toute-Belle, who is carefully managed by Guillaume in the final version of the affair, so his subsequent audiences, both inscribed and external, are enticed by the material artefact only to be put in their place. Nowhere is the effort to attract and then entrap the reader more evident than in the play of anagrams and cryptograms. The first such word-game occurs within the narrative and revolves around the rondel that Guillaume begrudgingly composed for the Duke of Bar. In a later letter to Toute-Belle, he includes a copy of this cryptogram (R17) and informs her that by replacing numbers with letters and then rearrang-

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ing their order, he has secretly inscribed her true name (L. XXXV, pp. 570–2f and ll. 6263–70). Not only does Guillaume use the cryptogram to hide in plain view her name, but he insinuates that the duke and other readers are not even aware of its presence. Mocking the ignorant audiences, Guillaume proclaims ‘laissez muser les museurs’ (L. XXXV, p. 572f). Machaut’s word choice is crucial. Muser refers both to engaging in the carefree games of court life that demand little thought on the part of players and to playing the instrument, the musette. As museurs seeking entertainment, the duke and his court would dance or perform Guillaume’s music without ever stopping to study its deeper significance. So too the performers themselves would remain unaware of the secret message they communicated. Through a single word, Machaut groups together listeners and performers as incapable of detecting what is so apparent on the scripted page.33 The play of words reappears in the final lines of the Voir dit, where Guillaume now alerts his external readers to an anagram that supposedly contains the key to the true identity of both the author and the lady. The passage reads: Et se au savoir volés entendre, En la fin de ce livre prendre Vous couvenra le ver .IXe. Et puis .VIII. lettres de l’uittime Qui sont droit au commencement: La verrés nos noms clerement. (ll. 8990–5) [And if you want to understand this information at the end of this book, it would be appropriate for you to take the ninth verse and then of the eighth verse, the eight letters that are at the very beginning. There you will see clearly our names.]

As several scholars have shown, the detailed instructions provided by Machaut reveal a version of the poet’s name, but bring one no closer to the true identity of the lady.34 Similar to the attempt to deny the Duke of Bar full access to the rondel, the final anagram refuses, now for a second time, external readers access to one of the most crucial facts of the story – Toute-Belle’s real name. Anagrams and cryptograms call attention to the materiality of a text. They invite the audience to approach the text and give a clear reason for favouring the written word over its oral presentation. As the lover invites

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Toute-Belle to study closely his text and to peel back the layers to discover herself hidden within, he also effectively wraps her in his words. For subsequent readers, the word-games promise access to the greatest enigma marking the Voir dit, namely, Toute-Belle’s identity. But all efforts to solve the riddle are frustrated. Readers are encouraged, even challenged, to dismantle and reorganize the poet’s words like the médisants, only to confront an impenetrable barrier. Having already identified the anagram as a strategy for excluding readers (or at the very least unwanted readers) in his remarks about the Duke of Bar, Guillaume de Machaut makes apparent that the game of deciphering texts is less about giving readers more freedom and involvement in textual creation, as initially suggested by Laurence de Looze, and more about assuring their inability to appropriate fully literary creation. In fact, in his most recent study of Machaut’s use of anagrams, de Looze speaks of it as Machaut’s preferred tactic for ‘evading the reader.’35 Yet neither interpretation proposed by de Looze fully captures the complicated dynamics established between Machaut and his audience. Notwithstanding his powerlessness to deny readers access to the text because of his own dependence on their involvement, Machaut endeavours to restrain readers. By producing an intricate puzzle that fails to function as a key to literary treasures, his anagrams serve as the very lock that both incites readers’ curiosity to study the text and bars their access to the work’s true meaning. Here, anagrams and cryptograms limit interpretation. While the possible solutions for the final anagram are endless (as de Looze and Cerquiglini-Toulet have playfully pointed out), we should note that an anagram is not about diversity of interpretations.36 An anagram promises one truth, but a truth that can only be revealed if it is already known; without the solution, the anagram remains unsolvable in spite of its air of transparency. It is for this reason that while we may easily discover a variation of Machaut’s name from the final anagram and in the final cryptogram written by Toute-Belle, any certain identification of his lady will most likely forever elude us. What is most revelatory in Machaut’s treatment of audience in the Voir dit is the dramatic reversal of conventional logic he presents regarding public performance and the practice of reading alone. As Brian Stock maintains, interpretive communities in medieval society were based on oral readings of texts, which, in turn, assured that established institutions would always be able to monitor an individual’s interpretation of a text. Stock’s view of such communities confirms the widely disseminated assumption that with silent reading and the subsequent advent of print,

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the individual was able to take control of the interpretative process and the book itself.37 Paul Saenger’s claims that silent reading explains in part the upsurge in heresy and erotica at the end of the Middle Ages play into this vision of the empowered reader.38 Yet Machaut offers a distinctive twist. He implies that by fracturing the public and inviting readers to approach the text individually, an author can reassert his own authority over the text. The public can enjoy a rapid volley that moves the text further and further out of the author’s reach by demanding public readings, instigating debates, and promoting streamlined oral versions of complex texts, but the author can recollect the pieces of his text, constitute a literary edifice, and erect barriers. Readers must then play with locks, enigmas, and riddles as well as juggle an overwhelming number of texts to gain access to the much desired truth the author professes to possess. If Guillaume can succeed in cultivating a loving reader who will admire, celebrate, and protect the integrity of his corpus, he can hope for a reader who will willingly and passionately lose herself, even sacrifice herself, to his text. The cacophony that issues from the Voir dit as a result of various readers competing with the author to produce a ‘true story’ mirrors Jonathan Culler’s contention that reception intrigues us because each reading can elicit an original response: ‘Indeed, far from assuming unanimity, the study of reading is interesting precisely because there is not agreement among readers. A theory of reading is an attempt to come to terms with the single most salient and puzzling fact about literature: that a literary work can have a range of meanings, but not just any meaning.’39 Yet while Machaut offers a vivid portrait of authors and readers negotiating meaning that foresees modern interests in reader reception, he also laments the impossibility of an author to maintain control of his text, his version of events. The Voir dit presents a full spectrum of interpretations – Culler’s ‘range of meanings’ – only to conclude with an enigmatic game that insists on a single but forever unattainable truth. In its final moments, the Voir dit presents a complex textual web that, for all of its claims of truthfulness and transparency, ultimately refuses full disclosure. With his loving reader revealed as little more than a chimera, Machaut undertakes to create a formidable corpus of material so weighty that its physical presence cannot be ignored, so labyrinthine that readers can only lose themselves in its endless lines. Only in this manner would it appear that Machaut could imagine author, text, and reader working in harmony. This confrontational dance between author and reader proves essen-

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tial to the creation of the literary work as much as to its perpetuation. For the first time in French literature, a vernacular poet – a composer no less – links the pervasive proclivity for aural reception with the common failure of auditors to entendre, both hear and understand, the truth. Where oral delivery occurs, ideas can get lost in the pleasure of storytelling, whereas by studying, rereading, and meditating on the page or even rewriting, erasing, or rearranging words (in spite of the danger associated with these aggressive actions), a reader must wrestle with the text, acknowledge its materiality, and recognize its complexity. In the next section, we shall examine the reaction of Machaut’s intermediary readers – namely the scribes and artists responsible for packaging his text – to the poet’s reflections on book production, delivery, and reception detailed in the Voir dit. Our inquiry will centre on a study of the three extant copies of Machaut’s Voir dit produced in the three decades following its composition.

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PART TWO Intermediary Readers and Their Shaping of Machaut’s Voir dit

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... it is essential to remember that no text exists outside the support that enables it to be read. Roger Chartier1

Chartier’s claim that texts cannot be severed from their material embodiment demands that we consider the relationship between a text’s message and its actual presentation. In the case of the Voir dit, where the author is intent on fixing the shape of his text and its reception from within the narrative, the issue takes on even greater urgency and brings into view the crucial intermediary role fulfilled by the bookmakers who inevitably served as interpreters of the narrative. Because Guillaume the narrator insists on the promise of the written artefact as a storehouse resistant to a meddling audience, the extant manuscripts of the Voir dit represent much more than mere vessels for Machaut’s text. They become the potential incarnation of the narrator’s aspirations. But were bookmakers aware of the vital role Machaut attributed to the material artefact? Were they familiar with the narrative they reproduced? Did they study the work closely enough to unearth the numerous metatextual asides on layout and presentation in the Voir dit that could be interpreted as the author addressing his bookmakers? Did they recognize the conflicting message regarding reception embodied in the text and, if so, did they emphasize the plurality of reception or choose to favour specific reading modes? Finally, did they seek to accommodate the poet’s vision of his book or did they imitate Guillaume the narrator’s own audience and manipulate his work so that it would conform to their own ideals? Whether or not they were consciously aware of how deeply implicated they were in the production of meaning, every member of the process, from supervisors to artists to scribes, helped shape the reception and the meaning of the Voir dit. In this section, we will consider the influence of form on shaping readers’ reception of the Voir dit in three of its four extant copies. All appear in compendia of Guillaume de Machaut’s complete works. They are BnF, MS fr. 1584 (MS A), MSS fr. 22545–6 (MSS F–G), and MS fr. 9221 (MS E).2 These three collections present complementary versions of the base narrative, as only minor textual variants distinguish the copies. But each collection individualizes the base text through the addition of unique materials. For example, both MS A and MSS F–G use the pictorial space to direct the reading experience. MS A thus allots spaces for thirty images to decorate the Voir dit and MSS F–G enhance

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the same text with thirty-seven miniatures. While MS E reserves a minimal role for imagery, it inserts directly into the narrative scores of eight musical compositions referenced by Guillaume. In contrast MSS A and F–G relegate these scores to music sections that follow the Voir dit in each collection. Through a number of additional subtle changes in presentation, these copies display telltale evidence of the text’s reception by intermediary readers. Negotiating the fluid middle ground between authorial intention and traditionally conceived reader reception, bookmakers left compelling evidence of their own encounter with texts in the artefacts they devised. In the case of bookmakers organizing, transcribing, and illustrating Machaut’s Voir dit, this intermediary role becomes all the more important because of the work’s critical reflection on the writing process from poetic composition to book production and, finally, reader reception. In the extant manuscripts, the epistemological dilemmas and hermeneutical games that dominate the Voir dit narrative find physical expression in the ordering of the codex and in the decoration, layout, and glossing of the work. Before examining the artefacts to recover the distant voices of their makers, a survey of the available details concerning production of the three complete copies of the Voir dit can help situate the manuscripts in their general cultural context. More importantly, such a survey can guide a reading of the manuscripts by bringing into better view the types of readers and reading experiences that each codex favoured through layout and decoration. In the subsequent chapters, this overview will be enhanced with in-depth analyses of each unique material presentation of the Voir dit. One of the challenges of approaching Machaut’s manuscripts as witnesses of intermediary readings is the paucity of available information that would allow modern scholars to associate the inscribed voices with historical figures. To date, questions regarding authorial involvement or the identification of specific bookmakers and recipients of the collections remain largely unanswered. Furthermore, scholarship on Machaut’s books continues to be hampered by an over-privileging of the author in spite of the efforts of ‘new philologists’ to identify the manuscript as a cultural matrix that registers the voices of multiple creators ranging from authors and patrons to scribes and artists.3 Such bias comes as little surprise considering the great efforts that Machaut and even his bookmakers put forth to promote the author-figure. Yet, as a result, studies of Machaut’s extant manuscripts rarely move beyond inquiries regarding

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the poet’s involvement in their production and thus rarely acknowledge, much less study, the crucial contributions of intermediary readers responsible for transmitting Machaut’s corpus to his public.4 In the following pages, we will seek out traces of Machaut’s first line of readers and begin the arduous process of untangling authorial intentions from reader reception.

Catering to the Professional Reader: The Earliest Copy of the Voir dit (BnF, MS fr. 1584) The earliest extant version of the Voir dit appears in a copy of Machaut’s complete works dating from the 1370s. MS A divides Machaut’s corpus into two principle sections. The first section of the manuscript consists of 373 folios of poetry; the second half, made up of 127 folios, records Machaut’s musical production. The manuscript is made particularly distinctive by the first two miniatures in the opening Prologue, which were painted by the Master of the Bible of Jean de Sy. As discussed in chapter 1, these commanding images give full attention to the authorfigure, who is first portrayed rising from a lectern to greet the God of Love. In the second miniature, the author-figure has moved outside his study, where he seems to stand on the raised base of a chair, possibly an allusion to his authority as a learned figure (Figures 9: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. Er and 10: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. Dr). Following these stunning portraits, a third and much more modest and restrained column miniature in grisaille depicts the poet fully occupied by writing in a bound book. This image is the work of a second and anonymous artist responsible for the remaining 153 miniatures in the codex. This early manuscript resists codification beyond a descriptive discussion of its contents. It contains no direct statement on its recipient or its makers. Not until the late fifteenth century does MS A appear in a library inventory. Once placed in the collection of Louis of Bruges, Sire of Gruthuyse, the codex is marked with the family arms which are painted on to folio D, only to be overpainted when the codex passed into the library of Louis XII. In the absence of an explicit statement of ownership, Sarah Jane Williams mused that MS A might be the poet’s personal copy or the “livre ou je mets toutes mes choses” referred to in the Voir dit. Williams anchored her theory on the opening rubric to the MS A table of contents, which insists on Machaut’s participation in the ordering of the manuscript. It reads: ‘Vesci lordenance que G. de machau wet qu’il ayt en son livre’ [Here is the ordering that G de Machaut wants there to

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be in his book].5 Yet the scarce information on the scribes and artists of MS A weakens this argument. François Avril would, however, later pursue Williams’s reading by contending that the inclusion of Latin text in the penultimate miniature of the Voir dit proved the author’s involvement. Avril supported this claim by pointing to a few stylistic similarities between the A illustration program and northern artists, which led him to speculate that the dominant artist was at Reims with Machaut.6 As for the only identified artist of MS A, the Master of the Bible of Jean de Sy responsible for the two opening miniatures, his involvement only complicates the book’s history. He was a Parisian artist who had worked on at least one other copy of Machaut’s collected works (MS Vg, currently part of the Wildenstein Collection), but since both the artist and the scribe affiliated with the bifolium containing these two images did not intervene elsewhere in the codex, and given that the bifolium appears to have been decorated and then inserted, these images and their history contribute little to efforts to date or locate geographically the codex. Further complicating efforts to establish the provenance of MS A is the work of a second branch of scholarship that has begun to chip away at the arguments for Machaut’s direct participation in the production of MS A. Lawrence Earp persuasively argues that discrepancies between the listing of the index that is said to represent Machaut’s intentions and the actual layout of the codex suggest that the poet was not involved in the actual production of the manuscript.7 In a similar vein, William W. Kibler and James I. Wimsatt have cast doubt on the poet’s involvement in MS A with their editorial work on select narratives of Machaut’s corpus.8 In spite of the many textual discrepancies that bring into question Machaut’s direct involvement in MS A, the material quality of the codex points to the idea that the book was produced for a reader like Machaut. The small dimensions of the codex (31 x 22 cm); its hefty size; the use of a formal bookhand; the dense illustration of the collection consisting of three half-page painted miniatures,9 154 miniatures in grisaille, and marginalia; and the incorporation of an index, notae, and multiple rubrics throughout suggest that the book was most likely intended to cater to a professional reader familiar with the tools and the learned reading practices of monastic and scholastic culture. The peculiar combination of relatively small dimensions and substantial volume makes the codex difficult to manipulate without a lectern to support it. Its script and abundant abbreviations make deciphering the text a challenge. Finally, for a reader unfamiliar with learned writings, its scholarly

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apparatus defies a casual, recreational reading of its contents. It is these physical features in particular that return us to Reims, for they make of the codex a perfect addition to the growing cathedral library. As Anne Walters Robertson states, Machaut had available samples of three other Reims canons who had compiled their works for their brothers.10 In spite of so many fausses routes, all lines of research point us to the vicinity of Reims where Machaut resided or, at the very least, to an academic or cleric community. Whether made with his close involvement or produced under his general supervision, or whether undertaken for himself alone, his brothers at Reims, or for yet unknown readers, MS A carries a number of telltale signs of bookmakers working to produce a scholarly inspired document for a professional reader, that is, M.B. Parkes’s reader who was trained to study scholarly books.

Attracting the Patron’s Gaze: A Competing Copy of Machaut’s Manuscripts (BnF, MSS fr. 22545–22546) Since Ernst Hoepffner argued that MSS A and F–G shared a now lost exemplar and ‘semblent avoir été écrits l’un et l’autre du vivant du poète, même sous sa surveillance’ (I.xlvi), scholars have tended to approach the two-volume compendium as the most authoritative copy of Machaut’s corpus. Yet François Avril’s identification of Perrin Rémy as the principle miniaturist of MSS F–G has challenged this assertion. For Avril places the decoration, if not production, of the compendium in the 1390s, well after Machaut’s death.11 As we shall see, the miniature cycle plays an integral role in shaping and defining the collection, its reception, and its audience. The miniatures are especially compelling because they register the particular desire of the workshop to attract the gaze of the as yet unidentified patron, as his arms decorate twenty-eight miniatures in the manuscript. In half of these cases, the patron’s arms appear fully integrated into the diapered background; in the other half, an emblazoned shield overlays a small portion of the miniature.12 These arms remain unidentified, but Avril speculates that they represent a member of the petite noblesse of bourgeois extraction.13 Besides the incorporation of the recipient’s imprimatur in the pictorial program, the general artistic quality of the compendium points to early expectations of a wealthy patron. Meticulously written and corrected in a formal bookhand by a single scribe throughout and with space allotted for 148 miniatures, this collection bears the mark of a conscientious collaboration of scribe and

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artist intent on creating a book to be admired both as an objet d’art and as a written document. Another distinctive characteristic of MSS F–G concerns the illustration program specifically. Closely mirroring MS A both in spacing and content, the MSS F–G pictorial cycle for the Voir dit differs on three counts: (1) it includes seven extra miniatures in comparison to MS A, (2) as already mentioned, it visually refers to the patron, and (3) it places a striking emphasis on reading in private. As will be discussed in chapter 4, this last characteristic of the F–G Voir dit cycle can be understood as an effort to speak to the habits of the intended lay recipient of the work. Thus while MSS F–G follows MS A in incorporating an index, punctuating the collection with images and notae, the explicit allusions to the lay reader both through the incorporation of the patron’s emblem and through frequent quotidian scenes of private reading transduce the scholastic study methods associated with MS A to a lay setting. In addition, the layout and decoration of MSS F–G encourage an intimate encounter that would emphasize the aesthetic pleasure of handling and gazing on the text. As a book produced for a wealthy owner, the F–G compendium was required to fulfil a double role. It was to provide evidence of the owner’s wealth, power, and magnanimity as well as to satisfy the reading habits associated with (even if not practised by) the new lay reader who, as detailed in chapter 1, was often depicted handling books, gazing on images, and studying content in private settings.

Making Space for Performance: Resuscitating a Maligned Codex (BnF, MS fr. 9221) Ernst Hoepeffner originally argued that MS E was produced for the Duke of Berry during Machaut’s lifetime and that the poet was paid for the work. His assertions are, nevertheless, made suspect by the late appearance of the codex in the duke’s library. Since it is not documented before the 1402 inventory and since the ex libris identifying the duke as the work’s patron was written on a separate folio that could have been added at a later date, one cannot say for certain that the codex was actually produced with the duke in mind.14 Indeed, the codex is now dated to the 1390s rather than pre-1377.15 The two scribes and two artists who produced MS E offer no further insight. At least one of the illuminators, who is responsible for six miniatures, was known to be active from 1372 to 1390.16 Hence the illustrations could date from Machaut’s lifetime or later. The remaining artist and the two scribes have not been

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linked with any other manuscript and thus provide no firm dating. Furthermore, MS E has been subjected to the harsh judgments of scholars who consider it to be a contaminated copy of Machaut’s corpus. Their assessment is not unfounded. Beginning with the organization of the collection, MS E diverges from many of the principles established in earlier compendia. Musical genres are blurred, as motets and rondeaux intermingle in the music section.17 The larger divisions that separate music from poetry in Machaut’s earlier collections also break down in MS E. For example, the Voir dit now appears in the music section. Two works acquire new titles: the Remede de Fortune is identified as the Ecu bleu, and the Fonteinne amoureuse as the Livre de Morpheus.18 Some works are incomplete or of questionable origin: the Prologue consists of only the four opening ballades, and two new lais and a rondeau included in the collection are regarded as opera dubia. As for the decoration of MS E, Avril points out the surprising mediocrity and pedestrian quality of its thirty-eight-image pictorial program in spite of its affiliation with the greatest bibliophile of the Middle Ages.19 Finally, in terms of textual viability, editors regard MS E as too contaminated and too distant from the poet to merit the status of an authoritative copy.20 Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet writes off the omitted verses, orthographic variants, and the occasional missing passages in the MS E copy of the Voir dit as typical of deluxe manuscripts: ‘Il est très typique en cela d’un manuscrit de luxe qui fait moins attention à la qualité du texte qu’à la mise en page raffinée et au décor.’21 The critical assessment of MS E by scholars overlooks, however, the value of this extraordinary codex. MS E presents a radically new version of Machaut’s collected works.22 It is among the most ambitious and most richly produced copies of his corpus. Compensating for the paucity of miniatures, each image in MS E is outlined in gold and the mise en page benefits from limited pictorial program to present a creative and unprecedented layout that privileges the graphic text over its illustrated enhancement. As the largest of the collections at 40.6 × 30 cm, MS E takes advantage of its imposing size to introduce a rare three-column layout, which, as Geneviève Hasenohr notes, is almost always indicative of ‘une volonté de magnificence: elle permet d’accroître les dimensions des volumes en préservant l’équilibre de la mise en page.’23 In addition, the scribes used different scripts and alternating inks to distinguish between genres and to enhance the beauty of the written word. This new layout is then manipulated so as to dramatize visually the hybrid nature of several works. In the Voir dit, the three-column layout is periodically

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abandoned to create a new space for both letters and music. Distinctively written in a formal cursive script and transcribed in light brown ink, the couple’s letters extend across the full length of the page. Similarly, the eight musical compositions inserted into the Voir dit extend across the width of the page on red-lined scores that contrast with the vertical columns.24 Furthermore, even the title change of the Fonteinne amoureuse puts the work in greater harmony with the Voir dit since Guillaume the narrator refers to the work with the MS E title of Le Livre de Morpheus. Through these material variants, MS E becomes an important witness to an alternative tradition in which layout and organization instigate a dramatically new reading of Machaut’s corpus, one that emphasizes the performative aspect of his writings. Finally, Margaret Bent has called our attention to the uncommon approach in MS E to copying Machaut’s corpus. Regarding the music, she argues that the scribe consulted multiple versions of Machaut’s manuscript before selecting the ‘best’ example of individual works, which was further perfected before inclusion in MS E.25 Bent’s hypothesis can also help explain a number of the so-called errors and sites of contamination in the written texts. For example, many of the textual alterations criticized by editors reveal on closer scrutiny scribal efforts to ‘modernize’ orthography and syntax for a new generation of readers.26 In a similar vein, alterations to the music suggest efforts to update the notation system for a new generation of singers.27 From modernized orthography to more elaborate notation, from fuller explanations of problematic musical pieces to the insertion of traditionally excluded materials, MS E provides abundant evidence throughout that the two scribes responsible for its transcription self-consciously undertook the formidable task to produce a lively new rendition of Machaut’s corpus for a later generation of readers. Moreover, as the only copy of the Voir dit truly to capture the hybrid nature of the work, MS E is unique in the material space it creates for an oral performance of the text. With the scores inserted directly into the account, its larger dimensions that allow for reading and singing ease, and the decision to allow the prose to extend across the page, MS E implements techniques that favour a public reading of its contents. Given that the material evidence points to bookmakers’ interest in their anticipated audiences and eventual reception modes, the current study privileges editors, scribes, and artists over the author as the ones who ultimately shaped the text and directed the reading event. As ‘authentic witnesses,’ medieval manuscripts register the involvement of

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multiple creators in forming a text to respond to material realities of book production as well as cultural realities and aspirations, that is, in relation to the expectations, abilities, and values associated with the anticipated audience.28 In the following chapters, we will explore multiple sites of amplification in the transmission of Machaut’s Voir dit as a means of investigating how intermediary readers negotiated their relationship to the text and its future audience. How does their involvement in the material transmission of a text reflect their own understanding of the work, and how does their interpretation shape future encounters with the text? We shall discuss three key sites of mediation. Chapter 3 investigates the relationship between metatextual instructions concerning the written artefact and the scholastically inspired layout of MS A. In chapter 4, illuminations are approached as guideposts that instruct readers on the types of relationships they can have with texts in MSS A and F. The section closes with a study of the repercussions that the inserted musical scores in MS E could have on readers’ reception of the Voir dit.

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3 Instructing Readers: Metatext and the Table of Contents as Sites of Mediation in BnF, MS fr. 1584

The Voir dit represents far more than the faithful account of the love affair it promises in the prologue. Where the poet fails in love, he eloquently succeeds in writing about love. Indeed Machaut’s work provides one of the most detailed medieval accounts of the bookmaking process. Whereas Guillaume the lover quickly learns of his inability to control his affair, he emerges confident in his mastery of the writing and shaping of his book. His letters record in unprecedented detail the processes of poetic creation, musical composition, and book fabrication. Alongside such particulars as the number of verses he rhymes nightly (100) or how he composes music (words first), Guillaume reflects on the final material object. He waxes eloquent on the difficulty of ordering the vast correspondence while marveling over the twelve cahiers it occupies. Every free moment (and eventually every piece of parchment in the poet’s possession) is filled with the planning or actual confectioning of the Voir dit. The present chapter begins by taking a closer look at the abundant metatextual remarks in the Voir dit that document Guillaume’s involvement in the actual fabrication of a codex. Since Guillaume the narrator frequently alludes to the larger material context in references to earlier works or material residing just outside the frame of the Voir dit, the second half of the chapter addresses the extant manuscripts to determine the influence that these remarks had on actual layout and presentation of individual copies. Previous scholars have interpreted these moments of overlap between the opera omnia and the Voir dit as evidence of Machaut’s supervisory role in manuscript production.1 But such privileging of the author has led to the effacement of compelling evidence indicating reader involvement in the shaping and ordering of the book.

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Nowhere is the participation of readers more apparent than in the very document identified by scholars as proof of Machaut’s involvement in the bookmaking process. The index of materials that introduces MS A and that names the author at the outset as overseeing the project (‘Vesci lordenance que G. de machau wet qu’il ayt en son livre’) will be examined here as a scripted site of negotiations between the author-figure and his readers, understood as both his intended audience and his intermediary readers, the latter better known as editors, scribes, and artists. Elspeth Kennedy’s view that ‘the whole trend of scribal intervention is towards the smoothing away of difficulties and contradictions, not the creation of them’ will shape this study.2 When approached as material evidence of both authorial intention attributed to Machaut and audience involvement, the table of contents to MS A, the final ordering of the codex, and its graphic presentation spotlight scribal efforts to smooth over the ‘difficulties and contradictions’ inherent to the corpus. Yet as we shall see, bookmakers’ efforts to harmonize Guillaume’s claims in the Voir dit with the larger corpus of MS A ultimately challenged Machaut’s control over book production. The involvement of various hands in MS A overlays Machaut’s work with evidence of the powerful role readers – both intermediary readers responsible for transcribing a text and the real readers for whom they produced these books – assume in the creation and production of books. In the very spaces where the MS A bookmakers leave evidence of attempts to ‘smooth away’ discrepancies through scrapings, rearrangements, and additions, material evidence of readers taking control of Machaut’s texts rises to the surface.

Seeing and Finding the Text: Deictic Marks and Readers’ Encounter with the Material Artefact In spite of Guillaume the narrator’s final cynical view of his audience and his last-ditch efforts to confuse his readers and distance them from his work, he nevertheless insists on the materiality of his text and the physical encounter readers are assumed to pursue. Deictic terms, such as ‘vois cy la lettre’ (here is the letter) (l. 488, l. 549) or ‘vescy la response’ (here is the response) (l. 6203), are interspersed throughout his narrative. Instructions to examine ‘cest escript’ (this writing) (l. 2978), ‘ceste lettre’ (this letter) (l. 3299), ‘ce rondelet’ (this rondel) (l. 3860), or ‘ceste chanson’ (this song,) (l. 4031) give material weight to interpolated writings. The narrator assumes that with access to the same materials, readers have studied Toute-Belle’s actual letters as he does: ‘Vous les

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avés tantost veües’ (You have just examined them) (l. 763) and ‘Veü aves  le doulz escrit’ (You saw the sweet writing) (l. 4809). Through these  remarks, Machaut foregrounds the written artefact that is expected to be  before his readers, whether in their hands or positioned on a lectern before a public speaker. Extant manuscripts respect these locaters by  setting off the inserted matter from the surrounding verse. MS A introduces letters and poems with rubrics identifying the speakers while MSS  F and E often set apart the poet’s metatextual statements from the surrounding text, thereby effectively transforming some couplets into instructional rubrics (Figure 12: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 140r). In MS E, the page allots space to a graphic semblance of a real letter, which is then enhanced by the cursive script and a layout commonly used in missives (Figure 26: BnF, MS fr. 9221, fol. 204r). Every extant copy reiterates in its own style Machaut’s insistence on the materiality of words. The narrator also manifests a preoccupation with the layout and the presentation of his book. He frequently indicates the arrangement of inserted materials on the page: ‘Cy aprés verrés l’escripture’ (Hereafter you will see the writing) (l. 6221), ‘ceste lettre ... ce rondelet ... celli  desseure’ (this letter ... this rondel ... this one below) (ll. 2981–4), or ‘la  chanson ci devant nommee’ (the song which was referenced above) (l.  4163). On other occasions, he refers to the very parchment upon which the audience gazes: ‘ce qu’est escript en ceste page’ (that which is  written on this page) (l. 4169). In yet other instances, he provides details about the actual presentation of inserted materials. For example, he  precedes L. XXX with a call for the reader to take notice of an opening envoi, which he states is set off by the use of a special script: ‘Et l’envoi dessus vous enfourme,/ Qui estoit de lettre de fourme’ (And the subscription below, which was written in formed letters [gothic letters], will fill you in) (ll. 5800–1). Both MSS A and F support the poet’s claims by using a larger script to record the first line (Figure 14: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 175v). Similarly, the illustration of Lady Fortune that the poet studies in his own book and then describes in minute detail is replicated with stunning accuracy in MS A. Lady Fortune not only appears on the page with her five wheels, but those wheels are inscribed with the Latin text  for which the poet provided only the vernacular translation in his ac-  count (Figure 15: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 297r). This brief survey of the accord between Guillaume’s comments on the book he writes and organizes and the actual extant versions of the Voir dit leaves little doubt as to bookmakers’ familiarity with the work they

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copied. The question of whether this information was communicated via Machaut, who is said to have supervised the production of early versions of his manuscripts, or whether an overseer communicated this information to the team of page designers, scribes, and artists engaged in reproducing the work cannot be allowed to distract us from evidence of the obvious dialogue and negotiations that occurred. For numerous decisions in layout were clearly triggered by the embedded authorial instructions that served as catalysts for graphic innovation.

How to Read the Voir dit: Guidelines for the External Audience That Machaut considered this overlap between form and content as essential is made apparent by an early break in the narrative where the author-figure abandons the love narrative to comment on the actual codex containing the Voir dit. Following the receipt of Toute-Belle’s inaugural letter, Guillaume the narrator interrupts the tale first to defend having incorporated Toute-Belle’s epistles and then to reflect on the overall hybrid nature of his work: Et s’il est nulz qui me reprengne Ou qui mal apaiez se tiengne De mettre cy nos escriptures, Autant les douces que les sures, Que l’en doit appeller epistres – C’est leurs drois noms et leurs drois titres, – Je respond a tous telement Que c’est au doulz commandement De ma dame, qui le commande: ... Et s’aucunes choses sont dittes Deulz fois en ce livre ou escriptes, Mi signeur, n’en haiez merveille, Quar celle pour qui amour veille Veult que je mete en ce voir dit Tout ce qu’ai pour li fait et dit, Et tout ce qu’elle a pour moy fait, Sans riens celer qui face au fait; Et vuelt que toutes les rassemble Pour les y mettre tout ensemble.

490

495

510

515

92 Intermediary Readers and Their Shaping of Machaut’s Voir dit Le Voir dit veuil je qu’on appelle Ce traitié que je fais pour elle, Pour ce que ja n’i mentirai. (Des autres choses vous diray Se diligemment les querés, Sans faillir vous les trouverés Aveuques les choses notees Et es balades non chantees. (ll. 490–525)

520

525

[And if anyone should reproach me or consider himself ill-served that I record here our writings – both the sweet nothings/the pleasant writings and the bitter/the authentic writings, which one ought to call letters (that is their true name and correct title) – I respond thus to them all: it is at the sweet command of my lady, who gives the order ... And if any matters are mentioned or written twice in this book (livre), my lords do not be surprised, since the woman for whose sake Love is vigilant desires that I make part of this voir dit everything I have composed (fait) and said (dit) for her, all she has written for me too; nothing is to be left out concerning these events, and she wants me to assemble all this material in order to include it here. I would like this treatise (traitié) I am composing for her to be called Le Voir dit because in it I will not lie. Concerning other writings (autres choses), I tell you that to find them without fail you should diligently look among the poems set to music (choses notees) and the ballades not meant to be sung (balades non chantees) ...]

In this passage, Machaut provides details regarding textual creation – advancing from the contents of the Voir dit outward to his larger corpus, which he implies in the final lines contain supplementary material relevant to his story. At a first level, this aside reads as a detailed description of the structure of the Voir dit. The narrator begins by referring to the contents of the work as ‘nos escriptures,’ which he then divides into two categories – ‘autant les douces que les sures.’ Moving to a deeper level of specificity, he provides the generic title for the prose portions of the couple’s writings – ‘que l’en doit appeller epistres.’ Machaut’s modern editors understand this passage to equate ‘nos escriptures’ and ‘epistres.’ The intervening reference to ‘les douces’ and ‘les sures’ or the ‘pleasant and bitter writings’ is said to qualify these letters.3 While this reading is justified by the text (and reinforced in both new editions through modern punctuation), there is also room for a different interpretation

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of the passage, one in which each line serves to qualify the final preceding object, thereby providing ever greater detail with each additional verse. In this manner, ‘nos escriptures’ would be qualified by the reference to the two types of text, that is, pleasant and bitter writings. The subsequent reference to ‘epitres’ would refer back to these bitter writings, ‘les sures.’ That ‘epitres’ could serve as a synonym for ‘sures’ hinges on the play of the terms ‘sure’ or ‘bitter’ and ‘seur’ or ‘authentic or believable.’4 Thus the term ‘sures’ conflates two contraries to evoke the sense of ‘bitter truths’ or ‘authentic documents.’ The double entendre presented by the term ‘sures’ is further strengthened by the medieval identification of prose as the privileged medium of truth.5 Given that the prose correspondence inserted into the Voir dit eventually becomes the privileged vehicle for the expression of the poet’s bitter laments and Toute-Belle’s shallow defences, this early conflation of prose, authenticity, and bitter sentiments prepares the audience for what awaits. The second component of the couple’s writings, ‘les douces (escriptures),’ harks back to Machaut’s frequent qualification of poetry and music as ‘doux.’ Machaut uses ‘doux’ and its variants in this context especially in the Prologue to his collected works. The poet claims as his inspiration ‘Doux Penser’ and ‘Douce Plaisance,’ adding that a lover’s ‘doux penser’ allows him to reconstruct in his imagination the ‘douce figure’ of his lady.6 Both Orpheus and David, the great poet-musicians of classical and scriptural traditions, are also evoked in the Prologue to celebrate their ‘doux chant’ (V, 137, 140). Machaut appears to reuse the word ‘douce’ in the Voir dit to similar ends. Thus line 493 points to the couple’s production of both prose and poetry. At the same time, it provides the first hint as to how the external audience must approach the Voir dit. Just as the title plays on questions of truth (voir) and poetry/fiction (dit) or truth (voir dit) and lies (voiesdie), so the description of the contents alerts the audience to its task of discerning fact from fiction, the ‘sweet nothings’ expressed in courtly poetry from the ‘bitter truths’ detailed in the prose texts. The poet moves beyond this description and defence of the interpolated material to reflect on the work’s structure in ll. 508–25. He first apologizes for any repetition in his book. An initial reading of this passage could interpret the poet’s words as a defence for the repetitive structure in the hybrid text itself, where the narrative, poems, and letters often address the same event. Yet in these cases, an identical text does not appear. Moreover, alternative versions of the same event often prove strikingly different depending on their fictional authors. Examples of

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the [actual} reoccurrence of identical texts are found in the larger context of Machaut’s corpus. As scholars have noted, eight poems in the Voir dit appear later in MSS A and F–G as songs set to music. Similarly, fourteen of the Voir dit poems first appear in a collection of lyric texts grouped under the title of Loange des dames in MSS A and F–G, and ten are reproduced in the same section in MS E.7 If we return to the metatextual aside previously quoted, it would seem that rather than alluding to internal repetition, Guillaume the narrator refers to the relationship between the Voir dit and the larger corpus. Let us not ignore that he excuses any duplication that appears ‘en ce livre’ (l. 509). He defends this practice with recourse to his lady’s request that he assemble together (‘rassemble ... ensemble,’ ll. 516–17) all the work he has ‘fait et dit’ in her honour (l. 513) and vice versa (l. 514). Furthermore, he concludes by again referring to ‘other things’ or ‘autres choses’ (l. 521), but this time he specifies that should his reader diligently seek out (‘querés,’ l. 522) these other texts, he will unfailingly discover them among ‘choses notees’ and ‘balades non chantees’ (ll. 524–5), terms that ostensibly refer to the music section and gathered Loange poems in the larger codex. As guidelines for reading, the command to seek out additional materials effectively requires the audience to approach the work as material readers, that is, as readers who would physically manipulate the codex by flipping through its pages to discover these other entries. This command complements the many deictic references throughout the narrative that also draw the audience’s attention to the physical structure of the text. Advising his audience to look within as well as outside the immediate text for additional materials, the narrator of the Voir dit maps out his readers’ encounter with the physical artefact, evoking a poetic topology that they are to explore. This map identifies the Voir dit as the core text from which all else emanates. From this central location, the audience must seek out (‘querer,’ l. 522) and discover (‘trouver,’ l. 523) hidden works, as if engaged in deciphering a treasure map.8 In this iteration of the interpretative experience, reading even courtly literature becomes a quest for truth that implies sifting through materials and making judgments on their value and significance. The following diagram captures the successive emboîtements evoked in this early metatextual aside. It places the couple’s poetry and letters at the heart of the Voir dit while simultaneously recognizing the horizontal movement required of readers who must look outside the immediate narrative to find the supplementary materials. The ‘balades non chantees’

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Diagram 3.1 Livre (l. 509) – voir dit (l. 512) Et s'aucunes choses sont dittes Deulz fois en ce livre ou escriptes (ll. 508–9) balades non chantees (l. 525)

Le Voir dit (l. 518) nos escriptures (l. 492) = les douces & les sures (l. 493)

Tout ce qu'ai pour li fait et dit Et tout ce qu'elle a pour moy fait (ll. 513–14) choses notees (l. 524)

and the ‘choses notees’ are therefore located just outside the parameters of the narrative. Because of the actual location of these pieces beyond the boundaries of the Voir dit, this supplemental matter invites the audience to blur the boundaries between the story and its material existence, between the book entitled the Voir dit and the codex that contains it. Thus the first reference to a ‘voir dit’ in line 512 cannot be reduced to the story of the same title but must be understood as referring to the legal definition of a voir dit as a complete dossier of a case. It is within this larger dossier that the reader will also encounter reproductions of the same texts (ll. 508–9) as well as additional compositions that relate to the affair (ll. 513–14). Diagram 3.1 illustrates the permeability of the boundaries between the Voir dit and the codex in which it is contained. This conflation of the story and its physical rendering is essential to Machaut’s construction of his material readers over the course of the narrative. Both A and F–G compendia offer eloquent renderings of the symbiotic relationship between the story and its codex through the organization of Machaut’s corpus. With a total of 501 folios, MS A reserves folios 221r–306r for the Voir dit, thereby locating the work at the midpoint of the collection. MSS F–G also reserve a symbolically charged location for the Voir dit. Even though it includes more works than found in MS A, the MSS F–G compendium maintains a central position for the Voir dit; with 364 folios between the two volumes, the Voir dit occupies folios 137v– 198v.9 Furthermore, both of these early copies take advantage of paratextual additions composed when producing the manuscript to call attention to

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a number of the pieces in the Voir dit that are duplicated elsewhere in the collection. Special rubrics alert readers to the eight lyric pieces in the Voir dit that reappear fully notated in the music sections of MSS A and F–G. These rubrics announce at the outset of each relevant piece ‘et y a chant.’ These paratextual statements recall the narrator’s earlier promise of additional materials among the ‘choses notees’ because they signal the duplication of these poems elsewhere in the corpus. Less transparent but no less evocative are marginalia that appear beside textual references to musical compositions. In MS A, bells, drums, and wind and string instruments fill the compendium with musical echoes. In two of the seven cases, these images occupy the marginal space of the Voir dit.10 On folio 232v, a figure in the centre column rings a bell across from Guillaume’s comments in Letter VI on a notated rondelet that he sends his lady. Again, on folio 237r, across from Guillaume’s announcement in Letter X that he has set Le grant desir que j’ai de vous veoir to the tune of a ‘rés d’Alemaigne’ and that a variety of instruments could accompany the performance, a jovial male figure holding a string instrument occupies the centre column (Figure 16: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 237r) As these visual allusions to music pull the viewer’s gaze away from the text at hand to consider the music recorded just beyond the work’s margins, so the narrator’s claim that a copy of his work Morpheus (La Fonteinne amoureuse) is under preparation for Toute-Belle is signalled in MS A on folio 144r by a pointing finger in the margins beside of Letter IV. Again the margins serve as a privileged space to remind readers of the larger frame encompassing the Voir dit, for less than 100 folios prior, MS A offers its own copy of the Fonteinne. Neither MS A nor MSS F–G, however, identify through rubrics or images the fourteen poems also recorded among the Loange compositions. But MS A signals the presence of these double entries through the unique title it attributes to the earlier collected poems in its table of contents. The earliest extant copy of these poems, BnF, MS fr. 1586 (MS C), offers no title for the gathering of nearly 200 poems, and MSS F–G later entitle the collection as Loange des dames. MS A proposes an alternative means of identifying the pieces, one that complements details provided in the Voir dit. MS A breaks into three sections poems that will later be fixed as the Loange. The first group in MS A is given the significant title of Les balades ou il n’a point de chant in the table of contents. It is among these works that the majority of the Voir dit double entries are located. Let us recall that Guillaume instructs readers to seek out materials among the ‘balades non chantees.’ That MS A places the Voir dit at

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the centre of the codex and thus effectively between the poetry section and the music section assures that its readers must peruse the entire corpus to find materials relevant to the narrative. Readers seeking the ‘choses notees’ must advance to folios 367r–494v and they must backtrack to folios 177v–213r for the ‘balades non chantees’ or to folios 154r–173v for the Fonteinne amoureuse.11 Encircling the main text, these supplementary copies/works effectively tether the narrative to the codex. Even though the F–G compendium foregoes the title inspired by the Voir dit to identify the Loange entries, it too orchestrates a harmonious architectonic construction that links the Voir dit with works included in the larger codex. To read the Voir dit in these two versions is to situate the work within an entire collection and to acquire an expansive and synthetic familiarity with Machaut’s poetic and musical territory. These double and sometimes triple entries of discrete pieces in the codex have the added benefit of underscoring the impact delivery modes have on meaning. For example, to read the fourteen poems within the context of the Loange des dames, a disparate collection of formes fixes, would invite study of the compositions as examples of various poetic forms. Thus the reader may attend more to the poetic skill of the individual works within the Loange context than in the Voir dit, where the same poems now contain important information concerning the lovers’ emotional state. Similarly, the audience before the eleven lyric works found in both the Voir dit and the music sections of MSS A and F–G would approach them in radically different ways depending on the selected version. Without their music, the eight entries that first appear in the Voir dit are again valuable because of the information they provide concerning the lovers’ sentiments. As texts that depend on metre and rhyme to enhance the lovers’ language with heartfelt emotion, these carefully wrought poems lose their lyrical power and their expressive message when set to music. Metre and rhyme make room for melismatic moments and embellishments that shape musical expression. Meaning can easily become lost in the competing voices of polyphonic compositions.12 The Voir dit invites the audience to access these interpolated pieces through multiple forms of delivery when it calls attention to the different contexts presented in the codex. By directing readers to consider the lyrical quality of poems spotlighted in the Loange section or the musical renditions of other pieces as developed in the song section of MSS A and F–G, Guillaume the narrator emphasizes the material existence of these pieces when he invites readers to turn pages, seek out information, and meditate on the multivalence of the written word.13

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Machaut’s Intermediary Readers and the Genesis of the MS A Table of Contents This apparent attention to the reading experience afforded by the author and then his bookmakers can be interpreted as evidence of Machaut’s active involvement in the confection of MS A. But it can as easily and potentially more effectively be understood as evidence of intermediary readers’ active engagement with his text. Nowhere is the myth of complete authorial control of MS A more powerfully challenged than in the very entry upon which scholars base their speculations of Machaut’s involvement. For the reader overwhelmed by the 501-folio codex that MS A represents, this paratextual addition offers a handy tool to navigate the materials. The table of contents offers a list of texts and foliation, and even identifies musical genres embedded in the collection for anyone specifically interested in locating songs. And yet, it is in the table of contents where one discovers the most compelling evidence of author and readers wrestling for control of Machaut’s texts. Before addressing this crucial paratextual addition to MS A, the function of indices, of which a table of contents is but one example, must be taken into account. The frequent inclusion of indices in late medieval manuscripts points to the increasing use of books to store and retrieve knowledge as well as to the growing acknowledgment that books serve as tools for readers.14 Indices are one of Gérard Genette’s ‘paratexts’ and they function as a ‘threshold’ intended to encourage easy entry into the text.15 At the same time, their positioning on the outer edges of a work or a collection strengthens the integrity of the contained material. Their very creation, typically following the production of the master text or collection, stems from a desire to stabilize the work through the implementation of real and imagined borders. For instance, a table of contents organizes discrete works or individual chapters into larger units. But, conversely, the same list also identifies the codex as a storehouse of knowledge that may be retrieved and studied separately. Indices are thus rarely transparent documents, for they frequently reinterpret and reorganize the material they introduce. Indices propose alternative ways of reading a text that can undermine author-proposed boundaries. At the same time that they assert a collection’s unity, they empower readers to approach the collection as made up of discrete parts. This dual function of indices – to reinforce the notion of a unified whole attributable to an author or a compiler and to signal the independent components of the whole as pieces to be manipulated by readers – establishes these framing texts as highly charged sites of mediation.

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The table of contents to MS A reveals a similar complexity of function, although it differs substantially from the general definition attributed to all forms of indices. First, the opening rubric to the MS A table of contents strays from convention in that it self-consciously links the ordering of the codex to the author’s desires as opposed to the audience’s needs. This index also contradicts convention because it seeks to discourage multiple ways of accessing and interpreting its contents and instead imposes an author-sanctioned vision of the corpus. Finally, the rubric suggests that instead of the list conforming to and confirming the ordering of the collection, an opposite intention reigns. In other words, contrary to expectations, the list heading MS A purports to precede the production of the collection, a fact that Lawrence Earp has convincingly confirmed.16 The list therefore is presented as prescriptive rather than descriptive. It is this dual function and double existence of the MS A table of contents that demands particular attention. Examination reveals that over the period of time extending from the initial list that purported to communicate the author’s instructions on the ordering of the codex to its final placement at the head of MS A as a table of contents serving readers, numerous alterations to the list, such as pragmatic insertions, addenda, and erasures, were introduced. These scars of transmission document the multiple stages of production undertaken when transforming the author-attributed mandate into a reader’s guide; the author’s writings into the reader’s book. Many of these alterations can be directly linked to Guillaume’s internal reflections on the relationship between content and form in the Voir dit. Even those changes in the table of contents only indirectly related to the Voir dit illustrate a sustained pattern of intervention and mediation that serves to negotiate between the author’s stated (or perceived) intentions and readers’ presumed needs. Among the many changes that would need to occur to transform a set of instructions into a table of contents, the most basic entails the addition of foliation at a final stage in manuscript production. Fixing the location of texts within a manuscript would ostensibly secure the stability of a book, yet the foliation of MS A proves destabilizing. The listings provided in the index sometimes conflict with the actual order and content of the collection. Incorrect foliation is given for some musical entries; in other cases, the scribe reconciles the list with the actual arrangement of the manuscript by providing non-sequential foliation alongside the misplaced entry. For instance, although the Chansons roiaus precede the Dit de la marguerite in the list, the reverse holds true for

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the ordering of the codex.17 The scribe indicates as much with the placement of the correct foliation beside each entry. Furthermore, some works contained in MS A fail to appear in the table of contents. Absent from the list are both the Prologue and Vezci les biens que ma dame me fait. Significantly, both of the omitted works are framing texts to the poetic section of MS A and are possibly additional examples of paratextual material intended as reading aids rather than self-sustaining texts worthy of independent study. The inconsistencies revealed in foliating the collection cast doubt on the stability and integrity of MS A and shape our reception of it as a ‘work in progress,’ a dynamic collection that resisted all efforts to fix its parameters (whether by the author qua reader or intermediary readers qua authors). In the end, even though the foliation was introduced as a means of transforming the author’s instructions into a reading aid, the residual errors underscore the discordance distinguishing the author’s presumed intentions from the resulting codex. But the index does not transform MS A into a reader’s book in the conventional sense. The foliation reveals that the MS A index fails to achieve the dual goal attributed to indices. It is questionable whether the MS A index facilitates readers’ access to the manuscript due to the numerous errors. Second, instead of assuring the stability of the collection, the MS A table records the continued growth of the codex from the time of its initial inception attributed to the author to its final form demarcated by the index. The destabilization of the author’s supposed orders insinuates the presence of intermediary readers working to harmonize their understanding of the text with Machaut’s at the same time as they move closer to creating a codex that a learned recipient might desire. Even if these changes are interpreted as instructions given by Machaut at a later date, they represent alterations proposed by a reader, whether the author rereading himself or a scribe examining and organizing the codex. Most importantly, they are corrections seemingly undertaken with future readers in mind.

Staking out Territory through Addenda The discrepancies between the list of works and the actual ordering of the collection represent sites of negotiation between perceived authorial intentions and the anticipated needs of readers. In a similar manner, the treatment of two works in the list implies that at an interim stage between the production of the list and the final table of contents,

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changes were introduced with the audience in mind. Both entries in question are distinctive among Machaut’s writings due to their acutely hybrid nature; the Remede de Fortune and the Voir dit both interpolate musical and lyric texts into a framing narrative. The Voir dit contains the added complication of prose love letters. But the Remede stands out because of the inclusion of musical notation for seven compositions in the narrative. While both the Voir dit and the Remede appear in the poetry section of MS A, a closing addendum to the table of contents recognizes and attempts to resolve the fundamental problem posed by the placement of the Remede in this section. Below the last column listing the songs contained in the music section, an addendum reads: ‘Ces choses qui sensuivent trouverez en Remede de fortune’ (You will find these things that follow in the Remede de Fortune) (Figure 17: MS fr. 1584, fol. Bv). This rubric introduces a list of the musical interpolations included earlier in the Remede, providing title, genre, and foliation for easy retrieval. This cross referencing of the Remede songs cleverly resolves the problem that the hybrid narrative could pose for future audiences interested in Machaut’s music. Aiding those who might mine the manuscript for songs, the addendum alerts them to pieces hidden in the earlier text section of the manuscript, a strategy that mimics the ‘et y a chant’ rubrics in the Voir dit. At the same time, the double entry of the Remede material in the table of contents acknowledges the different approaches to accessing this hybrid text in a manner reminiscent of the reproduction of lyric and music pieces from the Voir dit elsewhere in the codex. Either the audience can study the music within the frame of the Remede narrative or approach the interpolated pieces as works to be performed independent of the story.18

The Hidden Significance of Erasures The Voir dit in MS A does not pose the same problem as the Remede since musical notation is not inserted into the narrative. Nevertheless, the table of contents visually registers the equally ambiguous status of the Voir dit. This work appears in the index as an afterthought in the production of the book. The title is tucked in the margins between the two columns of the list on folio Av. The title is written on the same line as Le dit de la marguerite, whereas the foliation drops down to the next line across from the Prise d’Alixandre. A sinuous extension of the final ‘t’ of the Voir dit anchors the title to its designated foliation (Figure 18: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. Av). Within the actual collection, the Voir dit confirms

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the index instructions, as its gatherings are inserted between those of Le dit de la marguerite and the Prise d’Alixandre. Lawrence Earp questions if the insertion of the Voir dit in the MS A list signals its late addition to the collection as others have suggested.19 His doubt is fuelled by evidence of textual disturbance apparent in the surrounding entries. On folio Av, within the immediate vicinity of the Voir dit, the parchment bears the scars of substantial erasure. So effectively is the page scraped that even ultraviolet light cannot reveal the removed material. Nevertheless, reflection on the available space represented by the scraping and a comparison of the MS A table of contents to the actual arrangement of other copies of Machaut’s collected works led Earp to speculate on the original entries. Earp conjectured that the initial listing could have begun with Le dit de la Marguerite, followed by the title Loange des dames, and on the third line, the Voir dit.20 Earp’s findings suggest therefore that the Voir dit may have always been included in the MS A list. If so, the changes in order might have been instigated by a desire to express visually that the work was at the centre of the collection. The adjustments made to the list with respect to the Voir dit visually convey the work’s pivotal status within Machaut’s corpus. On folio Av, the title of Machaut’s magnum opus now straddles the two columns of the opening folio; it is neither fully incorporated into column A, where Machaut’s other poetic writings are listed, nor into column B, where the first entries of the music section appear. Repeating in an inverse manner the cross-referencing of the Remede, the location of the Voir dit between the two columns and thus between the two main divisions of Machaut’s corpus, bespeaks the hybrid nature of this work. While the solution proposed by the scribe for the Remede presents ample evidence of a conscious act, the uncertain positioning of the Voir dit only testifies to the hesitancy and negotiations surrounding the placement of the work within the corpus. Fitted into the margins, the title risks getting lost in the crowded space, but it is the very evidence of this confusion surrounding the Voir dit that draws the eye to the middle ground of the two columns. Between the damaged parchment, bearing revisions noted in watereddown ink, and anchored only by the extension of the final letter of the title, the Voir dit emerges from its murky surroundings to claim a central and meaningful role in the compendium. But the placement of the Voir dit on folio Av also encourages the reader to associate this hybrid narrative with the immediately surrounding texts that have similarly undergone revisions. If we concur with Earp’s speculation on the original entries, then the following changes

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were undertaken when the parchment was scraped: in place of Le dit de la marguerite, the first line now reads Les balades ou il n’a point de chant; in place of Loange des dames, the second line lists les chansons roiaus et les complaintes; and where we might have once read Le voir dit, line three identifies Le dit de la marguerite.21 The first three titles of the new listing divide into three discrete parts the varied compositions grouped together in other collections as the Loange des dames. The entries in the MS A table of contents propose a generic breakdown for the Loange in which the first entry distinguishes the balades from the chansons roiaus and complaintes that follow. When the actual sections are examined, however, the contents prove more unruly than the new titles suggest. In particular, the balades section gathers together examples of various formes fixes, including virelais, rondeaux, and even complaintes, the latter of which should have been reserved for the final section, and the idea of grouping the chansons roiaus is never undertaken. Given the work that went into altering the list but not the actual arrangement of the poems in the codex, the changes can be justified only with reference to the ‘balades ou il na point de chant’ evoked in the Voir dit. Although the new titles mislead the reader by proposing a false organization, they serve as a guide for the reader of the Voir dit who has returned to the index to begin searching for the promised hidden materials said to be collected with the ‘balades non chantees’ (l. 525). Who altered the title of the Loange? Did Machaut direct early bookmakers to rename it so as to reward the attentive reader of the Voir dit or did an intermediary reader figure out the game and alert future audiences? Whether responsibility for the changes to the table of context, the actual ordering of the collection, or the layout and presentation are assigned to the author or to intermediary readers working apart from the author, these alterations serve as powerful reminders that readers exerted some control over book production – just as Guillaume the narrator’s readers exerted some control over literary creation. The MS A table of contents vividly illustrates the struggle of authors and readers for mastery of the text. The very page that asserts authorial control in its opening pronouncement provides a tool traditionally created for and by readers. The very page that insists on the author’s mastery of the bookmaking process also registers a number of moments of hesitation and negotiation possibly by and certainly on behalf of readers. When studied for their significance, these changes most likely reveal efforts by intermediary readers to harmonize the author’s purported demands with readers’ needs. In proposing new titles for some works and signalling

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incorrectly ordered passages or, conversely, revising the ordering and naming of works, MS A offers abundant evidence of readers infiltrating and at least partially appropriating Machaut’s corpus. Ironically, the various changes to the MS A table of contents introduce into Machaut’s corpus the very type of engaged reading tactics that Guillaume so feared in the Voir dit but that he initiated when he invited external readers to unearth hidden treasures among his collected works. Just as Guillaume’s readers went too far in appropriating and reinterpreting his works, it would appear that his intermediary readers adopted a similar posture. They reorganized, renamed, and reinterpreted various components of his oeuvre for smoother reception. Regardless of the author’s role in these changes, the hands of the intermediary readers are associated with the scrapings, the additions, and the revisions that undermine claims of the author’s mastery over the codex. At the same time, however, Machaut’s bookmakers enacted and then facilitated the type of intimate, tactile, and visual experience promoted in the Voir dit. To shape this experience, the MS A bookmakers imagined an audience that had mastered the learned reading practices associated with professional readers, such as those that Machaut’s brothers at Reims would have been expected to know, as opposed to the habits of casual readers, such as Guillaume the narrator’s patrons, who were associated with superficial, piecemeal, and aural reading practices. For these professional readers, rubrics announce the existence of music and altered titles function as reading aids. The reader enjoys a detailed index, numerous notae punctuating the compositions, and an innovative layout that accommodates a number of different genres. Even Latin appears in the Lady Fortune image, thereby implying an educated reader. The material reading practices promoted within the codex are evoked even before the individual opens MS A, for the odd combination of its relatively compact dimensions and uncommonly large volume establishes the corpus as serious matter. If the Voir dit implies that Guillaume faltered in producing his work because of a controlling audience, the MS A rendition of the work succeeds because of the intermediary readers who took control of the text. The scribes and artists responsible for MS A were attentive students of Machaut’s corpus. Yet this did not stop them from slightly altering the poet’s presumed commands when they appeared faulty, nor did it stop them from registering evidence of their own engagement with the text nor, possibly most importantly, from aiding future audiences in taking control of a text that increasingly sought to protect its secrets through

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enigmas, fausses routes, and hidden evidence. Guillaume the narrator may very well have invited his readers to seek out additional material in his collected works that was relevant to the Voir dit, but whether Machaut intended book layout to assist readers in locating these pieces or whether he hoped that at the level of the codex the frustration exhibited in his anagrams would be reproduced is a question whose answer hides deep within MS A’s markings. In the next chapter, we explore yet another site where intermediary readers negotiate between the author’s text and their vision of the anticipated audience. Like the various organizing tools studied here, the pictorial programs decorating the A and F–G versions of the Voir dit reinforce Guillaume’s call for an intimate reading experience, but each depends on distinctive traditions and models to portray the material reader. In these two collections, we again discover that while the supplementary visual material serves to gloss Machaut’s work in the truest sense (it simultaneously reaches back to the text it illustrates and forward to its anticipated audience), each cycle also registers unique, personalized interpretations of the story and of the reading experience.

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4 Illustrations and the Shape of Reading: Pictorial Programs in BnF, MS fr. 1584 and MSS fr. 22545–22546

In spite of his detailed account of the vagaries of book production, Guillaume the narrator never comments on the decoration of his work. In the final pages of the Voir dit, however, he reflects extensively on the power of imagery to shape an individual’s understanding of both texts and events. These reflections are triggered by his own experience with the portrait that Toute-Belle sends early in the relationship. The poet’s devotion to the image is complete. From the beginning, he relates having spent endless hours meditating on the ‘ymage,’ praying to it, and celebrating its beauty in word and song. But when news of Toute-Belle’s potential betrayal spreads, Guillaume’s enthusiasm for both his lady and her portrait wanes. While refraining from confronting his lady even in a letter, he punishes the portrait by locking it in a chest. The same evening, the ‘ymage’ visits him in his dreams to argue for her release. Her defence centres on a reinterpretation of ovidian myths. The ‘ymage’ orchestrates her own form of metamorphosis by adapting Ovid’s accounts of Coronis and Vulcan to her immediate needs. Rather than focus on the mores of these two figures, she instead considers their children, the innocent victims of their sexual desire. As their children were eventually rescued from their prisons – in the first case, Coronis’s womb; in the second, a sealed chest under Pallas’s guard, so the ‘ymage’ calls on the lover to remove her from the locked chest (and, by extension, to return to the composition of the Voir dit). Having been persuaded of the portrait’s innocence, Guillaume awakens from his dream, immediately frees her, and returns to writing.1 The portrait’s success in reshaping text to conform to her needs inspires the poet to turn to other imagery as an interpretative vehicle that might elucidate his own predicament. Immediately following his

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removal of the portrait from the locked chest, Guillaume frees yet another image from a sealed container. Turning to a copy of Livy’s writings, Guillaume opens the book to meditate on a portrait of Fortune. Following a detailed description of the image before him, Guillaume proceeds to fuse Toute-Belle and Lady Fortune into one fickle and deceitful woman. The comparison results in one of the harshest and most misogynistic pronouncements in Machaut’s entire corpus. In response, Toute-Belle dispatches her confessor, who defends her virtue by providing a counter-portrait of Fortune in which, this time, the poet is compared to the fickle lady. Through these reflections on the ability of imagery to inspire new interpretations of established writings and shared beliefs, Machaut reveals his own awareness of the power of illustrations to shape the written word. Through Guillaume’s encounters with the various artistic reproductions – from the portrait of his lady to the portraits of Lady Fortune – Machaut evokes the two primary functions of illustrations in relation to texts: organization and interpretation.2 As organizational tools, illustrations allow first page designers and then viewers to partition the text into manageable parts as well as to identify the beginning of new texts, chapters, and key moments in a narrative. In their interpretative capacity, images can simplify or amplify the surrounding text through subject matter, for they simultaneously register interpretations of the text by intermediary readers, here artists, and serve as response triggers for future viewers. This visual material can derive from artists’ copies of stock imagery or from the creation of composite images inspired by the immediate text. Regardless of the source of inspiration, decoration always represents a form of mediation and supplementation.3 Even choosing stock imagery can render a text more complex. For example, by implementing conventional images of the raven and the crow to decorate the retelling of the myths selected by the ‘ymage,’ the MS A artist, consciously or not, calls attention to the disjunction between the original myth and the new version presented here. Thus a pictorial program provides a privileged and sanctioned space in which an artist as a reader of events can highlight, amplify, and even contradict the narrative or portions thereof. Anticipating the fissure potentially created between authorial intention and reader intervention, images already register responses to the text and those responses, in turn, serve as catalysts for continued creative engagement by viewers of the codex. Michael Camille insists on this subversive quality of illustrations: ‘... while ostensibly providing an ordered framework for the ex-

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pression of linguistic meaning, the visual also acts to disrupt any linear unitary responses by providing fissures in that smooth progression. Holes of representations, pockets of pictorial narrative, are cracks in the scribal edifice that ‘lead us away’ from the textual hierarchy.’4 Camille’s notion of miniatures as introducing ‘cracks’ in the textual edifice emphasizes the distraction they often initiate. But they must also be seen as windows that allow us to see into and even enter texts. That imagery can not only supplement but literally restructure texts becomes apparent in a study of the pictorial programs decorating the Voir dit in MSS A and F.5 Because MSS A and F share a near identical layout for thirty miniatures illustrating the Voir dit, they merit a comparative study.6 Apart from seven additional miniatures in the MS F program, the two cycles are surprisingly similar in terms of textual placement and general subject matter (see Appendix I).7 In broad terms, both pictorial cycles have in common a unique status in late medieval art because of their numerous visual allusions to the writing and reading process. Yet the purpose and promise of each cycle is strikingly different. Where each one engages with the heuristic and hermeneutic questions that preoccupy the narrator Guillaume, they cater to different audiences and reading experiences. To examine them together is to understand the rich diversity of reading patterns that existed in late medieval France. To study them individually is to move between intellectual and erotic encounters with textual bodies. This chapter examines the power of imagery in shaping reception. I begin with an explanation of how the MS A pictorial program situates the text in time. The MS A illustration program first insists on the internal temporal fissures that distinguish three stages of book production detailed in the narrative: that of the lovers’ correspondence, of Guillaume’s composition of the narrative, and of external readers viewing the book. In the final two MS A illustrations accompanying the Voir dit, these stages are conflated when the external reader is called upon to practise the material reading strategies mapped out by the narrator. In the second half of this chapter, the F–G compendium will be analysed for the intensely erotic relationship it forges for the external reader through its Voir dit miniature cycle. MS F Voir dit illustrations, regardless of their surface similarity with those in MS A, are distinct because they underscore the mimetic link between the audience’s voyeuristic status and the lovers’ desire to take possession of the material body. Like the couple, MSS F–G readers are associated with the desire to hold, turn over in their hands, and ultimately take full possession of the intimate correspondence that is teasingly offered up in text and image. The

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unique renderings of the pictorial programs in MSS A and F–G can be said to introduce ‘cracks’ that enable the viewers to see through and into the narrative, where they can take in the material flesh of the inscribed body. Insisting as they do on such intimate contact with literary creation, both cycles vividly illustrate the mutual participation of authors and readers in generating text and meaning.

Illustrations as Organizational Tools The Voir dit miniature cycles in MSS A and F typically fulfil the traditional functions assigned illustrations. For example, sixteen of the thirty miniatures in the MS A version of the Voir dit fulfil the conventional role of signalling key events and temporal shifts in the narrative.8 Thus images signal Guillaume’s receipt of Toute-Belle’s portrait (Appendix I, MS A, Image 7), their first meeting (Appendix I, MS A, Image 9), and the climatic moment when the couple sleeps together (Appendix I, MS A, Image 12). Other images mark temporal shifts, especially the passage from waking hours to a dream state. Miniatures introduce the poet’s dream visit to court and his involvement in a round of ‘le roy qui ne ment’ (Appendix I, MS A, Image 16) as well as the dream visit of Toute Belle’s portrait to argue for her release (Appendix I, MS A, Image 24). These images find equivalents in MS F (see Appendix I). But other images in MS A, through their strategic placement in the text, exacerbate the complex issue of the work’s hybrid nature and temporal blurring. Fourteen images in MS A mark the passage between the octosyllabic frame narrative and the interpolated lyric poetry (nine cases) or epistolary prose (five cases). The page designer allowed space for miniatures around these interpolations to compensate in part for the restrictive layout of the codex that is hardly conducive to textual interpolations. Since the two-column format arose from the need to accommodate the octosyllabic verse of vernacular romance, the prose and the lyric pieces in the Voir dit fit uncomfortably on the page.9 Prose pieces press against the very edges of the column boundaries, overriding the guide letter column and the white gutter space that then sets apart the remainder of the line. Lyric interpolations sometimes stretch across the column, while shorter lines fail to fill allotted space. The inserted miniatures attempt to smooth over some of these material and temporal inconsistencies by facilitating the flow between the récit (here, the past when the lovers received the correspondence) and the discours (signifying the time of composition).10

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Where the page designer spaces out the miniature cycle as stitches in the fabric of the text that link interpolated materials to the framing narrative, the anonymous artist exposes the uneven seams of temporal disjunction through visual content. Often the images recall the original events that inspired the composition and circulation of the correspondence. For instance, when Guillaume leaves on pilgrimage, he informs the external reader that he composed a song and wrote a letter to TouteBelle (ll. 1597–625). His summary of events opens up to accommodate reproductions of both texts. The subsequent miniature placed immediately after the letter ignores the interpolations to invoke the narrator’s departure on horseback (Letter X; Appendix I, MS A, Image 4). In this manner, the image sets the reader back on the path of events that transpired before the interruption of the interpolated materials, effectively reasserting the linear progression otherwise disrupted by book matter. In a reversal of this previous example, the image content in several cases actively disrupts the narrative’s linear progression and privileges the receipt of the written account rather than the actual events. Following Letter VI written by Guillaume, a miniature portrays Toute-Belle accepting a letter marked ‘a ma dame’ (Appendix I, MS A, Image 5). The octosyllabic passage following the image details Toute-Belle’s return to her bedroom, where she reads the letter (ll. 1334–42). In this instance, whereas the narrative progresses to the act of reading and then Toute-Belle’s response in the form of a complaint, the miniature joining the two sections lingers on her receipt of the sealed message. Neither advancing to Toute-Belle’s reading or response to the letter nor looking back at the poet’s composition of the work, the image freezes on the moment of transaction. The letter remains suspended between the messenger and Toute-Belle, marking a pause in the narrative when the letter maintains its hermetically sealed status. The location of the image, as appearing after the disclosure of the letter’s contents, further clashes with the external readers’ experience and requires them to loop backward in time. Since actual readers of the Voir dit have progressed beyond the récit and discours phase, the seal has already been broken for them and the letter hidden within, disclosed on the manuscript page. Whether recalling events detailed in the narrative or stalling progression of the story, these examples provide the first evidence that the pictorial program decorating the Voir dit in MS A challenges the established function of miniatures as much as it disrupts efforts to present a cohesive narrative. Typically miniatures anticipate the storyline, they serve to give order to a text, to facilitate advancement in the story; they head

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new works and chapters rather than mark their conclusion. The page designers for MSS A and F–G ostensibly reserved space throughout the Voir dit to allow room for just such a pictorial narrative that would mirror the progression of the story. Yet, in the case of MS A, the miniaturist repeatedly profited from the allotted visual space to explore the disjointedness built into the text through its temporal instability and its hybrid nature. Moreover, in many instances, the visual content inscribes a third temporal moment that follows on the heels of récit and discours. This ‘meta-discours’ phase, as we shall see, gives shape to the reading event in which the external audience participates.

Illustrations as Interpretative Tools Portraying Written and Oral Messages in MS A Many of the miniatures in the A and F copies of the Voir dit serve to link the epistolary and poetic interruptions to the framing narrative. It should not therefore come as a surprise that the content of many of the images deals with the composition and reception of these materials. Again, a focus on MS A can make this emphasis clear. Eight images treat graphemic topics in the MS A rendition of the Voir dit. Four focus on the receipt of written materials (Appendix I, MS A, Images 1, 3, 5, 15) and the other half, on lyric creation and transmission (Appendix I, MS A, Images 2, 6, 9, 18). The illumination cycle decorating the MS A Voir dit opens with a pronounced emphasis on the transference of messages, both written and oral. These images systematically depict messengers handing over letters and the lovers taking possession of the sealed, addressed text. Like a visual mise en abîme, the sealed letter icon calls attention to the letters transcribed on the manuscript page. By maintaining the correspondence as sealed and addressed missives in the MS A cycle, the anonymous artist envelops the actual letters transcribed on the page in an aura of intimacy that is typically reserved for real love letters. These images never let viewers forget that what they read was at least initially a private exchange between lovers. While these illustrations give physical shape to the prose texts, images linked with lyric writings emphasize the ephemeral status of poetic expression by concentrating on its oral nature. In the second miniature decorating the MS A version of the Voir dit, the courier takes leave with Guillaume’s response to Toute-Belle’s first message in hand. Even though the narrator introduces the rondel by emphasizing that he handed a

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copy to the messenger, ‘Je li baillai, et il le prist’ (I handed it to him and he took it) (l. 370), the miniature inserted after the rondel includes no visual reference to the written text. Instead it emphasizes the oral transmission of the message, as the two men use gestures to imply discussion. This motif is reutilized to demonstrate Toute-Belle’s poetic practices. On two occasions, a nearly identical image of the lady seated on her bed with hands clasped to her heart introduces two separate complaints she composes (Appendix I, MS A, Images 6 and 18). Although these images occupy the space on the page between Guillaume’s letters and TouteBelle’s poetic responses, neither image incorporates a visual allusion to either the material text that triggered Toute-Belle’s response or to the copying of her lyric laments that were eventually sent to the poet. They evoke instead a purely oral model of lyric composition well established in vernacular iconography.11 A single illustration in the Voir dit miniature cycle of MS A counters this established association of poetry with orality. And in so doing, it creates a strong image of the professional distance between Toute-Belle and Guillaume. The image in question depicts Guillaume composing before his lady. As discussed in chapter 2, this miniature portrays Guillaume with pen and scroll in hand. The scroll exposes scored parchment above the word ‘ballade.’ To the extent that it celebrates orality, the image registers scripted sound, but it also gives prominence to the tools of the written word held firmly in the poet’s hands (Figure 11: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 242r). This visual association of the written word with the narrator participates in a larger campaign apparent in the MS A Voir dit cycle, where the artist identifies all texts with the poet. For instance, even letters written by Toute-Belle are associated with the poet because of the address ‘a guillem’ written above their seals. In contrast, in the only case of a miniature portraying Toute-Belle receiving a letter, the address reads ‘a ma dame’ but bears the mark of the poet by way of an encircled G (Appendix I, MS A, Image 5). These illustrations distinguish between Toute-Belle and Guillaume by reserving the clerkly image of the professional writer and composer for Guillaume. Yet far from portraying text as a fixed, stagnant product associated exclusively with the authorfigure, the miniature cycle in MS A registers Machaut’s fascination with the movement of writing between authors and readers.

Letters in Motion in MS A The MS A Voir dit cycle intertwines a message concerning the material quality of poetry with images evoking the dynamism of epistolary and

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lyric creations. While miniature cycles, because of the rigid structure within which they exist, limit artistic creativity, they do nevertheless provide space within the codex for artists as intermediary readers to register reactions to a text and to make room for anticipated readings of the work. Furthermore, through the repetition of size, framing, and regular placement throughout a collection, miniatures operate as a coherent pictorial narrative that guides readers through a text.12 In the case of MS A, the recycling of a series of motifs, including scenes of textual creation and transmission, action scenes, and stock imagery, confers a rhythmic quality on the narrative. The MS A pictorial program groups these various motifs into tripartite sequences woven throughout the Voir dit. Through this rhythmic patterning, the MS A cycle imparts to its hefty, scholastically structured form a sense of movement associated with the lovers’ epistolary writings in the narrative. Again Michael Camille’s reflections on imagery in books can inform our understanding of miniature cycles. Camille contends that images filtered throughout an individual text or codex inevitably enter into their own dialogue ‘... not by reference to the text, but by reference to one another – the reflexivity of imagery not just across single pages but in chains of linked motifs and signs that echo throughout a whole manuscript or book.’13 A similar dialogue is given full expression in the miniature cycle of the MS A Voir dit. Beginning with the first set of three miniatures, the written word is set in motion in MS A. The opening subcycle illustrates the first 805 lines that record the narrator’s receipt of Toute-Belle’s first poem, his response, and, finally, his impatience as he awaits a follow-up letter. The passage ends with the poet languishing on his deathbed when Toute-Belle’s second letter arrives. Where the narrator insinuates a linear trajectory of events, the first three miniatures impose a cyclical pattern. The first two images in MS A focus our attention on the movement of the messenger, delineated by his arrival and departure from the poet’s side. In the opening miniature, the artist evokes movement by capturing the messenger in the act of kneeling and raising his hat. The sealed letter he holds out to the narrator causes the poet to lean slightly forward in anticipation. Occupying the space between the two figures, the letter is clearly identified as generating this movement (Appendix I, MS A, Image 1). The second miniature, as already discussed, replaces the written word with an oral exchange between the poet and the messenger. Again movement defines the scene through reference to the messenger’s imminent departure. With his lower body turned away and one foot extended outward while he turns his head back to the poet, the messenger, who now

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embodies the poet’s lyric text, takes leave as he heads out for Toute-  Belle’s court (Appendix I, MS A, Image 2). Finally, the third image  mirrors the opening scene, but the garden, the locus amoenus of poetic creation, now gives way to the bedroom, the locus amoenus of reading in the Voir dit. As in the opening miniature, Guillaume extends his hand to accept the second sealed letter from Toute-Belle [Appendix I, MS A, Image 3]. The activity of this first subcycle restarts with image 4, but in this  round, Toute-Belle replaces Guillaume (Appendix I, MS A, Images 4–  6).14 The three miniatures making up the second subcycle evoke first the poet’s movement, capturing him on horseback, as he heads out to meet Toute-Belle, his cape billowing in the air and the horse’s hoofs raised.  The poet’s itinerancy gives way to the metonymic replacement of the  poet by his letter, which passes from the messenger into Toute-Belle’s hands in image 5. Finally, the tripartite structure culminates again with our entry into the inner sanctum of the bedroom. This time, it is TouteBelle’s bedroom, where she is shown orally composing her first com-  plaint. The third sequence, consisting of images 7–9, culminates  with Guillaume’s composition of a song. Literary composition is replaced  with the couple’s union in the sequence consisting of images 10– 12. We will return later to this metonymic move from reading to  lovemaking when examining the MS F Voir dit illustrations. Images 13–15 in MS A also conclude with the receipt of a letter. The final image  in the next sequence terminates with Toute-Belle voicing her  second complaint. The next three tripartite subcycles break with the surrounding images  and the vibrant activity they associate with writing. These images, in  contrast, are devoid of any reference to the progression of events related to the love affair or the writing process (Appendix I, MS A, Images 19–  27). In fact, the two protagonists fade from view except for the single  appearance of the lover in image 23. These nine images decorate a  lengthy section of digressions in which all action, both amorous and scribal, comes to an abrupt halt due to Toute-Belle’s silence and  Guillaume’s inability to progress with the writing of the book. In the  absence of letters from Toute-Belle and his refusal to write to her,  Guillaume is left to fill his book with dream sequences and moral tales. In all, around 2000 lines dedicated exclusively to the retelling of these classical tales and morals fill the gap in what was previously a steady  exchange of letters.15 The first of the three subcycles in this section decorates the speeches of Guillaume’s lords, friends, and servants who

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draw from classical sources to persuade him to abandon Toute-Belle; the third set illustrates the ‘ymage’ dream sequence. The intermediate sequence documents the passage from the speeches of others to the appearance of the ‘ymage’ in Guillaume’s dreams. Echoing the narrative that becomes stationary, these subcycles visually inscribe this inactivity. Of the nine tripartite structures examined thus far, seven draw readers’ attention to the vitality of texts as they move between the destinataire and the destinateur. Through this steady rhythmic pattern, the MS A pictorial program sets the entire work in motion by way of the miniature sequence. It is, however, the final set of images following extended inactivity in the MS A Voir dit pictorial program that brings to a climax the narrative’s obsession with textual mobility. Here the cycle breaks through the narrative to connect with actual readers (Appendix I, MS A, Images 28–30). This final sequence begins with Guillaume liberating the portrait of Toute-Belle from the locked chest. This action marks a return of movement after the halting digression recorded in the previous nine miniatures. As summarized at the outset of this chapter, the liberation of the ymage gives way to Guillaume’s meditation on an illustrated copy of Livy. The final two miniatures in this closing cycle illustrate Guillaume and the confessor’s conflicting descriptions of Lady Fortune. Both images are distinct from the preceding twenty-eight miniatures in the MS A Voir dit cycle due to their overwhelming size. These grisaille illuminations take up nearly half of their respective folios and they break through the two-column format to spread over the full width of the page. In the first case, the image replicates the illustration of Lady Fortune presented in Guillaume’s copy of Livy (Figure 15: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 297r). Guillaume provides his audience with a detailed description of the image of Fortune, including translations of Latin citations inscribed on her wheels, a description of her physical appearance and her accoutrements, and details regarding the materials used to paint the image, specifically the use of gold lettering on the circles (l. 8212). The similarity between Guillaume’s description and the actual miniature in MS A is unique. Here we find Lady Fortune to be an exceedingly faithful rendering of the verbal description, right down to the inscribed text on her wheels. The final image visualizes the alternative interpretation of Lady Fortune that Toute-Belle’s confessor claims to have seen in unidentified pagan writings. Once again the overlap of the textual description and the visual reproduction is suggestive of the illuminator’s familiarity with the surrounding text, whether through his own reading or through detailed instructions provided by someone else who was knowledgeable of the

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work. Nevertheless, the miniaturist struggled with the restrictive space to include the five maidens and the five fountains referenced in the text (Figure 20: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 301v). These closing miniatures are also distinctive in the MS A cycle because of their fidelity to the written word. In the first Fortune miniature, Latin citations said to derive from Livy are scripted onto Lady Fortune’s wheels; in the second, Latin text is transcribed at the foot of the page, suggesting that the supervisor intended its incorporation into the image. In both examples, the scribe provides the Latin equivalent to the citations that Guillaume self-consciously translated into the vernacular. All extant copies of the Voir dit reproduce both portraits of Fortune, often with careful attention to the detail provided by the poet and the confessor in the narrative. But in the case of Guillaume’s Lady Fortune in MS A, the external audience finds itself in the peculiar position of being able to meditate on a surprisingly faithful rendering of the miniature studied by the narrator himself. This overlap of two distinct moments in time – between Guillaume’s own supposed reading of Livy’s works (récit) and his external audience’s subsequent study of the Voir dit (post-discours) – grafts the experience of the narrator onto that of external readers. As if torn from the pages of Livy’s book, the penultimate image in the Voir dit invites the reader to join the poet in his meditative engagement with imagery. Readers can penetrate the text through this image and assume the role of Guillaume, a professional reader. As the narrator engages in the highest levels of reading, so the external audience can meditate on the image, memorize its contours, digest its significance, and appropriate the image as a memory tool for later recall. This call for the audience to engage in the serious study of Machaut’s book was already anticipated by the recurring image of letters throughout the cycle. Having already attracted the audience’s gaze to the physical artefact, the cycle ends with an invitation to the reader to pick up the book and extend to the codex the meditative attention that both lovers lavished on the correspondence. Finally, the wheels in the two Fortune images of the MS A Voir dit cycle go beyond depicting movement to instigate true action. The first Fortune image, with its overabundance of wheels said to be in constant flux, demands that the reader actually set the codex in motion to read the etched inscriptions wrapped around each wheel. To read with greater ease, the viewer might very well be inspired to put the voluminous book in motion, slowly turning it to take in the curves of the Latin text. At the

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very least, even if the book remains stationary, the reader must turn his head and body to follow the sinuous path of the citations. Whether MS A readers actively rotate the book to read the inscriptions or twist their own bodies to follow the curves of the words and the wheels, they physically experience the movement associated with the epistolary correspondence throughout the cycle.16 While the second Fortune image fails to incorporate the relevant text into the illustration, it too activates sweeping ocular movement that requires the viewer to commute between the image, centre page, and the related text recorded at the foot of the folio. In each of the closing illustrations to the MS A Voir dit, the audience finds itself drawn into the rhythm of the book. To appreciate fully the originality of the pictorial program decorating the MS A version of the Voir dit, the viewer must abandon the notion that the illustrations are solitary narratives exclusively intended to elucidate a single scene. One must recognize their position within a larger pictorial framework that encompasses the entire narrative. The Voir dit program in MS A depends on repetition of motifs (in particular, letters and scenes of characters in motion) and pictorial variance that registers subtle thematic alterations over the space of the narrative to create a steady rhythm that breathes life into the weighty codex. The cycle links the vibrancy of the lived experience back to the written object, introducing a new reading tempo that runs counter to the linear thrust of the narrative. The illustrations form an ever-widening spiral sequence that moves from the poet to his primary reader Toute-Belle, eventually culminating with the reader of the codex who must set the book in motion to penetrate its secrets. In this respect, we witness the type of movement and manipulation of the codex that was first suggested in the extratextual aside in the Voir dit studied in the previous chapter. In that instance, the narrator called on his external audience to leaf through his collection in search of additional works addressed to Toute-Belle. From opening the book and leafing through the surrounding material in search of ‘autres choses’ to rotating the Lady Fortune image, the reader of MS A is expected to handle the book as the lovers do the correspondence. The MS A Voir dit cycle creates the sense of a dynamic text and celebrates the audience’s freedom to manipulate that text. But these actions occur within the controlled environment of the bulky codex. In this way, the MS A reading experience mirrors Guillaume’s efforts within the narrative to interest his readers in the written word by drawing them into a literary world he controls.

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The Art of Reading and Writing in MS F We have seen the extent to which MS A depends on the pictorial program to transpose the active experience of reading an intimate correspondence to the act of reading a bound book. The MS F pictorial program decorating the Voir dit also indicates the artist’s interest in the parallels between reading love letters and studying books. But rather than focus on the notion of transforming the codex into dynamic text, the artist Perrin Rémy uses the epistolary exchange motif to redefine the experience of reading vernacular texts as an intensely private and even erotic act. Where MS A uses imagery to transform a hefty, scholastically inspired codex into dynamic text styled on correspondence, the F–G compendium goes further by inviting the audience to consider the erotic pleasure and intimacy associated with love letters as the obvious outcome of reading vernacular romance. This message is most insistently conveyed in the miniature cycle decorating the Voir dit. Especially striking in the MS F set of illustrations for the Voir dit is the number of miniatures given to portraying the protagonists receiving and reading letters. Missives appear in eight images in MS F, thus doubling the number of similar miniatures in MS A. These eight images include scenes of the lovers receiving sealed letters (Appendix I, MS F, Images 2, 4, 17, 26), reading open letters (Appendix I, MS F, Images 3, 5, 8), and one scene of the poet dictating a message to a scribe (Appendix I, MS F, Image 27). In two cases, these miniatures have no counterpart in MS A (Appendix I, MS F, Images 2 and 4); otherwise, the remaining six miniatures incorporating an epistolary motif inhabit the same position in the text as their MS A counterparts. Nevertheless, their unique content sometimes provides strikingly different interpretations of the surrounding text. A comparison of these eight MS F images with their counterparts in MS A proves revelatory. Two representative examples are the illustrations decorating MS F, fols. 179r and 181r (Appendix I, MS F, Images 26 and 27). These two images appear in the second half of the Voir dit and accompany the retelling of ovidian and classical material. In MS A, we observed the general use of miniatures either to call attention to the temporal disjunction caused by the interpolated material in the Voir dit or to charge the written word with movement. Images 26 and 27 in MS F stand out both from surrounding miniatures and from their MS A counterparts because of the daring juxtaposition of word and image that

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they introduce into the text. These two images precede first a reference to Julius Caesar and then a retelling of Leander’s fateful adventures. MS A inserts stock imagery before each passage. In the first case, the MS A image portrays Julius Caesar being beaten by a group of men (Appendix I, MS A, Image 19). In the second case, the stock image in MS A of Leander swimming before the tower follows the narrative (Appendix I, MS A, Image 20). Rather than drawing from established visual repertoires to highlight these inserted tales, the MS F illustrations turn to an iconography of writing to fill the visual void. In the first case, the poet hands a letter to a messenger (Figure 21: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 179r); in the second, the poet dictates a letter to a scribe (Figure 22: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 181r). Through these disruptive images that refuse to accommodate the immediate text, the MS F artist Perrin Rémy destabilizes the audience and inserts in the midst of literary divagations visual reminders of the epistolary exchange that gives meaning to the Voir dit. Going against the text itself, the images open a window through which viewers can reflect on the writing process occurring behind the scenes of the dream event. In other words, attention is deflected from the moment of récit to the time of discours. Taking seriously the primary function of illustrations to order a work, the artist counteracts Machaut’s decision to stray from the main thrust of the narrative. Rémy reinstates instead the central obsession of the work by redirecting viewers’ attention to the transcription of the dream. It is not only deep within literary digressions that Rémy embeds images of the literary process. A comparison of the decoration of the first 805 lines of the Voir dit in MSS A and F exposes an obvious obsession with the act of reading in the latter. Where MS A decorates the first 805 lines of the Voir dit with a tripartite sequence emphasizing the movement of letters, MS F expands the opening sequence to five miniatures for the same passage. The first, third, and fifth miniatures of MS F occur at the same junctures in the text as the first three in MS A; MS F inserts additional scenes after the first and second images found in MS A. The first two scenes in MS F transpire in the closed space of the garden. Instead of immediately beginning with the transference of the letter from the messenger to the poet, as does MS A, the opening miniature in MS F depicts lover and messenger conversing in the garden. A second illustration, having no counterpart in MS A, is then inserted immediately after the narrator’s address to the external audience: ‘Vous diray sans oster ne mettre, / ce qu’il y avoit en la lettre’ [I will tell you without

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eliminating or adding anything what was in the letter] (ll. 201–2). This second image depicts the poet receiving a sealed letter from the messenger. The third image in MS F is located at the same juncture as image two in MS A. Yet where MS A shows the messenger bidding farewell to the poet, MS F inscribes an image of the poet now holding an open letter with its seal broken. Guillaume holds up a sheet of paper turned out to the viewer so as to display the pseudoscript it records (Figure 23: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 139v). The illustration follows the narrator’s statement that he responded to Toute-Belle’s message with a newly composed poem in her honour. But in lines following the miniature, Guillaume receives a second sealed missive, which he takes great pleasure in reading once the messenger departs: Après la lettre me donna Et moult a moy s’abandonne. Je l’ouvri et la pris a lire. [After he had given me the letter and had left me very much to myself, I opened it and began to read.] (ll. 469–71)

Whether the exposed letter represents Guillaume’s response to TouteBelle’s first communiqué or the receipt of her subsequent letter is therefore not clear. But since the parchment in the miniature reproduces the layout of a letter, it seems likely that this third illustration in the MS F Voir dit cycle should be interpreted as presenting the audience with a visual rendering of Toute-Belle’s second message. Thus where MS A concentrates in the same visual frame on the closing act represented by the messenger’s departure, MS F opts for the act of reading that bridges the receipt of Toute-Belle’s first and second correspondences. The same pattern repeats itself at the end of this opening five-image subcycle in MS F. The fourth image, lacking a counterpart in MS A, is inserted in MS F immediately above two ballades that record the lover’s threat of imminent death because of Toute-Belle’s lengthy silence following her second communiqué (l. 673). The miniature portrays the lover in bed and before him, a messenger who accepts from the poet a sealed letter said to contain the two aforementioned ballades (Figure 24: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 141r). The fifth and final miniature in the MS F opening sequence, although corresponding in location to image 3 in MS A, replaces the sealed letter of its MS A counterpart with yet another open letter. In MS F the sequence decorating the first 805 lines of the

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Voir dit concludes with the poet in bed reading yet another open letter that he had fervently requested in his earlier correspondence. As in the third image in MS F, the artist teases the viewer for a second time by turning this letter outward to disclose its written surface. The pseudoscript makes it, once again, impossible for the viewer to decipher the contents of the letter. In this amplified sequence, MS F concentrates on the very moment when time and action are suspended by the act of reading. With the luxury of five as opposed to three miniatures, Rémy draws out the reading experience by joining scenes of messengers relaying letters (Appendix I, MS F, Images 2 and 4) with scenes of Guillaume reading letters (Appendix I, MS F, Images 3 and 5). The protraction of the reading experience in the MS F opening sequence to the Voir dit imparts to the narrative a message very different from that of MS A, even though both pictorial programs can be said to respect the text. First, while MS A extends to the codex the movement inherent to the epistolary genre, MS F focuses on the stillness of reading. The MS F images accentuate the desire associated with reading by pairing images of sealed letters with scenes of the lover studying open letters. With the epistles turned outward, external readers are invited to join the narrator in penetrating the intimate secrets contained within the correspondence. Second, whereas MS A emphasizes the constant movement of the correspondence between the lovers, the MS F miniature cycle decorating the Voir dit identifies reading as the culminating act. Rather than skip over the reading stage, as does MS A, MS F freeze frames on the act of reading. By drawing out the experience, Rémy encourages viewers to reflect on the meditative moment of study, both as it transpires within the narrative and as readers engage in the act themselves. In both manuscripts, the linear movement of the narrative is threatened because the images interrupt the text through their very presence on the page. But in MS F, these images frequently become mirrors in which the public is invited to abandon the storyline in favour of reflection on its own involvement in the reading process. MS F effectively breaks through the layers of the récit and discours to encourage the audience’s imitation of the lovers who abandon themselves to the pleasure of reading.

The Site of Reading The intensity and intimacy of the reading experience in MS F is underscored by the visual insistence on the bedroom as a privileged reading

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space. The establishment of the bedroom as the locus amoenus of reading is evidenced in both early copies of the Voir dit. But whereas only four miniatures in MS A portray events occurring in the bedroom, MS F adopts the bedroom scene for eleven miniatures (Appendix I, MS F, Images 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 14, 18, 20, 25, 31, 34). Echoing the five-part opening sequence in MS F, where the artist portrays Guillaume reading letters in bed, later in the codex, folio 146v dons two illustrations that linger over Toute-Belle’s bedroom activities (Figure 25: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 146v). Rémy uses the reserved space for two miniatures on a single page to move between the pleasure of breaking the epistolary seal and penetrating encoded secrets. The first miniature depicts Toute-Belle standing before a bed and holding an open letter. In spite of the presence of her servant standing at the door, Toute-Belle is physically isolated by the bed that separates her from the servant and the open letter that occupies hers and the viewer’s attention. In comparison, the corresponding miniature in MS A favours Toute-Belle’s receipt of a sealed letter, and the empty plane fails to divulge the actual space Toute-Belle occupies (Appendix I, MS A, Image 5). In the second frame, as in the MS A counterpart, Toute-Belle clasps her hands to her heart, a common lyrical gesture. This scene, which heads her second complaint, conflates her emotional reaction with the act of creating poetry (Appendix I, MS F, Image 25). The two images on fol. 146v allow the viewer to witness the passage from reading to poetic creation as it transpires in the private sanctity of the bedroom. These bedroom scenes are not gratuitous. Late medieval culture established the bedroom as a privileged reading space. As noted in chapter 1, the textual and visual descriptions of reading from late medieval books frequently identify the bedroom as the setting for donation scenes, lovers exchanging letters, and the laity reading devotional works. Complementing these findings, Guillaume specifies on several occasions that he and his lady read their letters only when alone and, preferably, secluded in their bedrooms. Regarding Toute-Belle, the narrator emphasizes his lady’s great desire for privacy to read his letters. Upon receipt of his missives, Toute-Belle hides them ‘en son sain’ (in her bosom) (l. 1337) and then retires to her bedroom: Ains s’en ala plus que le pas En sa chambre cellement Et clouÿ l’uis tout belement;

Pictorial Programs in BnF, MS fr. 1584 and MSS fr. 22545–22546 123 Et puis elle les print a lire. (ll. 1339–42) [So she went quickly and surreptitiously into her room and locked the door. She then began to read them (the letters).]

Not until she is apart from court crowds and safely locked away in her chamber does Toute-Belle dare to remove the hidden letters to study their secret contents. Rémy embellishes Machaut’s identification of the bedroom as the privileged space of reading. With visual images that conflate the eroticism communicated in love letters with the promise of intimacy represented by the bedroom, the artist elegantly expresses the erotic passion linked with reading. In MS F the bedroom serves multiple functions, including being the privileged space of reading, composing, dreaming, and lovemaking. In MS F, as we have seen, five bedroom scenes depict the lovers engaged in reading letters or serve as sites of poetic composition. The remaining six images establish the bedroom as the locale of intimate engagements between the lovers or with their artistic reproductions. Thus Guillaume visits his lady’s bedroom, dreams that she visits his bedroom, directs prayers to her portrait that hangs at the head of his bed, and observes in his dreams Semiramis, whom he compares to his lady, in her bedroom (Appendix I, MS F, Images 9, 14, 18, 20, 31, 34). Two illustrations in MS F decorate the passage in which Guillaume recounts having slept with Toute-Belle under the watchful eye of Venus (Appendix I, MS F, Images 14, 15). Rather than depict the lovers in bed, however, the two images defer sexual gratification. The first scene transpires in the bedroom and visually elaborates on Guillaume’s hesitancy, as he is shown kneeling in prayer at the foot of her bed. Toute-Belle reclines in the bed, where the covers are pulled down just enough to reveal the swell of her breasts (Appendix I, MS F, Image 14).17 In the second scene, the lovers seated on a bench engage in poetic exchange, now a euphemism for lovemaking, since the image immedately precedes the couple’s consummation of their passion (ll. 3988–4031). Thus in MS F the viewer progresses from the display of the lovers’ words exposed in bedrooms to the introduction of Toute-Belle’s portrait in the poet’s chambers before finally culminating with the lover’s penetration of the lady’s inner sanctum, a transgression that returns us to poetic expression rather than actual lovemaking. This progression mimics the five-part opening sequence in MS F, where the viewer moved from talk of Toute-

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Belle to the presentation of her letter before finally observing her exposed letter in the privacy of the poet’s chambers. To appreciate fully the erotic game in MS F in which the poetic corpus and the physical body are conflated, a consideration of the decoration of the same passage in MS A is enlightening. MS A reserves space for only one miniature to decorate the bedroom encounter and it appears at the same juncture as image 15 in MS F. The image depicts the couple in bed together (Appendix I, MS A, Image 12). Threatening to block out the voyeuristic reader, a voluminous cloud guided by Venus’s hand appears to descend slowly on the reclining couple. But whereas the MS F pictorial program substitutes lyric creation for consummation, the menacing cloud in MS A leaves exposed a less nuanced visual nod to the poet’s sexual exploits. By replacing letters with lovers and composition with deferred lovemaking, the act of reading in MS F becomes a ‘striptease’ in the Barthesian sense. Barthes describes reading as a game of exposure and disguise, as an invitation to penetrate secrets and a refusal to allow entry, and as an act that insinuates the full involvement of the participants, only to secure their position as powerless voyeurs.18 Guillaume already emphasized the audience’s voyeuristic gaze in the narrative with his frequent asides acknowledging their presence and their perusal of the intimate correspondence (e.g., ‘ – vous les [letters] avés tantost veües/ Et croy que les aiés leües,’ [you just looked at the letters and I think you have read them] [ll. 762–3]). Rémy reinforces the viewer’s intimacy vis-àvis lovers and texts by insisting on the overlap between lovemaking and reading in the MS F miniature cycle. As much as MS F teases the audience with the suggestion of the lovers’ union but resolutely defers visual evidence of the act, so earlier images in the MS F cycle flagrantly invited readers to enter the lovers’ bedroom and their intimate correspondence only to fall upon the indecipherable pseudoscript flaunted before them. Through this overlap of reading and lovemaking, the MS F miniature cycle transforms the actual readers’ interaction with the written word into an erotic act, one resolutely tinged with deferment and frustration.19 Here is our loving reader whom Guillaume the narrator longed for in the Voir dit. The MS F illustration program shifts the poet’s consuming desire to take possession of Toute-Belle to the reader’s desire to appropriate the written word. The lover’s passion translates into the audience’s voyeuristic gaze directed not simply at Toute-Belle’s body but at the private and intimate body of letters displayed on the page. The F–G codex explicitly associates this ‘striptease’ with its anticipated

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reader. The patron, symbolically represented by his emblem throughout the 148-image cycle, is introduced into the fictional locale of poets and lovers (see the introduction to part II). The patron thus takes possession of the intimate space of reading and writing in the same manner that he symbolically appropriates Machaut’s text through this new copy produced for his specific pleasure. To view MSS F–G is to observe the recipient’s obvious taste in literature and music, but also to recognize his appreciation for the material object. Yet the large dimensions along with its spacious layout and script as well as its acclaimed reproduction of the music in later sections belie the intimate reading experience promoted in the miniatures and instead encourage a public performance of Machaut’s corpus. We can easily imagine the F–G codex circulating between banquet halls and private chambers, moving from the realm of public performance to the intimate experience of a private reading offered exclusively to the patron or to a small group that would include his intimates. Regardless of its venue, the F–G codex calls for its audience to consider the book as more than a conduit for poetic expression or wisdom: it has become a fetish to be enjoyed by a discerning gaze. Noting the frequent use in manuscript studies of the term fetish to explain the function of the codex both for medieval society and medieval studies, Andrew Taylor challenges scholars to consider the larger message embodied in a fetish. As he rightly points out, a fetish does not trigger illicit desire as much as it serves as an object that moves between systems and ideologies, absorbing heterogeneous beliefs along the way. For Taylor the book is a fetish not simply because it functions as an object desired by its reader but because it is the product of a community of readers.20 The codex simultaneously embodies the multiple layers of its reception and incites continued engagement with the body of knowledge it represents. The F–G codex demands the attention of a continuous chain of readers who will accept to engage in intimate, devotional, and passionate reading practices, regardless of the selected delivery mode, to enhance its worth and power. MSS A and F–G register distinctive types of reading experiences and unique interpretations of the heuristic and hermeneutic concerns crucial to the Voir dit. MS A first produces a scholastically inspired codex only to counter its overbearing weightiness with allusions in the Voir dit visual cycle to the vivacious movement of epistolary texts. In contrast, MS F arrests all movement and calls on readers to meditate on the page and to linger over its contours. Yet in spite of their numerous distinctive characteristics, the compendia have in common their promotion of

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some form of close material reading of Machaut’s entire corpus through layout and decoration. By focusing on the Voir dit, we have been able to discern the extent to which the decisions regarding form and layout point to an engaged dialogue between scribes and artists regarding Machaut’s self-conscious reflections on textual materiality. Both collections benefit from the space allotted to imagery in the Voir dit to portray reading as a private, intimate, and text-bound experience. Both manuscripts extend this reading experience to the external audience’s encounter with the manuscript. The persistent visual allusions to independent readers far from the public sphere shade these codices with an aura of intimacy that undermines the type of public performance criticized by Guillaume, but that was nevertheless pervasive in late medieval culture. Indeed, the innovation particular to MSS A and F–G centres on the use of the pictorial space to destabilize the very type of performance-oriented reading practices for which they would have most likely been used. If the workshops responsible for MSS A and F–G tend to complement Machaut’s own privileging of an intimate, material reading experience, such is not the case for the final complete extant copy of the Voir dit reproduced in MS E, a possible contemporary of MSS F–G. In the next chapter, we investigate the impact the introduction of musical scores in the very body of the Voir dit in MS E could have on reception. In the process of reshaping Machaut’s text, the bookmakers responsible for MS E make vividly apparent the dramatically different interpretations of the Voir dit that can result if an oral performance of the text is considered.

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5 Layout and the Staging of Performance in BnF, MS fr. 9221

Until now there has been little discussion about the role of music in the Voir dit. To a certain extent, the narrative and its textual tradition (both medieval and modern) condone this silence. On the level of the narrative, even though Toute-Belle emphasizes the lover’s musical accomplishments from the outset of their relationship, Guillaume seeks to spotlight his talents as a writer. This struggle begins early in the affair. Toute-Belle wastes little time before calling for the poet to send copies of his books so that she can learn more about the art of composing music: ‘... qu’il vous plaise a moy envoier de vos livres et de vos dis, par quoy je puisse tenir de vous a faire de vos bons dis et de bonnes chansons’ (... please send me your books and your poems so that I can learn from you how to compose good poems and good songs) (L. III, pp. 94–6f, emphasis added). In response to her request for music, Guillaume promises to write many poems and songs in her honour, but in the immediate future, he plans to send her a copy of Morpheus (an alternate title for La Fonteinne amoureuse), a work that contains no music (L. IV, pp. 124–6f; 128q). That Guillaume succeeds in changing Toute-Belle’s impression of him as exclusively a composer is apparent in her later confession that she had no prior knowledge of his dits but now looks forward to reading these works (L. VII, p. 162f). Toute-Belle’s appeals for new music, however, never wane. Yet the poet considers the composition of songs as an unwanted distraction from writing and thus regularly counters Toute-Belle’s requests for music with lyric poetry absent of any notation. Guillaume tries on at least one occasion to pass off recycled music as a new composition, but TouteBelle quickly informs him of her familiarity with this work and reiterates

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her desire for newly composed pieces (L. XXXII, p. 540f). Guillaume’s stated defence for composing so few musical pieces is twofold: first, once he decides to write the Voir dit as requested by his lady, the endeavour takes all of his time (i.e., L. XXXI, p. 522k); and second, composing melodies constitutes an especially time-consuming endeavour that does not stop with the composition of a text and then its music. Once these early composing stages are completed, the poet prefers to listen to a performance by singers and make necessary corrections before finally teaching the melody to a messenger and/or having it transcribed.1 To be certain, Guillaume’s allusions to the complexity involved in composing music and Toute-Belle’s incessant requests for songs enhance the prestige of his musical compositions. This deferral of song and frequent refusal to provide notation draw even greater attention to his poetic skill and to the lyric content of his corpus. Yet by deferring delivery of the music, Guillaume implies that the texts in question do not require musical accompaniment to be appreciated. Two of the three complete copies of the Voir dit reinforce the message that music is peripheral to the main text. The bookmakers of MSS A and F–G relegate the Voir dit music to the final section of each manuscript, where Machaut’s musical works are grouped together.2 As discussed in chapter 3, both codices compensate for this drastic severing of the work through the incorporation of the ‘et y a chant’ rubrics in the body of the text and through the pictorial allusions to song decorating the margins of MS A. In this manner, textual and visual allusions to song incite the audience to stray from the central text to consider the musical sounds appended to each compendium. This ambivalence toward music can easily be viewed as a response to the fictional poet’s desire to downplay that component of his professional identity. A significantly different relationship between music and narrative emerges in MS E, where the interpolation of eight musical compositions as well as numerous changes to the text, surrounding works, and the corpus at large introduce an alternative way of reading the Voir dit. As we shall see, this alternative presentation of the Voir dit distinguishes itself not simply because of the incorporation of music, but specifically because of the repercussions that its inclusion would have on the presentation and delivery of the work. In MS E the inclusion of music and the resulting layout restructures and redefines the Voir dit so as to integrate performance into the overall reading experience. In so doing, components of the work downplayed in MSS A and F–G rise to the surface, becoming the central focus of the entire narrative. The role of music in

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MS E invites further reflection on D.F. McKenzie’s claim that ‘forms effect meaning,’ a premise that has governed this study as a whole.3 But where McKenzie’s research explores the influence of page layout on meaning, the present study argues that between form and message, both delivery and reception are essential stages in the reading process. That is, even before shaping understanding of the text, form orchestrates the reading event.

The Status of Music in Copies of the Voir dit Of the thirty-five lyric works that Guillaume sends to his lady, only ten are identified as set to music, of which eight are discussed in accompanying letters and are recorded as song in extant manuscripts. These eight works are: ‘Plourés dames, plourés vostre servant’ (ll. 673–96/ B32) ‘Dame, se vous n’avés aperceü’ (ll. 1321–33/ R13) ‘Nés qu’on pouroit les estoilles nombrer’ (ll. 1626–46/B33) ‘Lai d’Esperance’ (ll. 4342–597/L18/13) ‘Dix et sept, .v., .xiii., .xiiii., et quinse’ (ll. 6263–70/R17) ‘Se pour ce muir qu’Amours ai bien servi’ (ll. 7490–610/B36) ‘Quant Theseüs, Hercules et Jason’ (ll. 6421–44/B34) ‘Ne quier veoir la biauté d’Absalon’ (ll. 6445–68/B34)4

In addition to these eight pieces identified and reproduced as song, three other works are introduced as musical compositions in rubrics found in MSS A and F. Only one of these three, ‘Sans cuer, dolens, de vous departirai’ (ll. 2789–96/V24), is not singled out by rubrics in MSS A or F, although it survives in musical form in MSS A, G, and E. As for ‘Se mes cuers art et lis vostres estaint’ (ll. 1764–71), which is identified as having been put to music in MSS A and F, no trace of the alleged music exists in Machaut’s extant manuscripts. Finally, MS E implies that some confusion surrounded the status of Toute-Belle’s ‘Cilz ha bien fole pensee’ because an empty stave precedes it (ll. 1704–37). Once again, however, no copy of this poem set to music appears in Machaut’s corpus. In his reflections on these various musical works, Guillaume often vaunts his achievements: ‘par Dieu, long temps ha que je ne fis si bonne chose a mon gré, et sont les tenures aussi doulces comme papins dessalés.’

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[by God, it has been a long time since I composed something so pleasing to me; the tenor parts are as sweet as unsalted porridge.] (L. X, p. 188c) ‘sachiés certainement que passé ha .VII. ans je ne fis si bonne chose ne si doulce a oÿr.’ [know for certain that it has been seven years since I have composed such a good piece and so sweet to hear.] (L. XXXV, p. 570f)

He sometimes boasts of the technical skills manifested in a particular piece, including the work’s ability to accommodate various instruments (L. X, p. 188c), the harmony created between a melody and the expressed sentiments (ll. 7586–9), or the composition’s polyphonic complexity (L. XXXVII, p. 594f). In turn Toute-Belle often acknowledges the poet’s musical genius in her responses and assures him that she works assiduously to learn these songs for future performances (e.g., L. III, p. 94b; L. VII, p. 162d, etc.).

Music in MS E Unlike MSS A and F–G, MS E seeks to attribute a predominant role to musical compositions in the articulation of Machaut’s corpus. To this end, MS E scatters throughout the codex numerous visual references to music, thereby countering the practice in MSS A and F–G to separate out song from poetry. Thus the pictorial program decorating the E compendium depicts music scenes in four of the thirteen miniatures introducing individual texts in the collection. These prefatory images intersperse throughout the codex people singing (fols. 16r and 107r), dancing (fol. 78r), and playing instruments (fol. 105r).5 Interpolated scores in the Remede de Fortune (fols. 22r–36v) and the Voir dit (fols. 171r–210r) further reinforce efforts to integrate Machaut’s music into his corpus.6 Far from subordinating the music to its poetic frame in either the Remede or the Voir dit, the workshop affords space for the full flowering of song. To make room for music in these two works, the MS E workshop adjusted the three-column layout of the codex to implement a long line layout for musical insertions so that they extend across the full width of the page.7 Through these combined visual and graphemic references to music, MS E goes beyond establishing song as equal in value to Machaut’s poetic compositions and ultimately privileges interpolated material over surrounding text.

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In fact MS E is intent on visually privileging all forms of interpolations, as is apparent in the treatment of various insertions in Machaut’s hybrid works. Thus in the Voir dit and the Prise d’Alixandre, the long line spacing allotted music is extended to inset prose letters as well. Whereas the column formats in MSS A and F–G unnaturally corset the epistles and overlay the prose sentences with the halting rhythm of verse imposed through layout in their versions of the Voir dit, MS E gives full authority to the natural tempo of prose. Regarding the numerous lyric insertions that embellish Machaut’s dits, the MS E workshop retains the column layout but highlights their presence through a combination of rubrics indicating form and often speaker, and floriated lettering extended by pen flourishes to mark the first line and, in several cases, subsequent stanzas of the inserts (Figure 13: BnF, MS fr. 9221, fol. 176r). These graphic innovations have a profound effect on the text: they lend themselves well to a live performance of the work; they vividly reproduce in form the diversity of genres, registers, and reception modes that Machaut melds together; and they re-imagine the relationship between the various parts of the text. Concerning the performance of Machaut’s hybrid works, the long line layout used for songs is joined by a verso-recto presentation that would obviate the need for constant page turns during singing. Regarding the inserted prose letters, the full-page layout is also more conducive to an oral reading because it respects the original tempo of the letters.8 Finally, by setting the lyric insets off from the surrounding text with floriated lettering, the manuscript visually registers the shift from the octosyllabic narrative spoken in the narrator’s voice to the poetic verse authored by the lovers. Thus in all examples of interpolated material, the MS E workshop manipulated the column structure to give appropriate space to each component rather than force distinctive genres into a format initially conceived for the decasyllabic and octosyllabic verses of vernacular literature. Moreover, the innovative layout imbues the texts with material evidence of sound.9 The music insets call attention to themselves by contrasting the columns’ vertical line with the horizontal trajectory of the red staves stretching across the page. Similarly the prose letters with the rhythmic curves of the light brown ink cursive script, as opposed to the darker ink and formal bookhand used for the narrative, pour across the parchment, eroding the columns in their way and occasioning prose rhythm.10 The resonant display of colours, shapes, and scripts restructure the Voir Dit. Rather than framing and controlling the interpolated materials, the Voir dit narrative in MS E appears subject to the ebb and flow of the

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interpolated material. Through this process, MS E redefines the relationship between the various parts and overhauls the dynamics of the story. Privileged in the MS E version is the poetry, music, and prose exchanged between lovers instead of the framing narrative, which appears to buttress the lovers’ lyric and epistolary correspondence. Efforts on the microcosmic level of the narrative to join different genres and reception modes in hybrid compositions surface on the macrocosmic level of the codex, where music and poetry are intricately intertwined. Besides the visual and graphic evidence of music filtered throughout the Voir dit, MS E presents a new ordering of Machaut’s works that reserves a central role for musical compositions. Instead of relegating the music to a final section in the manuscript, MS E locates the various lais, motets, rondeaux, ballades, virelais, and even Machaut’s Mass at the heart of the compendium. This new layout is spotlighted in the table of contents, where rubrics insist on the importance and complexity of Machaut’s musical compositions. Enclosed by two sections introduced as containing Machaut’s books – ‘Apres sensuivent les livres’ (Hereafter follow the books) and later, ‘Apres sensuivent .ii. livres/ Item le livre du voir dit/ Item la prise dalixandre’ (Hereafter follow two books, that is the Livre du voir dit and the Prise d’Alixandre)11 – the music section is highlighted through the implementation of a rich subset of rubrics. These rubrics are: ‘Apres sensuivent les lais mis en chant’ (Hereafter follow the lais put to music), ‘Apres sensuivent les mottes et rondiaux mis en chant’ (Hereafter follow the motets and rondeaux put to music), ‘Apres sensuivent les ballades mises en chant’ (Hereafter follow the ballades put to music), ‘Apres sensuivent les virelaiz balladez mis en chant’ (Hereafter follow the virelais put to music), and ‘Apres sensuit la messe’ (Hereafter follows the Mass). Unlike earlier extant copies, the music section, comprising sixty-three folios in MS E, now figures as the nexus of the corpus rather than as an addendum. In this new configuration, it is the music that extends beyond imposed borders to infiltrate the surrounding ‘livres.’ For instance, in the first gathering of dits, a number of works blend in lyric and musical pieces, such as the Remede, which incorporates examples of both. Additionally, the new ordering of MS E places the Dit de la harpe as the final work in this first gathering of ‘livres.’ The focus of the latter work on the importance of music to love poetry offers a smooth segue with the music section that immediately follows. In a similar manner, the gathering that follows the central music section opens with the Voir dit, which like the

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Remede extends the presence of music well beyond the boundaries of the notated sections. The two scribes responsible for MS E also took care to avoid repetition of the Voir dit songs in the music section, thereby necessitating movement beyond the imposed genre boundaries of the E codex to locate additional music samples in the livres sections. Thus while no longer figuring at the heart of the compendium, the Voir dit in MS E nevertheless plays a central role in reshaping Machaut’s corpus because of the way in which it appears to emanate from and continue the music at the heart of the codex. In this new articulation of Machaut’s corpus, the Voir dit emerges as a synthetic work that gives full flower to the complete spectrum of Machaut’s artistic production. In its penultimate location, the Voir dit harks back to the opening section of discrete poems, ten of which it reproduces, echoes the second gathering by sharing a similar layout with the Remede de Fortune, continues the third grouping of texts designated by the table of contents through its incorporation of songs previously included in those sections, and anticipates the closing Prise d’Alixandre through the innovative presentation of embedded prose letters that marks both works. Thus the mise en page of MS E, which is dismissed by Cerquiglini-Toulet as excessive artistic flourishes and ignored entirely by François Avril,12 proves to have far-reaching consequences for reading the Voir dit. Beyond assuming a climatic role in Machaut’s corpus, this new version of the Voir dit uses layout, ordering, and decoration to generate a synthesized multimedia reading experience. MS E carves out space for a musical performance to occur within the context of a material reading in place of the intimate, private, and tactile reading experiences upon which MSS A and F–G insist and in contrast to the peripheral role both codices assign the musical compositions. It reshapes the codex and redefines the Voir dit in such a manner that approaching Machaut’s poetic works without acknowledging the presence of his songs becomes impossible. This new rendition encourages a reading of his corpus that would combine a tactile and visual experience with an aural encounter of the work. Even without a multimedia reception that would combine material reading with public performance, MS E assures that every material encounter includes a consideration of sound because of the visual display of song on the page and that every performance acknowledges the graphemic richness of the written word because of its inspired layout.

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Giving Voice to the Text As we have seen, MS E presents a significantly different presentation of the diverse materials that constitute the Voir dit. This layout cannot be divorced from the narrative itself, as it shapes our encounter with the text and proposes a reading distinct from those of MSS A and F–G. Through the regular insertion of images, the maintenance of a twocolumn format, the subordination of retained interpolated materials to the mise en page, and the elimination of scores that require an oral performance for their full complexity to be realized, the A and F–G copies of the Voir dit reinforce Machaut’s effort to promote a material reading defined by its intimate, tactile, and visual practices. Just as Guillaume the narrator regularly precedes letters and poems with calls to the audience to study their contents, so the bookmakers of MSS A and F–G present these inlaid texts as part of a larger mosaic to be carefully examined. Both poet and bookmakers strived to create from this interlacing of narrative, lyric poetry, and letters a coherent book. By relegating the music to a later section in the corpus, MSS A and F–G discourage an interruption of the tactile and text-based reception experience promoted in text and image. They may call on the audience to cease reading and to search the codex for musical material, but the emphasis remains on the physical engagement with the book. Indeed, by consigning the songs to the closing section of both MSS A and F–G, the bookmakers discourage a live staging of the text that would mix an oral reading with a musical concert. But while facilitating an oral performance of the Voir dit, MS E does not completely reverse the A and F–G model. MS E encourages a truly hybrid performance of the Voir dit through a mise en page that visually intermingles songs and letters. Music is not simply integrated into the text: it is afforded a disproportionate amount of space and these lyric texts are allowed to display their dual status as both word and sound. When the same space is afforded the letters, the break in layout is used to insert a replica of a real correspondence. The scribe responsible for the entire transcription of the Voir dit reserves for the interpolated letters a formal cursive bookhand common in diplomatic correspondences. This script secures for a collection of love letters the status of authentic documents. In addition, the scribe imitates the layout of a missive by frequently setting off the signature from the surrounding text. Minus the seal, these copied letters have the look and feel of an actual correspondence (Figure 26: BnF, MS fr. 9221, fol. 204r). In its faithful imita-

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tion of real correspondence, MS E conflates the actual reader’s experience with the intimate reading event enjoyed by the lovers who study these letters while hidden from the public, who mumble their contents while turned away from crowds, and who study every detail of the material letter for secret signs from the sender. Because the innovative layout in MS E integrates musical as well as epistolary material in a manner that retains their integral qualities as either vibrant sound or intimate love tokens, the audience is urged to adopt a reading strategy that would fuse these public and private practices. At the same time, however, this innovative structure makes it easier to pick out and privilege certain modes of expression. That is, MS E makes possible a full range of options ranging from a ‘selective reading’ that would separate out one genre and its complementary medium to what Nancy Regalado terms ‘reciprocal reading’ in which an individual would cross-reference and pair up different parts of a hybrid work or a collection of discrete writings to master the meaning of a text.13 Where Regalado’s study limits the definition of reciprocal reading to a textbased reading of a hybrid work that would enable one to move backwards and forwards in a book or on a page to seek out connections between various parts of a text, my application of this manner of reading to the Voir dit expands the concept to embrace the mixing of reception modes. In this manner, moving backward and forward in the book might also be paired with a movement from the material reading of some parts of the text to the public performance of others. In other words, I posit that, thanks to the complex layout of MS E, a medieval audience could imagine or attempt to recreate an experience that would embrace a full range of reception modes, including the silent perusing of letters as well as the sounding out of the music. In the remainder of this chapter we will consider some of the repercussions the MS E mise en page could have on determining one’s privileged mode of access to the Voir dit, and the influence of such a reading on meaning. A caveat merits repeating. The Voir dit, with its rich mosaic structure, offers an infinite number of readings. For the individual who rejects a hypermedia experience that swells to encompass the sight, sound, and feel of a love story, many other reading options are presented. Through layout, script, and decoration, MS E would facilitate a compartmentalized reading of the Voir dit in which the audience could select a given component of the corpus, whether song, letters, lyric poetry, or the narrative itself, and follow the visual and graphic guidelines throughout the text so as to hop from one example of a given

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category to the next. But a reader could have just as easily adopted a comparative approach through which two or more components of the text were taken into account and read side by side or over time. Attention will thus be given to a few of the options a reader of MS E might choose, and we will consider the potential outcome of these reading experiences, for according to the reading style adopted, an individual could assume a crucial role in controlling the meaning, value, and function of the text. As has been the case throughout this study, imagining the reading experience means following the directions of the manuscript as an ideal reader would be expected to do. Whether or not real readers performed as obediently can only be the subject of conjecture.

Reading the Voir dit in Song The most apparent way in which MS E sets up the Voir dit for a new reading experience is through the incorporation of the musical scores. Incorporating the eight musical compositions previously relegated to the margins in MSS A and F–G, MS E makes it possible to take into full account the sound of the Voir dit. Given that all eight compositions display a particular fondness for melismatic flourishes, listening to these works would represent a dramatic shift in mode from either the private study or public reading of the text to a sung performance. In addition, the inclusion of music would constitute a lengthy elaboration and a drawing out of the lyric texts. The potential disruption that this music would entail along with the professional skills required to read and sing it might lead to its complete elimination from the performance of the text (for even attempting to read the lines set to music demands a certain familiarity with formal notation) or, conversely, to a performance that pulled the music out of its context to be listened to alone. I hypothesized that the anticipation of such a performance led to the curious double entry of the Remede de Fortune at the close of the table of contents of MS A (see chapter 3). In that case, I argued that the scribe listed the music separately to aid a potential reader interested especially in Machaut’s music. Just as the pulling out of music in the MS A table of contents encourages a musician to access the Remede exclusively through its songs, so too the incorporation of music in the Voir dit in MS E facilitates a song-based reading. Although MSS A and F–G do include the Voir dit songs in the music section, the rubrics signalling the existence of scores for these works do not promote their singing as much as encour-

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age yet another form of material reading that demands combing through the book for hidden copies. Thus by inserting the music directly into the body of the text, the MS E page designer responsible for the layout of the folios facilitated a sung delivery of these pieces. He made it surprisingly easy to perform these songs when studying the work by eliminating the need to interrupt reading with a search for scattered remains in the music section. Conversely, were these eight pieces to be lifted from the surrounding narrative and performed alone, they would constitute their own coherent account of the affair. Granted, Guillaume and Toute-Belle’s relationship would be highly conventionalized through this approach because the songs develop only the key stages of the affair and the idiosyncrasies particular to their experience fall to the wayside. Thus the first interpolated song ‘Pleurez dames’ erases all evidence of Toute-Belle’s rather unconventional status as the first to declare her love and, in its place, records the typical courtly laments of a lover who threatens death should his lady refuse to take pity on him. The plea for love registered in this inaugural song is resolved by the second musical entry, where the lover sings of a newfound admiration that has recharged (‘esmeü,’ l. 1328) his sombre heart, as it is described in the opening song (‘cuer taint,’ l. 678). He asserts his worthiness of her affection in this rondeau: ‘Dame, se vous n’avés aperceü/Que je vous aim de cuer sans decevoir’ (R13). The third musical insertion expresses the lover’s desire to see his lady in its refrain ‘le grant desir que j’ai de vous vëoir’ (B33), and in ‘Sans cuer, dolens, de vous departirai’ (R4), the poet implies that the much desired meeting transpired during the interval of the two songs. Then follow three compositions that celebrate the relationship, ranging from a lay in praise of Hope (L18/13) to an anagrammatic rondel that presents the lady’s name as both the source of the poem and the poet’s inspiration (R17), and two intertwined ballades that identify Guillaume and Toute-Belle’s love as superior to all other classical models (B34). Finally, as is often the case in courtly tales, the last ballade with its refrain ‘Qu’en lieu de bleu, dame, vous vestés de vert’ (Instead of blue, my lady, you are dressed in green) announces the lady’s treachery and predicts the poet’s death caused by his great chagrin (‘Se pour muir qu’Amours ai bien servi,’ B36). To a certain extent, this last song brings us full circle and we can easily imagine picking up again with ‘Pleurez dames,’ where the poet pleas for all ladies to recognize his unfaltering fidelity (‘... tousdis ai mis mon cuer et m’entente, / Corps et pensers et desirs en servant / L’onneur de vous ...’ (Everyday I have given my heart and my energy, my

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body, thoughts, and desires to serving in honor of you) (ll. 674–6). As evidenced in this summary, were an audience to access the Voir dit only through song, they would discover a strikingly different version of the story from the one recounted in the surrounding correspondence and the narrative itself.

Reciprocal Reading and the Architectonics of the Text: Reconstructing the Voir dit through Song, Letters, and Poems The dissonance that emerges when the songs are compared to the narrative is most pronounced in the final accusation of the lady’s treachery in B36. In comparison, the narrative records Toute-Belle’s declaration of innocence and Guillaume’s assurance of their reconciliation. Yet when the song is matched up to the material contained in the final letters, which are also spotlighted by the layout in MS E, the disjunction is less apparent. Individuals who adopt a reciprocal reading based on the layout of the MS E version of the Voir dit and thus compare the interpolated songs with the letters might interpret the letters as silent confirmation of the singer’s vocalized accusations. That is, given the increasingly laconic letters of the couple, Toute-Belle’s own pleas that the poet not accuse her publicly of falsehood for fear of ruining her reputation (L. XL, 672b), and her suggestion that they cease all epistolary communication (L. XLVI, 782d), the reader of MS E might easily conclude that the interpolated materials specifically spotlighted through layout serve to undermine the narrator’s protests of sustained happiness. The alternative account proposed in song and letter is bolstered by the final category of interpolated materials, the lyric poetry. Again while the inset poems in MS E respect the column layout, they are set apart through red rubrics identifying voice and genre, and through flourished letters that frequently identify the beginning of each stanza. Thus where the music introduces sweeping red lines and the letters, flowing cursive, the poems insert vibrant flashes of red, blue, pink, and gold into the text. Visually they draw the eye away from the linear flow encouraged by the narrative and persuade the reader to linger over the thoughts and sentiments of the two lovers. For the individual attracted to the music or the letters, a consideration of the lyric poetry that stands out from the surrounding text would flesh out the affair. Because we have already noted the incongruous ending that the interpolated songs propose, let us remain with this troubling moment in the story and consider what effect the surrounding inset

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poetry would have on the storyline. This incident is of particular interest because although there is substantial text separating B36 from the previous lyric insets and the two final poems in the collection, we discover that the lyric voice framing this accusatory and deleterious piece is none other than Toute-Belle’s. Indeed, while the songs function as the privileged medium of the lover, the framing poetic interpolations introduce the lady’s voice into the mix. In response to the final song, Toute-Belle’s poetry is especially insightful for the ways in which it engages with the spotlighted music. Her two previous compositions anticipated the accusations the lover expresses in his final song. Preempting his indictment that she is unfaithful, Toute-Belle asserts her loyalty in Rondeau 59: ‘Tant com je serai vivant/Vous serai leal amie’ (As long as I live, I will be a loyal friend) (ll. 6477–8). In the accompanying Ballade 60, the lady foresees the many attacks lodged against her and the faltering of Guillaume when she reflects on the dangers an extended separation can have on lovers. She again asserts her fidelity at every turn: ‘Je l’amerai de loial amour pure’ (I will love him with a true and pure love) (l. 6502). Likewise the materials following B36, specifically the incomplete Virelay 62 ‘Cent mille fois esbahie’ and much later Rondeau 63 with its cryptogram of Guillaume’s name, insist on Toute-Belle’s innocence and her strong feelings for the poet. Thus the interpolated lyric poems serve a central function in the orchestration of the Voir dit. Their crucial role is clearly played out in the final pages, where the poems reconcile the inset songs with the narrator’s framing claims of an amorous truce. In essence they harmonize the conflicting sounds of song and letters within the narrative. The layout of MS E articulates this binding role fulfilled by the lyric poetry. Restrained by the column structure, the inset poetry conforms to the shape of the narrative rather than challenge its integrity by destabilizing the columns, unlike the other interpolated material. Yet these poems insist on their link with the surrounding interpolated pieces through the vibrant and recurring colours that signal their intrusion into the space of the narrative.

Polyphony and the Multi-Voiced Text Inset texts – whether song, poetry, letters, or images – that challenge the framing narrative are endemic to medieval hybrid texts. Maureen Boulton explores this phenomenon with special emphasis on songs. She contends that some medieval writers turned to song to structure their work as opposed to serving simply as interpolated embellishment. Boulton

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notes that in these rare cases where song stimulates the narrative, it is the striking juxtaposing of the circular, atemporal status of song that serves as a catalyst for a linear narrative. In this figuration, the narrative is intent on breaking down the circular movement of songs and imposing progression. As we have already established, such is the dynamic of the relationship between the inset songs and the narrative of the Voir dit. Whereas B36, the final song in the text, anticipates a return to ‘Pleurez dames’ through the lover’s laments of betrayal, the octosyllabic narrative resists this return to the beginning of the process and insists on the reconciliation of the two lovers. But, as Boulton argues, even when a linear frame is superimposed on the circular movement of song, these very songs often disrupt the story. To wit, the Voir dit song cycle challenges the version of events recounted in the final moments of the narrative.14 Apart from the first and last song, the remaining six musical compositions are subject to elaboration by the surrounding inset texts and narrative. These songs fulfil the role of a baseline to which the lyric poems, the narrative, and the prose letters add colour. Imitating a polyphonic musical composition, they are attributed the same role assigned the tenor, becoming the line against which the other voices are structured. That is, the songs carry the tale of a conventional romance. The three remaining voices – the lyric poetry, the narrative, and the prose – offer texture and complexity. As the upper voice in a polyphonic composition often emerges as the most complex in its high volume of notes, so too the prose letters emerge in the Voir dit as the most elaborate voice in the hybrid romance. The lyric poetry and even the narrative only modestly enhance the storyline provided by the songs. The lyric poetry surrounding each song typically adds flourishes to the musical composition. In turn the narrative superimposes a linear structure on these songs. Such a reading that would encompass the multilayered text would be distinctive from a selective or a reciprocal reading and would be better defined as a polyphonic reading; that is, a reading that would appreciate the complex interplay between the various parts of the text and that would recognize the impossibility of understanding the story by studying only one component of the composition.15 That the letters emerge as the ‘upper voice’ of this polyphonic composition may seem somewhat incongruous considering that rhetoric had long established prose as the most humble of literary forms.16 Nevertheless, Machaut explicitly promoted the prose correspondence above all other forms in the Voir Dit. In his initial aside to the external audience,

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the narrator singled out the ‘epitres’ as exclusively worthy of formal generic identification (‘nos escriptures ... /que l’en doit appeller epistres/ – C’est leurs drois noms et leurs drois titres –’ [our writings ..., which one ought to call letters (that is their true name and correct title)] ll. 492–5). Furthermore, much like the upper voice of a musical composition, the letters introduce a unique version of the love affair that breaks with convention. Whereas the songs, the poetry, and even the narrative fix the contours of Guillaume and Toute-Belle’s affair by referring to the universal themes of courtly romance, the letters distinguish the two lovers from stock couples. Rising above the expected rhythms of both the poetic structures and the storyline, the letters flesh out the affair. Factors that distinguish the couple from conventional lovers are detailed in the letters, ranging from their physical descriptions (especially in the extraordinary case of the unattractive lover) to exhaustive accounts of their quotidian existence. In addition, these letters detail the circumstances of composition, the events that inspired the interpolated songs and poetry, and evidence of the circulation of these pieces from the lovers to a larger, more dispersed audience. The letters frequently amplify or clarify the information communicated in the songs. ‘Dix et sept, .V., .XIII., .XIIII, et quinse,’ for example, takes on greater meaning thanks to an accompanying letter to Toute-Belle in which the poet reveals the presence of the cryptogram of her true name. In a similar vein, were it not for the final letters exchanged between the lovers, we would have scarce evidence that the lady vehemently denied the poet’s accusations of betrayal recorded in the final song and that the poet retracted his allegations. In other instances, the letters infuse the abstract sentiments expressed in the songs – as they reiterate the key moments and anticipated sentiments of every lover – with the details needed to redefine the music as the unique expression of Guillaume’s sentiments. Most importantly, whereas the musical compositions of the Voir dit ignore entirely Toute-Belle’s experience, her poems and especially her letters – because they break so radically with conventional courtly models – record her unique view of the relationship. The layout of MS E spotlights the contradictions that shape the Voir dit. The mise en page of this version counterbalances the musical reiteration of the classical stages of love with the unconventional prose pieces. By graphically pairing the songs and the letters, MS E highlights the dissonance that these two genres evoke. Traditionally these genres were juxtaposed based on the notion that music and lyric poetry expressed

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the emotive side of events, often exaggerating or even lying about occurrences. In contrast, prose represented a privileged mode of expression that sacrificed poetic artifice to communicate the truth.17 Likewise song represented the highest form of medieval styles while prose, the lowest. The unconventional architectonics of MS E nevertheless conjoin these opposing delivery modes by affording a similar layout to the performance-oriented songs and the privately read love letters. Yet the MS E version of the Voir dit hints at an overriding respect for the prose pieces as distinctive documents. For the language of the narrative, the lyric poetry, and the musical compositions present similar regional grammatical and orthographic changes to the text that do not appear in the inserted letters.18 With their archaic spellings and structures that contrast sharply with the revised narrative, poetry, and music, the prose letters in MS E flaunt their status as authentic materials from a long-ago affair. This stylistic disjunction between the two principle modes of expression – poetry and prose – is further enhanced by the implementation of a distinctive script to register the letters. Through an intricate weaving of the music, lyric poems, letters, and framing narrative, MS E creates a polyphonic composition attuned to multiple voices, styles, and experiences. These four ‘voices’ of the text – the music, the lyric poetry, the prose letters, and the narrative – come together to stretch the limits of the conventional courtly romance. Like a melismatic moment in a polyphonic composition, these various ‘voices’ intervene to embellish, nuance, and set apart certain moments or sentiments expressed in other parts of the correspondence.

The Impact of Layout on Delivery The Voir dit is attributed a prominent position first through the inclusion of the eight compositions and then through the reordering of the entire corpus to locate it after the music section. MS E recasts the work as a potential performance piece. The codex also provides material evidence that intermediary readers were aware of Machaut’s conscious play with different registers, reading modes, and genres when composing the Voir dit. But where it would appear that he endeavored to subordinate the oral component of the Voir dit by linking orality to gossip and by limiting Toute-Belle’s access to music, MS E reveals a fascination with the function of song in the narrative. Where MSS A and F–G privilege a presentation of the intimate reading experience both by eliminating music in the immediate narrative and by inserting images of

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the lovers receiving and reading letters in private spaces, MS E overwhelms the page with visual evidence of sound. In the absence of an illustration program explicitly evoking a court performance, the incorporation of songs and the simultaneous decision to adopt a layout more conducive to prose and music make normative a public reading of the work. The MS E version of the Voir dit cries out for an aural performance for the narrative to be fully realized. Furthermore, MS E self-consciously distances the audience through its physical presence. The formidable size of the codex (40.6 × 30 cm), the complicated mise en page, and the absence of elaborate decoration in MS E (only four miniatures for the Voir dit) would challenge efforts to read privately the collection. In the specific case of the Voir dit, MS E circumvents the need for the audience to engage physically with the work. Whereas MS A and MSS F–G required the reader to flip through the codex to locate the music, MS E incorporates the compositions directly into the narrative.19 MS E therefore halts the movement of texts celebrated in alternative versions and provides in its place a stable rendition of sound. In a similar vein, instead of enticing the reader to pick up the codex and to imitate the lovers as they read their correspondence, MS E dramatically diminishes the importance of studying images in the reception of the Voir Dit. Of the only four allotted images in MS E, none portrays the lovers reading letters. In fact, only the opening image depicts the transference of a letter from a messenger to Guillaume. The three remaining images give material expression to the allegorical figures of Love and Fortune described in detail within the narrative. As for the inscriptions etched onto Lady Fortune’s wheels, MS E furnishes them in the vernacular but in a minuscule script difficult to decipher and riddled with errors. Gone are multiple visual references to letters exchanged; absent are bedroom scenes evoking privacy and intimacy; missing are images that demand intense meditation. Both the new content and the unique layout of MS E strip the narrative of the intimacy displayed in MSS A and F–G. MS E not only obviates the need for readers to hold the book either to leaf through its contents or to meditate on its images, but it establishes barriers to such an intimate encounter with the text. The layout and the content bring to light the diverse skills needed to access the Voir dit. With its imposing polyphonic compositions inserted directly into the narrative, MS E puts the audience in its place as a group of listeners in need of trained performers to access fully the text. The complexity of the music recorded – seven of the eight items are polyphonic and the remaining

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monophonic work is of substantial complexity – would require professional training and multiple voices or instruments to perform the pieces exactly as they are. Even the love letters, now presented in the style and format of a diplomatic correspondence, would require a certain familiarity with a script rarely used in vernacular, didactic, and religious works produced for the laity. Yet in spite of all signs pointing to MS E serving as a support for public performance – from its dimensions and layout to its immediate inclusion of music in the Voir dit – an audience is always free to choose its mode of delivery. The MS E compendium cannot impose aural reception, but it does at least emulate an oral performance. In her recent study of music in the Roman de Fauvel, Emma Dillon cautions scholars from assuming that the presence of music in manuscripts required or even anticipated an actual performance of the music. Rather she argues that the presence of song replicated visually the dynamism associated with performance. Late medieval advances in notation not only allowed for a more precise registering of music, but also made room for the visual expression of musical qualities, thereby literally infusing the page with sound.20 When applied to MS E, Dillon’s argument aids in understanding the many forms a hybrid reading could take. At the same time that MS E facilitates performance, it also calls on the audience to meditate on the complex relationships between the diverse parts of the Voir dit vividly depicted in its layout. The presentation of the work brings in view both the differences and the unexpected links between the various components of the text. As we have seen, music and prose stand out thanks to an unconventional and complex layout. If performed, it is possible that the presenter would have interrupted his reading to sing the eight pieces in MS E and/ or to invite the medieval audience to gaze on the prose passages whose layout imitated real letters. If read privately, readers would not have been required to perform the inscribed music in MS E to enjoy the experience of the hybrid text, as its visual transcription would assure that they remained aware of the music filtered throughout the Voir dit. In signalling the inherent orality of the Voir dit alongside highlighted love letters, the architectonics of the page in MS E, however, appear to call for a public performance of the work, but one that would be bound by a meditation on the dynamic page. As such, MS E is unique in the codicological history of the Voir dit. It stands alone as the exclusive extant copy that strives to embody the fully hybrid nature of Machaut’s work along with the hybrid delivery it requires. In contrast, in MSS A and F–G rubrics and illustrations reinforce embedded instructions directing readers to enjoy an intimate and tactile

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experience with the book. MSS A and F could also support a public reading and even a musical performance with time allotted for moving around in the codex. In MS A, the table of contents, layout, script, abundant notae, and the astute use of rubrics and images to indicate breaks in the text would have, however, especially facilitated a meditative study of the collection by a professional reader familiar with scholastic books. MSS F–G reinforce this studious approach to Machaut’s works through the Voir dit illustrations detailing the intimate encounter of the lovers with the written word. But at the same time, the particularities of the F–G apparatus – from the absence of scholastic aids, such as a table of contents or marginalia, to the repeated visual references to the patron and literate lovers – caters to a public strikingly different from the MS A audience, one distinguished by social status, reading skills, and familiarity with scholarly books. The diverse presentations of the Voir dit found in extant manuscripts derive directly from the text. The Voir dit explores in its narrative the crucial link between reception modes and meaning, and its complex structure demands experimentation in presentation and delivery. Machaut’s corpus requires a codex that could embrace music and poetry, text and image, didactic and courtly works, and public performance and material reading. Bookmakers faced the practical challenges of creating such an unusual collection.21 Workshops modified book size, layout, script, and decoration to respond to the demands of the text and to shape future encounters with the text. Recognizing that Machaut’s corpus at large and specifically the Voir dit challenged the increasing rigidity of book fabrication, the bookmakers reinvented the codex to express the essential polyvalence of Machaut’s corpus. In MSS A, F–G, and E, bookmakers celebrated the hybrid nature of the Voir dit by redefining the space of the page, but each inevitably tailored the codex to generate a reading mode defined by three interrelated factors: the reading technology (or technologies) to be implemented (public performance, small group reading, individual study), the expected function of the codex (scholastic, didactic, recreational), and the audience’s anticipated skills (literacy levels, musical training, academic preparation). Regardless of the real audience’s conformance to the inscribed expectations, each copy oriented future audiences towards a distinctive interpretation of the corpus. As we shall examine in the next section, the only documented performance of the Voir dit reveals its readers consciously engaging with the very question of how to perform and respond to Machaut’s dynamic yet book-bound work.

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PART THREE Inventive Readers and the Struggle for Control

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Interpretation is not the art of construing but the art of constructing. Interpreters do not decode poems; they make them. Stanley Fish1

In the previous three chapters, we examined instances where workshops enhanced Machaut’s Voir dit through the addition of supporting materials, such as tables of contents, rubrics, musical scores, and decoration, as well as through the implementation of innovative layout and organization. In each case, they intervened to strengthen the work according to their understanding of the text and/or the interests and skills of the intended readers. Changes elucidated the master text and guided the target audience in a distinctive reception of the work. In some cases, by amplifying the work with rubrics or images, or restructuring the text through layout, bookmakers enhanced specific aspects of the multifaceted Voir dit. In other cases, their contributions ultimately disrupted Machaut’s corpus by revealing embedded contradictions. Although each version generates a new interpretation of Machaut’s corpus and specifically of the Voir dit, none so alters Machaut’s texts that it becomes unrecognizable. Musical notation may be omitted from or added to the Voir dit, but either way, it appears in each collection. Artists may depict love letters as discrete texts in constant movement or intimate objects to be cherished, but scribes scarcely tamper with their core content. In MSS A, F–G, and E, the paratextual additions and material enhancements essentially gloss Machaut’s corpus in the strictest sense: they serve to elucidate, bolster, and authorize the master text at the same time that they seek to guide and instruct readers in their reception of the work. As intermediary readers, these scribes and artists may bring into question the poet’s actual authority over literary creation through the freedoms they assume, but they avoid a wholesale appropriation of the work or of Machaut’s status as the overarching author-figure. In Part III, we leave the realm of intermediary readers to examine a new category of participants in literary creation, inventive readers. The relationship of intermediary and inventive readers to the text is only distinguishable by degrees of intervention. One is turned towards future readers; the other, towards the text. One dialogues, the other appropriates. Inventive readers approach a text as a malleable entity that can express their own literary and artistic intentions. Exhibiting little concern for the integrity of the master text, they dismantle and recycle words, forms, and ideas to create new works. Through this process of appropriation, they assume the status of authors in their own right.

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To be certain, every handwritten copy of a medieval text inevitably registers a unique rereading of a work, even when bookmakers endeavour to use their skills in the service of the text. Yet a trail of responses to the Voir dit also reveals actual readers intent on appropriating Machaut’s text. These readers offer material evidence of what Hugh of St Victor designated as the reading ‘performance,’ that is a mise en pratique of acquired knowledge. These same readers anticipate remarks by Stanley Fish that readers are ‘interpreters’ who ‘construct’ and ‘make’ texts (see above epigraph). While Fish refers to the interior and personal process of interpretation that every reader undergoes, Hugh of St Victor pointed to a uniquely active medieval model of interpretation that required material evidence – whether in the form of written response, actions, or altered behaviours – to finalize the reading experience. It is the unique medieval view of reading as necessarily leading to action that demands careful consideration of the relationship between medieval authors and their books. What moves many medieval texts beyond facile categorization as ‘intertextual’ writings or their authors beyond discussion of the ‘anxiety of influence’ is that the resulting material product entails applying scripted lessons to new situations. In the case of the inventive readers of the Voir dit, it is Machaut’s cynical view of his readers and anxiety about delivery modes that come into play in their responses. This final section treats representative examples of inventive readings of the Voir dit in the works of three readers: Eustache Deschamps, Jean Froissart, and an anonymous fifteenth-century remanieur responsible for the last extant version of the Voir dit. Each reader creates an entirely new text through his response to the Voir dit. In all cases, issues of delivery, reception, and reader responsibility permeate their responses. Deschamps and Froissart draw inspiration from the Voir dit, especially its self-conscious exploration of literary creation, authorship, and subsequent dependence on readers’ benevolence. In their literary responses to the work, Deschamps and Froissart address a large spectrum of reader reception issues, ranging from the responsibilities and power of intermediary and inventive readers to a re-evaluation of the skills and talents of lay readers as well as the potential benefits involved in associating their compositions with the master’s text. In the final chapter, the actions of an anonymous remanieur who dramatically abridges, rewrites, and redefines Machaut’s corpus demand that his work be viewed as a literary response rather than as a late copy of the Voir dit as has been traditionally the case. Like Deschamps and Froissart, the Pm remanieur uses the Voir dit as fodder for a new personalized message that embraces Machaut’s

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collected works as didactic material that can lead to moral improvement and personal salvation. These three examples of written responses to the Voir dit offer access to that fluid, intangible space resulting from writing and reading, where a reader can leave traces of his personal experience with the source in new literary creations. Literally ruminating on Machaut’s text, these readers masticated the master’s words to create an altered and wholly personalized statement.2 By studying their creative responses to Machaut, we become privy to an ongoing debate concerning the role of delivery in shaping a text. These varied responses reveal the success of the Voir dit. At the height of hybrid production, Machaut delivered a work that demonstrated innovation in content, material presentation, and reception. Ultimately the Voir dit represented a challenge to the growing stability defining manuscript layout and called attention to the tremendous impact that various forms of delivery could have on layout and meaning. But in producing a work that refused to conform to convention and by matching this rebellious text with a complex portrait of ungovernable readers, the Voir dit predicted its own collapse. Machaut’s readers dismantled his text in an effort to divest the work of its mystery, to usurp the poet’s position of authority, and to reassert the power of readers to assign to texts not only meaning but also form. The three readers studied in this section prepare the groundwork for the eventual complete severing of the text from its author. By the late fifteenth century, the Voir dit survived only in indistinguishable and unrepresentative pieces scattered throughout anthologies until it completely disappeared at the end of the sixteenth century.

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6 Eustache Deschamps as Machaut’s Reader: Staking out Authority in the Master(’s) Text

At first glance, Eustache Deschamps appears as a mediating figure in the reception history of Machaut’s corpus. Scholars emphasize the important role he served in securing Machaut’s authorial identity. Deschamps is identified as having taken the extraordinary step of conferring on Machaut the illustrious title of poete1 – possibly the first recorded occurrence of the term used to describe a vernacular poet – and he composed several eulogies that commemorated the master poet as an inimitable writer. The generous borrowing and intertextual allusions that populate Deschamps’s writings further confirmed Machaut’s extraordinary status as a privileged forefather of vernacular poetry. Finally, Deschamps testifies to his active promotion of Machaut’s corpus through the public performance of the Voir dit (Ballade 127) and through his numerous references – both direct and indirect – to Machaut that punctuate his corpus. Whether adopting the master’s poetic style to engage in courtly discourses or publicly promoting Machaut’s fame, Deschamps insists on devout servitude to his chosen master. Yet this veneer of subservience disguises Deschamps’s adroit manipulation of his mediating role. In other words, Dechamps cultivates an appreciation for Machaut so as to articulate and situate his own poetic identity. Sometimes in a single poem, Deschamps will celebrate Machaut and all that his poetry represents only to subvert these claims through the inscription of his own opposing views. In this respect, Deschamps the student poaches the success of the master in a style reminiscent of Michel de Certeau’s description of readers as ‘travelers’ who ‘move across lands belonging to someone else, like nomads poaching their way across fields they did not write, despoiling the wealth of Egypt to enjoy it themselves.’2 Siphoning off the riches from the master’s text, Deschamps shaped his own author-

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ity through the performance of the transgressive reading strategies Certeau evokes. Pushing even further the power afforded readers, Deschamps’s move from humble student and reader to master in his own right hinges on his adroit manipulation of Machaut’s views on reading. It is this very transgression that separates Deschamps from the intermediary readers studied in the previous section. The present chapter treats nine of Deschamps’s poems in which Machaut emerges as a pivotal figure. Previous scholarship has tended to examine these works as key contributions to the establishment of Machaut’s fame, but I shall investigate instead Deschamps’s habit of reproducing Machaut’s style, poetic system, and fame only to subvert these same structures. Often Deschamps’s self-deprecation disguises this subversive strategy. While proclaiming his inferiority vis-à-vis Machaut – the consummate poet and a modern Orpheus – Deshamps reinvents the court poet as a moralistic voice that he alone embodies rather than as the love poet he associates with Machaut. In his promotion of the ethical role that the vernacular author can play, Deschamps valorizes his own failure in love and presents his exclusion from the courtly system as an advantageous position from which he is equipped to disclose the pervading superficiality of amorous speech and court corruption. Interspersed among intimate love poems that reiterate conventional themes, therefore, candid attacks on his peers and superiors surface as the dominant discourse in Deschamps’s vast corpus of 1501 works of poetry and prose (or eleven volumes in the SATF series).3 Through these aggressive reading tactics, Deschamps successfully recycles the master’s writings to produce new texts and new meaning. In this manner, he adopts the same strategies Guillaume accuses his audience of using in the Voir dit. It is therefore all the more compelling to discover that Deschamps’s selfarticulation eventually converges on the Voir dit and his public performance of the master’s text.

Constructing Identity through Machaut: Deschamps’s Recycling and Reinvention of the Master’s Poetic Identity Nine poems in Deschamps’s corpus can be singled out as specifically engaging with Machaut’s writings and reputation. These lyrical texts are: ‘Veulz tu la congnoissance avoir/ Des Champenoys et leur nature?’ (B1474, 8:177–8) Lay amoureux, ‘Contre la saison nouvelle’ (L306, 2:193–203)

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‘Cilz qui onques encores ne vous vit’ (R685, 4:94) ‘Treschiers sires, vueillez remercier’ (B127, 1: 248–9) ‘Balade pour Machaut: Armes, Amours, Dames, Chevalerie’ (B123, 1: 243–4) ‘He! Gentils rois, dus de Poligieras’ (B872, 5:53–4) ‘Autre balade: O fleur des fleurs de toute melodie’ (B124, 1: 245–6) ‘Apres Machaut qui tant vous a amé’ (B447, 3:259–60) ‘A vous m’octroy de vray cuer et de bon’ (B493, 3:318–19)4 Together these lyric works portray Machaut as the master of love poetry, as a model of the courtly lover, and as the consummate vernacular poet. In most cases, precise dating of the nine works in question is impossible, but the last five poems listed above were clearly produced after Machaut’s death in 1377 since they eulogize the great master. Three of these five identify Machaut as the paragon of the vernacular poet. He is ‘le noble rethorique’ (the noble rhetorician) (B123, vol. I, 243–4), ‘fleur des fleurs de toute melodie’ and ‘mondains dieux d’armonie’ (flower of flowers of all melody and worldly god of harmony) (B124, vol. I, 245–6), ‘Noble poete et faiseur renommé,/ Plus qu’Ovide vray remede d’amours’ (Noble poet and renowned writer, more so than Ovid, a true consoler of love) (B447, vol. III, 259–60), and ‘si grant faiseur [et] si noble poete’ (so great a writer [and] so noble a poet) (B872, vol. V, 53). Deschamps elaborates on the full spectrum of Machaut’s talents, including his musical and lyric abilities, and his status as both a love poet and a didactic courtly writer. He is most forceful in ballade 447, where his comparison of Machaut to Ovid (cited above) is a transparent reference to the interplay between Ovid’s Remede d’amours and Machaut’s Remede de Fortune. But whereas Ovid’s work teaches the lover the art of deception, Machaut’s dit, as a ‘vray remede damours,’ urges the lover to respect and serve his lady at the same time that it educates him in the art of composition. Deschamps further identifies Machaut as both a faiseur and a poete in this ballade (l. 3). In this manner, Deschamps alludes to the two ways of appreciating the master’s corpus. When studying the Remede de Fortune or another example of Machaut’s work, the reader can admire the poetic skill and the entertaining stories of the faiseur or meditate on the wisdom of the poete.5 Having secured Machaut’s supremacy at the outset of the three eulogistic ballades, Deschamps proceeds to insert himself within this illustrious family tree. As is well known, Deschamps insinuated close familial ties with Machaut in Ballade 447, where he claims to have been raised by

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the poet: ‘[Machaut] qui m’a nourry,’ [Machaut who nourished/ raised me] [l. 5]).6 But in the double-ballade made up of Ballades 123 and 124, Deschamps privileges a literary rather than paternal legacy. Behind a modesty topos that allows him to assert Machaut’s supremacy, Deschamps hints at his ambition to replace the master. In the first ballade, he asserts that ‘il n’en est au jour d’ui nul en vie/ Tel comme il fut, ne ne sera des mois’ (There is no one alive today like he was nor will there be for a long time) (B123, ll. 19–20) and later reiterates this point with his question to the deceased Machaut – ‘Apres voz faiz, qui obtendra le chois sur tous faiseurs?’ – elicits an immediate response: ‘Certes, ne le congnoys’ (After your works, who will be privileged among all writers? ... Surely, I don’t know him) (B124, ll. 4–5). Yet at the same time that Deschamps claims Machaut’s uniqueness, he displays his own poetic talents and invites the audience to view him as a possible successor.7 In two additional works, Deschamps makes his claims to the authorial throne more apparent. In Lay III, most likely written prior to 1377, the poet aligns himself with Machaut as a faithful servant of the God of Love. Hiding behind a bush, the narrator overhears a lively debate held at the court of the God of Love. When one of the participants discovers Eustache, she urges the court to enlist him as its porte-parole. Honour vouches for the poet by reminding the God of Love of his and Guillaume (de Machaut’s) fidelity to their cause: ... Eustace Qui doit bien estre en vostre grace: Guillaume et lui noz faiz escriprent: Venus et Juno les nourrirent. (Lay III, ll. 296–9) [Eustache should be in your good graces: Guillaume and he have written of our deeds, Venus and Juno have nourished/raised them.]

But where Machaut enhances his poetic persona with allusions to a certain success in love, Deschamps portrays himself as an especially poor heir to the master. In at least three cases, Deschamps deliberately contrasts his failure with Machaut’s success. In Ballade 447, Deschamps lays claim to Machaut’s poetic and amorous legacy in a daring but nevertheless playful poem addressed to a certain Peronne. Greeting Peronne, whose name appears in two anagrams of the Voir dit, Deschamps proposes himself as the master’s obvious heir in love. He defends his request by pointing out that Machaut raised him: ‘qui m’a nourry et fait maintes

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douçours,’ (who nourished/raised me and did such good things [for me] (l. 5). By becoming her ‘loyal ami,’ Eustache can both take his deserved place as his protector’s heir and, as such, honour Machaut’s memory. It is not until the final stanza that the poet assures Peronne that Machaut’s honour is not the only motivation for his request. He adds (truly as an afterthought) that she is also to his liking: ‘en tous cas bien faictes a mon gré’ (besides, you are made to my liking) (l. 17). But the most important reason given for her to accept him as Machaut’s replacement is that by welcoming his ‘piteuses clamours’ (pitiful clamoring) (l. 19), she can ‘recreate’ Deschamps (me recreez) (l. 20). Her acceptance of his poetic cries will prove his success as a love poet capable of seducing his lady through words alone. In conferring on Deschamps the illustrious position held by Machaut the lover, Peronne would also implicitly assign him the poetic throne left empty by the master. Having first been nourished by Machaut, Deschamps stands to assume the role of ‘poete et faiseur’ if Peronne agrees to take responsibility for his sentimental and literary education. Peronne’s refusal to accept the poet as her lover is noted in a later declaration to yet another woman. In a poem hailing a certain Gauteronne, the poet interrupts new claims of adoration with a refrain acknowledging his previous failure to seduce Peronne – ‘j’ay failli a Perronne’ (I failed with Perronne) (B493). Deschamps inscribes the same tactics in his poem to Gauteronne that he used in his attempted seduction of Peronne. He exposes his own superficiality when he claims that he seeks a lady in name only – ‘je ne require d’amy fors que le nom’ (I seek a friend in name alone) (l. 8) – so that he will have reason to compose poetry (l. 15). In at least one additional composition, Deschamps draws further inspiration from the love affair detailed in the Voir dit, but once again the student repeats his failure to assume the maestro’s role as lover. The text parodies an inset poem from the Voir dit as a means of exposing Deschamps’s personal inability to fulfil the role of the love poet. In ‘Cilz qui onques encores ne vous vit,’ Deschamps expresses his fear of appearing before his lady, thereby distorting Toute-Belle’s inaugural poem ‘Celle qui onques ne vous vit’ in which she fearlessly proclaims her love for Guillaume at the outset of the Voir dit (4:94, no. 685).8 In spite of his poetic pleas to succeed Machaut as the consummate lover, Deschamps’s repertoire includes innumerable examples of his comical failure in love. The poet’s laments are predictable. He complains of the great suffering endured by lovers – ‘Plus a de griefs en amours que en armes’ (There is more grief in love than in arms)

1 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 2810, fol. 226r. Livre des merveilles

2 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 2810, fol. 226r, close-up. Livre des merveilles

3 Berlin, Staatliche Museen Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Min. 1233

4 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 22545, fol. 40r. Remede de Fortune

5 British Library, MS Harley 4431, fol. 259r. Livre de la cité des dames

6 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 146, fol. 10r. Roman de Fauvel

7 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 146, fol. 11r. Roman de Fauvel

8 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1569, 1r. Roman de la Rose

9 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. Er. Prologue

10 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. Dr. Prologue

11 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. 242r. Livre du voir dit

12 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 22545, fol. 140r. Livre du voir dit, rubrics highlighted

13 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 9221, fol. 176r. Livre du voir dit

14 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 22545, fol. 175v. Livre du voir dit

15 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. 297r. Livre du voir dit

16 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. 237r. Livre du voir dit

17 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. Bv. Table of contents

18 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. Av. Table of contents

19 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. 233v. Livre du voir dit

20 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, fol. 301v. Livre du voir dit

21 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 22545, fol. 179r. Livre du voir dit

22 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 22545, fol. 181r. Livre du voir dit

23 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 22545, fol. 139v. Livre du voir dit

24 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 22545, fol. 141r. Livre du voir dit

25 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 22545, fol. 146v. Livre du voir dit

26 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 9221, fol. 204r. Livre du voir dit

27 Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 831, fol. 1v. Frontispiece, Jean Froissart

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(refrain, B413, 3:214), he assails the inconstancy of couples in general (B502, 3:329), and he grumbles about his own fated role as Love’s messenger, never his beneficiary (B510, 3:340). Among the otherwise innumerable avowals of undying love and devotion, he also inserts unabashed attacks on women. Individual women are assailed for their evident indifference to his amorous declarations (e.g., R631, 4:90). He curses former lovers, sparing no expense in shaming or defaming them (e.g., V704, 4:164; B796, 4:306; B804, 4:318). In instances where a lady speaks, she attacks her lover for his infidelity (e.g., B840, 5:10; B911, 5:107; B1232, 6:232). It is the stark contrast between the overarching celebratory portrayal of love, and the inserted attacks on the system and its participants that confirms Deschamps’s status as an even more pathetic, laughable, and bitter lover than the cross-eyed and aged Guillaume of the Voir dit. At the same time, Deschamps’s caustic remarks and unflattering portraits of ladies and lovers undermine both the courtly and poetic precepts promoted by Machaut. For the master, poetry satisfied two ambitions. First, through the lyrical expression of heart-felt sentiments, the poet could seduce his chosen lady. Second, true poetry inspired not only amorous feelings but intellectual and artistic admiration for the author. For Deschamps, his poetry neither reveals his heart-felt sentiments nor does it inspire love and admiration in his readers. Instead of using love poetry to establish his authority, Deschamps cultivates his failure in love, implying that he fails because he recognizes the poetic games, amorous deceptions, and court intrigues that point to a corrupt system. Through this moralistic discourse, he secures for himself a powerful position as a learned figure. Through his incessant confrontation with Machaut’s legacy – a legacy that he helped construct – Deschamps successfully carves out a unique identity for himself and articulates a new role for vernacular poetry in late medieval court society.9

Redefining the Lay Reading Experience: The Case of Ballade 127 and Deschamps’s Public Performance of Machaut’s Voir dit Deschamps’s redefinition of the court poet as a moralistic voice within a corrupt society clashes with the interests and demands of his imagined audience who continues to view poetry as a form of courtly entertainment. He presents a stark view of lay readers as engaged in the superficial pursuit of entertainment and resolutely opposed to studying works for their wisdom. Like Machaut, Deschamps expresses concern regard-

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ing the public’s interest in private reading that would entail studying, memorizing, and respecting the written word. Deschamps repeatedly portrays his audience as ill-prepared, unimpressed, or ill-informed when it comes to the value of the written word. From the anonymous lady of R1276 (7:16), who commands him to speak rather than write of his feelings, to friends and patrons who fail to return the sole copies of his corpus (B24, 1:103), the poet accuses his audience of failing to appreciate the material and moral value of his writings.10 In these complaints, Deschamps echoes concerns cogently developed in the Voir dit. In fact Deschamps’s imagined audience mirrors Machaut’s fictional audience in the Voir dit, yet the two poets remain distinctive in their treatment of readers. Whereas Guillaume insists throughout the Voir dit on the efficacy of a private, intimate, material reading of texts, Deschamps often explores the benefits of public performance – whether sung or recited. He contends that vocalizing poetry assures that both technique and message are given equal credence. But he stresses the particular advantages associated with listening to musique naturelle, that is, poetry without musical accompaniment, and speaks of the vocalized word as a valuable tool for sustaining intimacy: Et neantmoins est chascune de ces deux [musique artificiele et musique naturele] plaisant a ouir par soy; et se puet l’une chanter par voix et par art, sanz parole; et aussis les diz des chancons se puent souventefoiz recorder en pluseurs lieux ou ilz sont moult voulentiers ois, ou le chant de la musique artificiele n’aroit pas tousiours lieu, comme entre seigneurs et dames estans a leur prive et secretement, ou la musique naturele se puet dire et recorde par un homme seul, de bouche, ou lire aucun livre de ces choses plaisans devant un malade, et autres cas semblables ou le chant musicant n’aroit point lieu pour la haulteur d’icellui, et la triplicite des voix pour les teneurs et contreteneurs neccessaires a ycellui chant proferer par deux on trois personnes pour la perfection du dit chant.11 [Nevertheless each of these two are enjoyable to hear on their own – one can be sung by voice and by art without words; similarly, the words of songs can often be recited in various settings where they are willingly heard and where the singing of artificial music cannot always go, such as when lords and ladies are secretly together in private. Natural music can be uttered and recited by a single man using only his mouth or it can be read from some book of pleasant things before a sick person, and there are other similar cases where the song could not go because of its loudness or because of the

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need for two or three people to perform the three voices for tenor and countertenor parts if they are to perform the song faithfully.]

Deschamps claims that poetic texts complement intimate and private gatherings. Recited poetry (‘recorder’) as well as passages read from entertaining books satisfy the needs of a diverse group of individuals and multiple situations, ranging from a couple’s amorous reunion to the bedridden man.12 Thus natural music stems from the material artefact as much as it can spring from the performer’s memory (‘de bouche’ or ‘lire aucun livre’). Artificial music, on the other hand, is systematically associated with large spaces and crowds. These crowds do not simply represent the listeners and the master text, but the performers that music requires. Where performers would crowd out any hope of intimacy, the poetic word comfortably suits more private, secluded spaces and intimate occasions. Implied in Deschamps’s discussion is a prominent role for the poet who emerges as an authority capable of ministering to an appreciative and supportive textual community. This vision in the Art de dictier of the communal reading experience as key to intimacy appears already in an earlier account of public reading recorded by Deschamps in Ballade 127, where the poet documents his performance of Machaut’s Voir dit before the court of Bruges. This extraordinary account also documents the metamorphosis of a large and potentially unwieldy audience into a group of intimates who might engage directly with the material artefact. In the process, B127 records Deschamps’s transition from a subservient reader to a respected author in his own right. The public reading scene of the Voir dit detailed by Deschamps intertwines the celebration of an established master with the entry onto the professional stage of a new type of vernacular writer. Through the account of this performance, Deschamps brings together his concerns regarding the status of vernacular poets and the essential role assigned readers in securing an author’s fame as well as the integrity of the written word. That Deschamps attempts to negotiate between public and private reading technologies is apparent in his recorded dealings with the Voir dit, for the very question of how to read the Voir dit before a distinguished audience of knights and lords preoccupies Deschamps in Ballade 127. Presented as a missive, Ballade 127 informs Machaut that on a recent visit to Bruges, Deschamps performed portions of the Voir dit before a lively and enthusiastic court audience. The poet provides a brief but vivid sketch of the ensuing reading event. He recounts that

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Monseigneur de Flandres eagerly accepted the gift of Machaut’s codex and immediately requested that Deschamps read passages to the court: Treschiers sires, veuillez remercier L’art de musique et le gay sentement Que Orpheus fist en vous commencier, Dont vous estes honouriez haultement: Car tous voz faiz moult honourablement Chascuns reçoit en maint pais estrange, Et si n’y a nul, a mon jugement, Qui en die fors qu’a vostre louenge. Les grans seigneurs, Guillaume, vous ont chier, En voz choses prannent esbatement. Bien y parut a Bruges devant hier A Monseigneur de Flandres proprement Qui par sa main reçut benignement Vostre Voir Dit sellé dessur la range, Lire le fist; mais n’est nul vraiment Qui en die fors qu’a vostre louenge. Je lui baillié voz lettres en papier Et vo livre qu’il aime chierement; Lire m’y fist, present maint chevalier; Si adresçay au lieu premierement Ou Fortune parla si durement, Comment l’un joint a ses biens, l’autre estrange. De ce parlent, mais nulz n’en va parlant, Qui en die fors qu’a vostre louenge. (B127, 1:249)

5

10

15

20

24

[Great master, give thanks for the art of music and joyous thoughts that Orpheus planted in you, and for which you are greatly honoured. Indeed, your works are most honourably accepted by all in countless foreign countries, and there is no one, in my opinion, who says anything except what is to your honour. The great lords, Guillaume, hold you dear and in your writings, they find pleasure. This was apparent in Bruges the day before yesterday, especially in Monseigneur of Flanders, who received benignly in his hands your Voir dit bound in boards. He had it read, and there was no one who said anything except what is to your honour.

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I gave him your letters on paper and your book, which he loves dearly. He had me read it before many knights. I read first from the passage where it speaks against Fortune; how she bestows gifts to some, while depriving others. About this they spoke, but no one left there talking who said anything except what is to your honour.]

On its surface, Ballade 127 provides us with an unparalleled historical account of a late medieval reading performance and, more specifically, of a testimony documenting how one lector went about reading an unwieldy book such as the Voir dit. Deschamps was understandably obliged to select excerpts, of which he identifies the first selection as the passage where ‘Fortune parla si durement.’ While not a direct citation from the Voir dit, scholars concur that the reference points to Guillaume’s lengthy reflections on Lady Fortune situated in the last quarter of the book, a passage which has already been identified in this study as key to Machaut’s exploration of reading behaviours. Let us recall that Guillaume’s commentary on Fortune follows intense discussion of Toute-Belle’s fidelity. Finding little solace either in the advice of his servant, friends, and patrons, or in his troubled dreams, the narrator, for the first time in the story, turns to books for answers: Et toute voie doit confort Querir cilz qui ha desconfort; Si que pour moi desanuier Prins un livret a manier ... (ll. 8181–4) [Since it is true that comfort must be sought when one is in discomfort, to change my disposition, I took a book in hand.]

The Fortune passage begins at this moment when Guillaume opens a book and gazes on an illustration of Lady Fortune. We learn that the portrait depicts a large wheel that encloses Lady Fortune, who in turn holds four smaller wheels. Each circle, Guillaume informs his audience, displays a Latin inscription etched in gold. Rather than cite the Latin from his book, Guillaume provides a vernacular translation of each maxim (ll. 8185–238). In a second stage of reading, Guillaume uses his clerkly talent to produce individual sixteen-line verse commentaries for the five maxims (ll. 8239–350).13 Why did Deschamps select this passage to represent the Voir dit? What motivating factors dictated the choice? What message could be communicated via the passage? What relation binds this section to the whole?

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These questions have recently shaped Joyce Coleman’s historical and social analysis of the ballade. In her effort to rationalize Deschamps’s selection of the Fortune passage for a public reading, Coleman presents a twofold argument. First, Coleman argues that Deschamps opted to perform the Fortune passage to communicate a political message to the princes and knights in the Bruges audience.14 Coleman situates the undated reading event as transpiring at the court of Bruges in 1375 when the French and the English met for treaty talks.15 In the context of this gathering, Deschamps is said to have undertaken a rewriting of one love poet’s misogynistic attack on his lady to offer princely advice on handling political strife. Coleman’s second argument concerns the role of public reading in late medieval society. Her analysis of the Bruges event leads her to claim that ‘a written text could coexist unproblematically, in this period, with an aural presentation’ (my emphasis, 244). Both of these conclusions, however, fail to take into account that the Fortune passage fulfils a central role in the Voir dit specifically because of its unprecedented focus on reading. As we shall see, it is the event of placing Machaut’s codex on stage that determines Deschamps’s selection of this significant passage. While Coleman’s suppositions cannot be disproved, the most troubling aspect of her argument concerns her disregard for the details that Deschamps does include in his ballade. That is, Deschamps’s ballade tells us a great deal about his motivation in selecting what appears on the surface as a highly unrepresentative passage of the Voir dit and as a highly incongruous selection for a court gathering, regardless of whether the meeting marked the signing of a treaty or the publicizing of a political marriage. What follows is a new reading of the performance that transpired at Bruges based on the information provided by Deschamps’s ballade. This investigation reveals to what extent the account of the Bruges performance reproduces and reinforces a pattern of self-promotion developed throughout Deschamps’s corpus. Rather than manipulate Machaut’s text to communicate a message directly related to political events, Deschamps selected the Fortune passage for the same reasons that he references Machaut and his corpus in other poems. Namely, the account allows Deschamps to spotlight his master, then redirect attention to his own talents, first as a reader then as an author in his own right. Throughout, reading rather than the act of writing is depicted as the crucial stage of literary creation. If Ballade 127 initially appears as a transparent account of a public performance, on closer inspection it becomes evident that Deschamps used the Fortune passage to explore the important overlap between public and private reading practices.

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Collapsing the Book: Deschamps’s Reading of Guillaume Reading Livy The curious relationship between the Fortune passage and the larger Voir dit gives us pause. While Machaut’s magnum opus is a veritable tour de force of hybrid literature, the Fortune passage lacks examples of lyric texts, music, or the prose letters exchanged between lovers. In fact Barton Palmer refers to the passage as one of many examples of filler inserted by the poet when the lovers’ spat announces the slow disintegration of the affair.16 Moreover this passage subverts the primary objective of the work, as articulated at the outset of the Voir dit, where the narrator claims to have written the work ‘a la loenge et a l’honneur/ de tresfine Amour’ (in praise and in honour of fin’amors)( ll. 1–2). Contrary to these claims, the Fortune passage appears, at best, off subject in its erudite account of the reading experience and, at worst, as an unrestrained attack on love in its questioning of Toute-Belle’s honour. As if the Fortune passage did not already clash with the stated intentions and structural integrity of the work it represents, it also contradicts Deschamps’s implied defence for selecting the passage. Having identified Machaut in lines 2–3 of B127 as the master of ‘l’art de musique et le gay sentement’ in the tradition of the love poet Orpheus, Deschamps would seem to anticipate a performance that would support his claims. Yet he undermines Machaut’s status as the consummate vernacular poet by selecting a misogynistic and pedantic passage to represent his literary production. It is the audience’s reaction to the reading that eventually justifies Deschamps’s selection. The audience, as presented by Deschamps, expresses no confusion when confronted with the evident disjunction between Machaut, the renowned love poet, and Machaut, the clerkly misogynist. Indeed, the ‘maint chevaliers’ at Bruges join with the voices that rise up throughout Europe to praise the poet (‘Car tous voz faiz moult honourablement/Chascuns reçoit en maint pais estrange,’ ll. 5– 6). They join in the same chorus, as made clear in the refrain, assuring Machaut that there is no one ‘Qui en die fors qu’a vostre louenge.’ This ubiquitous praise for Machaut, which is reiterated at the end of each stanza of B 127, swirls around Deschamps in concentric circles to centre eventually on the material artefact that Deschamps presents at the court of Bruges. The audience’s enthusiastic reception of the passage as representative of Machaut’s corpus is thus further justified by the prominent role assigned the codex at the centre of the ballade. In his account, Deschamps concentrates all energy on the book itself. In terms of poetic structure,

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the actual book exchange occurs at the epicentre of the ballade, that is, ll. 11–14. At this key moment in the ballade, the public praise fades into the background, and the audience is invited to cast its gaze on the codex that ‘Monseigneur de Flandres proprement/Qui par sa main reçut benignement.’ Besides placing the actual gift-exchange event at the heart of the ballade, Deschamps associates all action with the book. Patrons happily accept Machaut’s works (‘recevoir,’ l. 6 and l. 13), Deschamps transmits the book to the patron (‘Je lui baillié,’ l. 17), and then reads from the book (‘lire,’ l. 15 and l. 19; ‘adrescer,’ l. 20). Following the reading, the audience is animated and eager to voice their opinions (l. 23). The flurry of activity surrounding the book event originates with the codex. It is the ‘translation’ of the codex, both in terms of its movement across territories and its oral decoding, that triggers all action, including the presumed silence that falls over the court when Deschamps hands over the book. The meditative spell cast by the bound book is broken by the count, who requests a reading – ‘Lire le fist’ – a command reiterated a few lines later. Serving as the bibliophile’s ‘open sesame,’ the count’s call ostensibly leads to the breaking of the seal and the public display of the book’s hidden treasures. In the third stanza, Deschamps now draws the audience’s attention to the physical page from which he reads. The actual page selected by Deschamps was arguably a concrete example of the artistic treasures for which the medieval book was so coveted. For the codicological evidence in extant copies of the Voir dit insists on the material worth and the artistic value consistently assigned to the Fortune passage. There are a total of four copies of the Voir dit and two additional copies of the excerpted Fortune passage.17 While at least four distinct manuscript families can be discerned in these extant copies, all six copies share a heavy dependence on paratextual material – including rubrics and illustration – to organize the passage. Each copy introduces the section with a visual reproduction of Fortune’s portrait as described by Guillaume. MSS A and Pm include the original Latin text inscribed on the wheels, while MS E translates the citations into the vernacular (although in such cramped script that it is nearly illegible). Each manuscript includes an opening rubric identifying the illustration in relation to its original source. For example, in MS A, we read, ‘Comment Titus livius descript lymage de fortune’ (This is how Titus Livy describes the image of Fortune) (fol. 297r).18 This opening image remains a locus of attention throughout the remainder of the passage, where inserted rubrics repeatedly interrupt the narrative to recall the

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relevant wheel in the image. In contrast, in the text itself, Guillaume never openly states that his commentary is a series of glosses linked to the individual maxims, nor does he repeat the maxims at the outset of each commentary.19 These inserted rubrics, therefore, organize a text, which might otherwise appear as a rambling commentary, by subdividing it into five sixteen-line passages that correspond to each of the maxims etched on Fortune’s wheels.20 Like the ‘et y a chant’ rubrics in MSS A and F–G that guided readers to seek out the relevant scores in the music section of each manuscript, the Fortune rubrics indicate the relevant cercle or article by inserting textual locators, such as ‘Response au secont cercle’ (MS F, fol. 193r) or ‘Respons au quart article’ (MS A, fol. 299r). The added rubrics in various copies systematically instruct the reader to refer back to the actual image conveniently reproduced at the head of the passage. Anticipating a meditative reading of the mnemonic illustration, these rubrics could have also been intended as memory triggers used to activate individuals’ internalized image of Fortune. The earliest copy of the Voir dit in MS A emphasizes the importance of the Fortune image through its mise en page. As already noted the Fortune passage is unique in MS A because of its elaborate opening miniature with the Latin etched on each wheel.21 Additionally the Fortune passage in MS A proves distinctive because of the generous use of marginalia in an otherwise uncluttered codex. The margins of this page in MS A are pregnant with meaning (Figure 15: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 297r). At the top of the page, the oversized ears of a grotesque figure lodged between two dragons is a common image that alludes to the value of ‘hearing’ or studying the message detailed below. The bas de page image of a bird recalls the common metaphor associated with Plato that knowledge, like birds, is worthy of capturing and caging.22 Not satisfied with just the marginalia and the fixed frame of the image to set off the illustration, the artist introduces an intervening spray border. Finally, two diagonally opposed notae marks designate the limits of the picture frame. To achieve this layout, the workshop was required to leave empty a few lines at the beginning of the bottom right column to assure that the final nota falls at the bottom of the page. Together these notae introduce a final interpretive frame for reading the image by signalling two proverbs that now set off the image. The two aphorisms in question are: ‘Mais pas ne m’a tenu couvent,/Car sa couvenance est tout vent’ (But she did not keep her word because her promises are full of wind) (ll. 8177–78) and ‘car c’est chose assez veritable/Que trop est fame variable’ (For it is true enough that woman is fickle) (ll. 8197–8). Wrapping the image in misogynistic

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sayings, these highlighted verses guide viewers in their interpretation of the image and the subsequent text. The specialized layout and the quality of its presentation in MS A, as well as the careful although less ambitious renderings in other copies, support Deschamps’s decision to favour this passage. The extant copies underscore the need for an intimate encounter to appreciate fully the Fortune passage. By choosing this text-bound section to perform, Deschamps calls attention to his own privileged position vis-à-vis the text. For it is Deschamps as reader who has the power to appropriate, reinvent, and interpret the master’s work so as to express his own message and to bolster his own authority. The value of both the textual and visual additions to the Fortune passage in the extant copies of Machaut’s corpus should not be underestimated. As Mary Carruthers states, ‘[m]arginal notations, glosses, and images are an integral part of the “painture” of literature, addressing the ocular gateway to memory and meditation.’23 Yet the emphasis placed on the visual would appear to sit uncomfortably with the performance venue that Deschamps evokes in B127. Through this discomfort, Deschamps combines the two seemingly different delivery strategies to create a new model of the public reading event. Both Machaut and Deschamps present the reading event – whether public or private – as an active engagement with the codex and both accounts incite the audience to reflect on the role of books as storehouses of truth. Machaut uses this distinction to explore the possibility of private meditation on the written word as giving rise to the profound understanding of a text. Deschamps, in turn, will transform the court performance into a meditative event by placing the awe-inspiring material object at the centre of public activity. For both the lector and his listening audience, the challenge of accessing this passage through an oral performance should be apparent. Either the Bruges listeners would have needed to be well-practised in mnemonic techniques so as to be able to generate and then retain the image described by Guillaume, or Deschamps might have needed to compensate for Guillaume’s heavy dependence on the visual apparatus when performing the passage. For example, it is possible that Deschamps would have interrupted Guillaume’s commentary to reiterate the relevant maxims recorded on the wheels. He might have even pantomimed the description of Lady Fortune and her wheels. Yet, given that Deschamps had just presented a copy of Machaut’s works to the count, that his

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ballade centres on the importance of the book, and that the codicological history of the Voir dit reveals a tradition of decorating this passage buried deep within the text with an elaborate and therefore expensive miniature, is it not more likely that Deschamps used the public performance to display the codex? Within the context of a public reading, Deschamps could have easily presented the page to the audience while reading or could have invited his listeners to examine the parchment before or after his performance. Yet another possibility is that Deschamps kept the book for himself, thereby forcefully demarcating the difference between himself as a professional reader and his listening audience who could never access fully the text through an exclusively oral delivery. Whether or not he offered his audience brief access to the physical page, Deschamps was unquestionably involved in an elaborate seduction of the audience that echoes the strategies exhibited in the suggestive decoration of the F–G copy. For, in fact, his decision to read a passage so dependent on a visual apparatus denied to the listener is an enactment of reading as a striptease both seductively detailed in Machaut’s work, where readers are encouraged to explore the entire manuscript for its secrets, and elaborated upon in the miniature cycle of MS F, where illustrations fixate on bedded lovers and exposed letters.24 Deschamps’s entire performance centres on what the audience can only imagine or, at best, glimpse fleetingly.25 Even if he offered up the pages to display their contents to his listeners, he would have limited their ability to cast a lingering, voyeuristic gaze on the secrets contained within the binding. For the audience would be subject to the exposure he allowed, as if participating in a peep show. We should not ignore the erudite game in which Deschamps participates. Deschamps’s emphasis in Ballade 127 on the sealed text that is performed for the public echoes Guillaume’s own fascination not only with the illustrated copy of Livy but with the series of interlocking readings that it records. For Guillaume specifies that Livy’s comments are based on his first reading of Fulgentius who, in turn, was expounding on Roman temples dedicated to Fortune (ll. 8185–6). Deschamps, then, reenacts the procedure that secured Guillaume’s return to his role as a learned author in the Voir dit by superimposing his own reading experience onto Machaut’s account of his oral reading. Deschamps then frames his oral reading with reference to the responsibility of his listeners to continue expounding on the text or more specifically, the reading event. The audience’s general praise registered in his ballade anticipates this

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continuation. Thus Deschamps calls attention to Machaut’s reflections on the private reading experience but only to reveal that delivery itself can become the subject of literature and subject to readers’ desires. Yet Deschamps’s greatest coup during this extraordinary reading event concerns the posture he adopts as the new master of the maestro’s book. Through his elaborate performance, Deschamps creates a new fiction that casts Machaut in a novel role. Even though Deschamps appears to strengthen the master’s authority by inviting the audience to consider the complexity of meaning and structure in Machaut’s work in B127, he presents himself as having already mastered that material. Having selected a model of an intimate and studious reading experience, Deschamps literally draws his listeners ever closer to the material artefact, beckoning them to examine the page, to meditate on the architectonics of the many layered reading experience that moves from Livy to Guillaume to end with Deschamps. Confronting the very category of readers that frustrated Guillaume, that is, lords and their courts, Deschamps emerges as the masterful reader who is capable of taking the book in hand, distinguishing himself through his reading from the crowd of listeners, and mastering the words, images, and posture of an auctor. Having assumed the master’s position as the mastermind of the book event and of poetic creation through the composition of the present ballade, Deschamps now identifies Machaut as the distant, powerless reader. Machaut’s Voir dit is the perfect subject for this type of engaged and aggressive reading because it is a work that is so dependent on readers’ attentive examination of its material existence to express meaning. To divorce the Voir dit from its material essence was not only impossible but counterintuitive. After all, it is in large part the story of writing a book and constructing a codex. Faced with the challenge of reading out loud a work anchored in its material presentation, Deschamps chose to call attention to the artefact. But in beckoning the audience ever closer to the written word, Deschamps draws Machaut’s audience to himself. Stepping beyond his prescribed role as an interim reader who serves the author-figure, the poet of B127 takes hold of the book, picks and chooses passages, recontextualizes and reinvents, and ultimately makes the work his own. Deschamps benefits from an eyewitness account of a public performance to document the transformation of himself as reader into a bona fide author who composes the account we read. In the process, he testifies to the power of reading to reshape and redefine not only texts but also audience. Beginning as a reader of Machaut’s corpus, Deschamps

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becomes the master of the text, the source of its meaning, and the author of new works. Fellow poets responded in kind to Deschamps’s textual self-construction as Machaut’s obvious successor and as an accomplished poet in his own right. Scholars believe that at least one ballade in Deschamps’s corpus was actually written by another poet in praise of Deschamps. This anonymous writer explicitly transfers the coveted titles of faiseur and poete first conferred on Machaut to Deschamps: Puis que la mort fist Machaut departir Et que Vitry paia de mort la debte Ne fut veu tel com vous, sanz mentir, Si grant faiseur ne si noble poete. (B872, 5:53, ll. 5–8)26 [‘Since death caused Machaut to leave and Vitry paid his debt to death, there has been no one like you, without lying, such a great writer and so noble a poet.]

In a similar vein, Christine de Pizan identifies Deschamps as ‘trés expert’ (specialist) (l. 1) ‘trés notable orateur de maint vers notable’ (renowned poet of many worthy verses) (ll. 3–4), and ‘maistre’ in her ‘Epistre a Eustace Mourel.’ For all of Deschamps protestations of inferiority, he cultivated and promoted his own cult of admiring readers. Deschamps reserves the aggressive reading strategies he applies to Machaut’s corpus for himself. Indeed, just as Machaut’s text serves Deschamps’s purpose, so too his own audience is called upon to fulfil a similar role. In the first example cited above of a reader’s praise for Deschamps, the testimony was subsumed into Deschamps’s corpus, where the anonymous poet’s voice served as an approving echo of Deschamps’s own claims of authority in the only extant copy of his collected works (BnF, MS fr. 840). In the next chapter, we will consider Deschamps’s contemporary, Jean Froissart. Like Deschamps, Froissart hinges his own authorial identity on Machaut’s Voir dit. But rather than appropriate for himself the master’s authority as does Deschamps, Froissart challenges Machaut’s cynical and oppressive portrait of the lay reader. Where Guillaume sought to control his audience, Flos in the Prison amoureuse exhorts his readers to engage with his texts, challenge his views, and even rewrite his works. Only in this manner, according to Froissart, can the literary text come into being.

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7 ‘Nouveleté gaires ne gist’: Jean Froissart’s Reinvention of the Author–Reader Relationship

In the previous chapter, we examined Deschamps’s use of Machaut’s corpus and especially the Voir dit to explore the reading act as an authorizing venture. We now turn to another of Machaut’s contemporaries, Jean Froissart, whose professional writing career began in the final decade of Machaut’s life.1 As we have seen in the course of this study, Machaut’s reputation was already secure in the 1360s when he ostensibly undertook the composition of the Voir dit. So admired was Machaut that Deschamps staked his career on the master’s fame and in England, Geoffrey Chaucer formed his poetic identity through generous literary borrowings from the same corpus.2 Scholars consider Jean Froissart to be no different. Scholars flag the Voir dit as having exerted particular influence on Froissart’s Prison amoureuse. Of Froissart’s fictional writings, this text has attracted the greatest amount of attention. It has been singled out for its creative engagement with the Voir dit.3 Yet scholarship on Froissart has failed to see the extent to which the poet disagreed profoundly with his predecessor. In the Prison amoureuse, Froissart adopted a poetic structure similar to that of the Voir dit. Intermingling poetry and prose, the text records a twofold storyline that intertwines the account of the poet’s failed romance with the story of a literary collaboration. Froissart’s imitation of Machaut’s magnum opus, however, thinly veils his critique of the master’s epistemological and hermeneutical presuppositions concerning literary production. No scholar has been more vocal in pointing out the creative liberties that Froissart took with Machaut’s text than Laurence de Looze. In his comparative study of the Prison amoureuse and the Voir dit, de Looze shows how Froissart’s unique interpretation of readers’ role in literary creation distinguishes him from his predecessor.

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For Froissart, writes de Looze, literary creation ‘comprises ... the complete cycle of composition and interpretation, the two functions being deeply intertwined and presented as corresponding parts of a creative whole.’4 In his reflections on the role of readers in the two texts, de Looze unwittingly reveals the degree to which Froissart disagreed profoundly with the pre-eminent figure of courtly poetry. In spite of his innovative account of a poet and his lady collaborating to produce a single text, Machaut was relentless in depicting his literary double as the exclusive author of the ensuing book, and he identified his own writing process as the key moment of poetic creation. Froissart, on the other hand, rewrites Machaut’s text to make room for his readers. With this in mind, I would like to pursue de Looze’s argument for Froissart’s unique vision of literature as the product of an author–reader collaboration. I contend that rather than view the end product of the writing process as a ‘creative whole’ or as a material object that conjoins the author’s text and the readers’ responses, Froissart presents literary creation as intangible and fluid. Froissart rejects the stability of the written word promoted by Guillaume. Instead he conceives of the book as simultaneously the residue and the impetus of a vibrant and vital exchange between authors and readers. In essence Froissart offers an early example of the ‘open work’ that Umberto Eco has celebrated, and the Prison amoureuse finds its best articulation in Eco’s claim that ‘every reception of a work of art is both an interpretation and a performance of it, because in every reception the work takes on a fresh perspective for itself.’5 An overview of the Prison amoureuse is in order to appreciate Froissart’s directness in challenging the recognized poetic master. Froissart’s text opens in a spirit similar to the Voir dit in that the poet finds inspiration in a lady of the court. Reverting to more conventional dynamics then exhibited in Machaut’s tale, Froissart has the poet contact the lady to offer a virelay in her honour. This virelay episode quickly unwinds when the lady publicly rejects his advances through the vehicle of her own poetry. In the first 570 lines, the love story becomes an account of the narrator’s failed attempts at romance; and, in this respect, Froissart echoes Deschamps’s efforts to disassociate the persona of the lover from the poet. In re-enacting a poetic exchange between a poet and his lady, Froissart also rapidly introduces Machaut’s model of author and reader relations presented at the outset of the Voir dit, but only to reject it in the first quarter of the narrative. For unlike Toute-Belle, Froissart’s lady mockingly responds to the poet’s text, and he finds himself incapable (or unwilling) of composing poetry after her public rejection. Following

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closely on the heels of the lady’s rejection of his advances, the poet, however, receives word from a new reader. The second plot of the Prison amoureuse details the poet’s flourishing epistolary friendship with a princely figure known as Rose. The narrator, as yet unnamed, adopts at this point his pseudonym Flos and engages in a lengthy correspondence with Rose. Flos’s failures in love temporarily fall to the wayside as the friendship between the two men grows. The poet’s lady reappears in a vivid scene in which her entourage steals parts of the two men’s correspondence. Following this playful excursus on the dissemination of poetry, Rose requests that Flos write a new story that will recount the trials and tribulations of a fictional couple. This new myth, in turn, influences Rose’s dreams. Rose writes down an account of his dream and requests that the poet explain its significance. The poet’s subsequent exposition attracts the attention of Rose’s lady, who requests further additions to the text. Through their written exchange about the myth, Rose and, eventually, Rose’s lady assume a truly collaborative role with Flos in the creation, ordering, and glossing of the book we read. Beyond influencing the composition, their reception of the work becomes part of the overarching text and Flos progressively adjusts the narrative to speak to their concerns. As their correspondence swells to accommodate these various factors, both Rose and Flos handle the exchange as an everexpanding product. When transporting their correspondence, they wrap their writings in fine fabrics or place them in chests or boxes, thereby insinuating that their epistolary discussion is already a book in the making. Froissart’s octosyllabic verse narrative is bolstered by the lyric writings, letters, and mythography composed and glossed by Flos’s lady, Rose, and Rose’s lady. Through these compositions, we witness the literary text in the making, from inspiration to composition, dissemination, glossing, and, in some cases, last-minute alterations that incorporate readers’ contributions, complaints, or suggestions. The issue of the vernacular writer’s relationship with his lay audience pervades the double plot of the Prison amoureuse, where an ever more complex concatenation of reading events binds the two seemingly disparate storylines. Initially the storylines appear to cancel one another out. After all, Rose contacts the poet because of the latter’s established reputation as master of both love and poetry in spite of the fact that the poet acknowledges his failure in both ventures at the outset of the narrative. The two plots coalesce, however, around the question of readers’ involvement with the poet’s various compositions. As the story progresses, the narrator details his

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growing audiences’ interaction with texts of greater complexity. In this respect, the Prison amoureuse imitates the Voir dit by inviting its readers to contemplate the written love narrative rather than the love story itself. But it goes a step further in treating with particular attention the process of reading rather than that of writing. Three major textual events in the Prison amoureuse plot the narrator’s growing awareness of the importance of readers in the literary process. These episodes are referred to here as the virelay episode (i.e., the poet’s brief lyric exchange with his lady), the purloined letters episode (i.e., the theft of his correspondence with Rose by his lady’s entourage), and the account of poetic collaboration (i.e., between Flos, Rose, and Rose’s lady). These episodes are insightful in the way they reveal Flos’s reconciliation with his public as he abandons Guillaume’s doomsday portrayal of his controlling and overzealous audience to adopt a more welcoming view of readers. With each event, we witness a transformation in Flos’s approach to his audience, as he becomes increasingly open to readers’ involvement in the literary process. We observe this process as his corpus grows out of his discussions with readers. He accommodates so many layers of glossing that eventually his story no longer resides in the written object but in the subsequent reader responses it hopes to generate. In this respect, the written word so carefully controlled by Guillaume in the Voir dit is replaced with a more versatile but no less material artefact in the Prison amoureuse. The Prison differs most strikingly from its model in this final portrayal of the material artefact as the result of an active and lively collaboration between authors and readers. Without readers, according to Froissart, texts cannot be.

Facing the Reader: The Virelay Episode and the Poet’s Reception The prologue to the Prison amoureuse owes a great debt to the Prologue to Machaut’s collected works.6 Like his predecessor, Froissart recycles a feudal vocabulary to define the poet’s service to the God of Love. As God informs Moses that he is to love and fear his lord, so Froissart’s love poet must promise ‘seüreté, foi et hommage’ to the God of Love (constancy, fidelity and homage) (l. 26).7 Echoing Machaut, Froissart designates the love poet as responsible for promoting his allegorical master in verse. These verses are to entertain lovers and remind them of their own duties to Love. But whereas Machaut emphasized the joyous benefits for the poet who will never be sad again but, rather, always happy (‘Ne plus n’arai riens triste n’oscurci, / Mais lie et gay me vourrai demener,’

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ll. 105–6), Froissart muses over the lover’s fate shared with heroes on the battlefield. Froissart’s love poet must be ready to adopt the posture of the most valiant soldiers of past battles and to express the same conviction of the illustrious lovers of past romances. Through lengthy reflection on the sacrifices and exploits of past heroes, Froissart’s poet concludes he must risk all as the God of Love’s porte-parole. For to be successful in promoting the God of Love, the poet must disclose his own love interests: Et Amours, qui tout scet et voit Et qui souvent les siens pourvoit De consel et de congnissance, Quant il usent d’obeïssance, Me pourvera, je l’en require, De tout ce qui me fet mestier, De sens et de discretion, A fin qu’en recreation Entre les amoureuses gens Soit chils dittiers tenus a gens, Fes et dittés par tel langage Que la belle, plaisans et sage, Ma dame, que tant ains et pris, Pour quele amour je l’ai empris, En bon gré recevoit le voelle. (ll. 247–61) [That Love, who knows and sees all things, and who often rewards his followers with counsel and knowledge when they are obedient, reward me, this I ask of him, with everything I need for my profession, that is, feeling and discretion so that during pleasant moments among lovers, these poems will be told and discussed in such a language that my beautiful, pleasant, and wise lady, whom I love and prize so much and for whom I have undertaken this work, will willingly accord my wish.]

Thus, by composing poetry, Froissart’s writer celebrates his mythical lord and encourages couples to follow suit. He also courageously proclaims his own sentiments in the public realm, thereby risking his (love) life. For if his lady hears his lament, he officially enters the battlefield of love, where she can either welcome his declaration and fall sway to his words, as the poet hopes, or as we shall see, she can reject his advances and worse, engage in a public battle that challenges the poet’s status as a lover and composer.

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Machaut never afforded so much power to his audience. In his Prologue, Machaut implied that the poet’s obligations were fulfilled once an amorous text was composed in good faith: Et quant Nature me commande Et li dieux d’Amours, que j’entende Aus choses dessus proposes Seur l’onneur des dames fondees, Bien est raison que je m’aplique A faire leur bon plaisir Je n’i mesprengne ne mefface. Or pri a Dieu qu’il me doint grace De faire chose qui bien plaise Aus dames; car par Saint Nichaise A mon pooir quanque diray A l’onneur d’elles le feray. (ll. 283–94) [And when Nature orders me, and the God of Love also, to listen to those things proposed above concerning the love of ladies, there is good reason for me to apply myself to do what they desire and that I don’t mess it up or fail. So I pray to God that he give me the grace to write works that would please the ladies; for, by Saint Nicaise, I will say and do everything in my power in their honour.]

Contradicting these claims, Froissart presents poetry as only a catalyst for the main event. That is, the success or failure of the work depends on its ability to attract public interest: S’il est qui fait, il est qui dist. Nouveleté gaires ne gist Ne ne sejourne ne repose: Elle est tele que par tout s’ose Hardiement mettre ou embatre Pour gens couroucier ou esbatre, Car elle a tant de signourie, – En ce point l’avons nous nourie – Que joie ou courous renouvelle Quant elle vient as gens nouvelle. (ll. 327–36) [Saying is doing, it is said. New things [here, new writings] do not remain stagnant nor do they sit around or rest. They are such that they are every-

176 Inventive Readers and the Struggle for Control where at once, intruding either to rile or delight people since they have such power – on this point we know much – that they can ignite joy or anger when they come before new people.]

By emphasizing the importance of a work’s circulation and reception, Froissart challenges Machaut’s presentation of the writing process as an endeavour uniquely associated with the poet’s final transcription of the text. In Machaut’s Prologue, the poet’s sentiments universalize the love experience and communicate transparent truths: Ti fait seront plus qu’autres renommé, Qu’il n’y ara riens qui face a blamer, Et si seront de toutes genz amé, Soutis, loyaus, jolis, et sanz amer. (ll. 19–22) [Your works more than all others will be celebrated because there will be nothing in them to criticize, and they will be loved by everyone as subtle, courtly, pretty, and without bitterness.]

In contrast, Froissart insists on the fluidity of texts and their ability to trigger diverse reactions – whether ‘joie ou courous.’ These framing remarks lay the foundation for the narrator’s account of circulating his first virelay ‘Petitement remeri.’ Rather than send the poem directly to his lady, the narrator opts to secure its oral circulation at court with the hopes that it will eventually arrive at its intended destination. He quickly learns that his poem was received by its intended recipient and, moreover, that she took pleasure in its recitation: A ma dame vint li recors Dou virelay que je recors. Bien li pleut, si le volt avoir, Ce dist, pour aprendre et savoir. Elle l’aprist et le chanta. Tout ce forment me contenta. (ll. 337–42) [A copy of the virelay that I wrote came before my lady. It pleased her greatly and she wanted to have a copy, it was said, to learn and study. She learned and sang it. All of this greatly pleased me.]

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The narrator’s closing reference to his own pleasure brings the writing experience to completion. For the lady’s actions fulfil the wish expressed earlier in the final stanza of the virelay: Et s’a che le puis atraire Que ma priiere puist plaire, Je serai contens. (ll. 317–19) [And if to this (poem) I can attract her attention and if my prayer might please her, I will be happy.]

In this preliminary account of the composition and circulation of the narrator’s poem, the poetic process appears textbook perfect: the narrator’s work circulated far and wide, ultimately arriving before its intended recipient, who warmly received it. It becomes rapidly apparent, however, that the poet’s initial account registers a naive interpretation of events. The self-satisfaction expressed in the poet’s use of the past tense, in his terse account of the lady’s actions, and in his pronouncement of his own pleasure gives the false appearance of finality to the episode. In spite of his claims that good poetry remains in constant circulation (l. 328), he presumes that once his virelay reached his lady, the poem had fulfilled its use. The poet discovers, however, that his poem continued to circulate and even to generate more complex responses than suggested by his lady’s initial reaction. Some time later, while participating in a round of carolling at court, the narrator witnesses a new performance of his virelay by a damoiselle. The court happily listens to the song (l. 420). But no sooner does the young singer fall silent than the poet’s lady proposes a rejoinder. Her virelay turns out to be a cruel subversion of the narrator’s song. While expressing her appreciation of his work, the lady specifies that her joy derives not from the poet’s love declaration but from his suffering: Je ne sui onques si lie Ne de coer si envoisie Que quant je voi fort penser Celi qui d’amer me prie, Car toute merancolie Li affiert bien a porter. (ll. 429–34, refrain)

178 Inventive Readers and the Struggle for Control [I am never as happy nor so gay of heart as when I see in deep thought he who begs me for love because all forms of melancholy are good for him to endure.]

The remainder of her poem mockingly accuses him of enjoying his melancholic state and tauntingly announces further rejection of his pleas so that he will continue to write (ll. 435–60). Like Guillaume in the Voir dit, who runs from court after being publicly mocked by his patron for his naive writings, the narrator, left speechless by the lady’s aggressiveness, runs away. Echoing Guillaume’s frequent threats of death and vengeance, Flos wallows in self-pity, dreams of revenge, and considers abandoning poetry for a more transparent discourse that his lady would not be able to manipulate (ll. 476–547). But where Guillaume lamented that the circulation of his work resulted in it becoming the ‘common property’ of the most unworthy segments of society who were ill-equipped to discern the subtlety, beauty, and truth of his works, Flos rages over his lady’s skilled unravelling of his composition and her astute undermining of his wishes. He threatens to respond with a new song so base – ‘si entendable et si commun’ – that its message cannot be manipulated or ignored: Mais je jur, se jamés me cante Ou je fai virelay nouvel, Soit par courous ou par revel, J’en ferai et chanterai un Si entendable et si commun Qu’elle pora bien percevoir Si c’est a faute ou s’est a voir Que merencolie me touce. (ll. 526–33) [But I swear, if ever again I sing or compose a new virelay whether in anger or joy, I will write and sing one that is so plain and common that she will easily be able to understand if it is a lie or if it is true that melancholy afflicts me.]

If successful in composing such a transparent work, the poet would attain a victory similar to that achieved by Guillaume, who used enigmas and anagrams to ward off meddling readers. Whereas Guillaume’s readers would lack the tools to undermine his text, Flos’s readers would find no material worthy of their weapons.

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Flos quickly abandons his threat, however, and reasons that he should take delight in his lady’s evident pleasure in composing a response. After all, as he acknowledged earlier, a good poem elicits a diversity of reactions. Nonetheless, Flos soothes his damaged ego by distancing himself from her response. He reasons that many songs were performed at the gathering and, possibly, her virelay was a response to someone else (ll. 557–61). Indeed, the song performed by the young woman is never revealed at court to be the narrator’s work. In the end, not only does Flos run from court, he runs from his reader, ultimately refusing to acknowledge her response as a viable continuation of the dialogue he claimed to seek. Having implicitly threatened that he would write no more (l. 526, op. cit.), he concludes that given that her poem may not have been addressed to him, there is little reason for debate: ‘Pour ce me voel taire tous quois’(For this reason, I want to keep completely silent) (l. 564) and ‘Ne li voel noiier ne debatre’ (I don’t want to deny it or debate it) (l. 570). In both Guillaume’s and now Flos’s case, inadequate public response spurs each poet to threaten to cease writing. Guillaume, however, quickly retracted his threat and favoured instead a more enigmatic style, but Flos abandons love poetry altogether. Although he remains at court another five or six months (l. 580), Flos shares no new works with the court and he favours jousting tournaments over poetry as a venue for proving his love (ll. 594–601). This first encounter with his audience results in a stunning defeat for Flos. His account registers his own failure to come to terms with the authority he attributed to readers at the outset of his dit. Suffering from the emasculating gaze of his audience, Flos faces a series of unsettling questions: Can a poet control his text? Dictate interpretation? Ignore his audience’s responses and still continue to function as a writer? These questions resonate with concerns expressed by Guillaume in the Voir dit. But in his response to Machaut, Froissart foregrounds the incredible power wielded by readers, overshadowed only by that of the work itself – ‘car elle a tant de seigneurie’ (l. 333). In this first incident, however, it is the lady’s lyric response that serves as the final word. Her wholesale rejection of his protests supersedes his initial gesture. In this respect, Flos’s decision to lay down the pen is hardly his choice. His intended reader rejects his work, usurps his voice, and publicly mocks his status as both lover and poet. It is not until another more understanding, more discreet, and more appreciative reader contacts the poet that he dares resume writing.

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The Text Makes the Man: The Purloined Letter Episode and the Question of Authenticity For several months following the virelay episode, Flos seemingly abandons love poetry and opts to express his amorous devotion through jousts and other court activities until an anonymous prince who assumes the pseudonym of Rose pulls him back into the poetic world.8 The prince contacts him in search of advice both in love and in poetry. Rose’s first letter details the circumstances that have caused him great suffering and an adjoining ballade develops the pain he has endured because of his unrequited (because still yet unknown) love. After rereading the letter several times, the poet composes a response in which he advises the prince to approach the lady. The poet also addresses the burgeoning relationship between the two men. First, he satisfies Rose’s request that he adopt a pseudonym by naming himself Flos. Second, he sends the prince a ballade that develops his own suffering in love. Hence for the first time in the narrative, the poet is assigned a name, albeit a pseudonym, and he returns to poetry with a renewed sense that he writes to serve others (‘je di / [Il le tesmongna puissedi] / Que ceste balade servoit / A tout ce qu’amours li pourvoit’ [I would say (and he will experience it soon) that this ballade corresponded to everything that love caused him to feel] [ll. 761–4]). The choice of the general term ‘flos’ rather than a specific floral species speaks to the new voice the poet adopts. He uses his personal experience to express the thoughts and sentiments of his readers rather than separate himself from them. Thanks to this new friendship, the poet is reborn. With renewed purpose and confidence in his capacities as both a poet and a lover thanks to Rose, Flos braves another meeting with his lady. His self-assurance is directly linked to his correspondence with Rose. In fact, so precious are Rose’s letters to Flos’s self-esteem that he carries them at all times in a purse tied at his waist (ll. 802–7, ll. 1081– 5). Having ostensibly avoided his lady for months following the virelay incident, Flos takes a detour on a solitary outing to seek her out when he learns she is enjoying some fresh air with her entourage in a nearby garden. The ladies warmly welcome him and express immediate interest and curiosity in the contents of his bulging purse. The young women quickly conspire to steal its contents. While one distracts the poet, another stealthily empties the sack of its contents. Once Flos realizes the theft, he attempts to recover the writings, but the young women run about, hiding the letters in their bodices, passing them off

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to one another, and ultimately entering into a mêlée with the poet who is boutés et saciés Et detirés et embraciés Par jambes, par corps et par bras, Sans noient espargnier mes draps (ll. 1133–6) [ ... pushed and pulled and shoved and grabbed by arms and legs and bodies with no care for (his) clothing.]

The struggle ends when the lady intervenes and agrees to return the poet’s ‘secres’ (l. 1147) in exchange for a ransom of a new song (ll. 1151–2). When Flos agrees to pay the ransom, the young women liberate him and hand the contents of the purse to Flos’s lady. Before returning the letters to their rightful owner, the lady cannot resist opening them and, to her surprise, she discovers two poems – ‘Vechi virelay et balade!’ (Here’s a virelay and a ballade) (l. 1164). The lady declares that these two works, which unbeknownst to her are written by Rose, shall serve as ransom. Flos agrees and the lady, serving as a ‘parçonniere’ (l. 1171), physically severs the poems from the letters with a diamond ring. The letters are returned to Flos; the poems are handed to the ladies, who proceed to copy and memorize them for future performances. The explicit allusions to Flos’s manhood in the purloined letter episode are striking. Besides the suggestive location of the texts in a pouch hanging from the poet’s waist, Flos himself literally assumes the status of the letters and his body experiences the unbridled desire of the ladies. Even before the letters are cut away from the poems, the poet’s own body is pushed and shaken, and his clothes grabbed and torn before finally having the contents of the pouch taken from him. De Looze interprets this sexually charged scene as a literary rape and castration.9 Yet de Looze’s study fails to take into account several factors. First, the writings in question are not Flos’s letters but Rose’s; therefore, they cannot represent the poet’s own ‘literary seed’ but rather the seed that filled him and inspired his own creative production (cf. de Looze, 120). Second, de Looze’s analysis ignores Flos’s description of events as both gratifying and inspirational instead of as a scene of humiliation and violence. Unlike his earlier encounter with his lady when he ran from the celebrations out of shame and suffering, the struggle for his purse leaves Flos in good spirits:

182 Inventive Readers and the Struggle for Control et je Esleeciés en coer de ce Que j’avoie a tres bon loisir Ceste, qui est tout mon plaisir, Veü et avoec li esté Et joliement aresté En solas et en esbanoi Onques depuis si bon tamps n’oi. (ll. 1201–8) [... and I was light of heart because of the great pleasure of seeing and being with the woman who is all my joy and because of being so pleasantly delayed by such pleasing and entertaining events. Never have I had such a good time since.]

At struggle’s end, Flos relishes his lady’s involvement in the playful brawl. Furthermore the erotic nature of the event is apparent in the movement of the letters that pass from his waist pouch to the bodices of several women. As the women transgress decency by reaching into his bulging purse, so too Flos proposes to search for his letters hidden in the women’s bodices (ll. 1109–20). Rather than a rape, the purloined letters episode suggests a seductive play among readers that culminates not in the castration of the male, but in the proliferation of literary seed. Even the divvying up of the text by Flos’s new audience reads more as an equitable undertaking than as a violence exerted on the narrator. Once it is determined that the poems will be cut away to give to the women and the private correspondence returned to the poet, Flos’s lady assumes the role of the ‘parçonniere,’ whose job it becomes to separate the materials without damaging them – ‘sans grever la lettre’ (without damaging the letter) (ll. 1170–3). The term ‘parçonniere’ frames the undertaking as a courtly gesture, as the title identifies both a person ‘who shares’ and ‘a woman who is courted.’10 By playing on the double meaning of ‘parçonniere,’ Froissart blurs the relationship of lovers with that of the author and reader, thereby insisting as did Machaut on the erotic nature of the courtly reading experience. In each corpus, seduction entails the generous sharing of one’s treasures. Similarly the choice of tool used to sever the poems in the Prison amoureuse, the diamond ring on the lady’s hand, reinforces a notion of fairness. As one fourteenthcentury lapidary indicates, wearing a diamond rendered the owner ‘strong and powerful’ but conferred on her the responsibility to conquer ‘noise et dissension’ (rumour and dissension).11 The poet’s lady clearly fulfils

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this role when she intervenes to break up the struggle and then when she proposes a fair distribution of the material. In this manner, the poet retains the part of the correspondence dearest to him – Rose’s generous words for the poet – and the ladies are apportioned the poems in which the prince praises women in general. Thus, contrary to de Looze’s reading of events, rather than staging the poet’s emasculation, the purloined letter scene secures Flos’s status as a lover and even as a poet since the ladies ignore the truth about the authorship of the poems. Having undergone an earlier effeminacy orchestrated by his lady who overrode his poem, usurped his lyrical voice, and chased him from court, Flos returns before her only when he has accumulated physical proof of his status as a writer and lover. Flos returns to court with hard evidence provided by Rose’s letter in which the prince puffs up the narrator’s ego with assertions that he is the master of both love and poetry. With the proof of his literary manhood bulging from his strategically placed sack, Flos struts back into his lady’s midst. But it is worth reiterating that his evidence does not take the form of his own compositions but those of Rose. What allows Flos to reclaim authority is the evidence of another reader’s appreciation for his poetic works and his wisdom. At the same time, the decision to return the letters to the poet confers complete freedom on the ladies to interpret the poems as they wish. Unhampered by the context provided in Rose’s correspondence, the ladies remain ignorant on questions of authorship and intentionality. Furthermore, they are neither privy to the generous praises that Rose offers Flos nor to the extraordinary and flattering relationship that links the poet with a wealthy, talented, and worthy prince. Having freed the group from a controlled reading of the poetry dictated by the accompanying letters, Flos’s lady circumvents potential dissension that could result from the audience’s disagreement with the interpretations provided in Rose’s letters. Thus harmony comes at the expense of the text and of the poet’s control over that text. To satisfy all parties, context and content, as much as author and reader, must be severed. Even though the final outcome fails to re-establish the poet’s certain authority in his lady’s eyes, Flos nevertheless expresses pleasure and delight both in the physicality of the struggle and in the evident attention of his lady. Furthermore, the encounter inspires him to compose a new virelay ‘d’espoir plains’ in honour of his lady (l. 1214). The obvious benefits stemming from this incident are tempered, however, by Flos’ treatment of this new composition. Unlike either the initial virelay to his

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lady or Rose’s correspondence – both of which circulated with astonishing speed, Flos chooses to hide his new composition in a wooden chest: Le virelay mis a un les, A fin qu’il ne me fust emblés; Car tels prent tel cose alefois, Qui lairot bons viés gros tournois. Je le mis en une laiette Que j’avoie proprement fete De danemarce bien ounie. (ll. 1244–50) [I put the virelay to the side so that it wouldn’t be stolen from me. Because some people take such things on occasion when they would fetch a hefty price, I put it in a chest that I had made myself out of well shined Danish wood.]

He justifies his secrecy by referring to the obvious dangers of theft and his intention of holding on to the poem until he can safely communicate it to the intended recipient. Surprisingly the anticipated destinataire is not his lady, who is the subject of the poem, but Rose. Also striking is Flos’s sudden disinterest in the immediate circulation of his poetry. Instead he hopes to retain control of the work until an appropriate moment arises. According to Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet, this fascination with receptacles for written matter permeated late medieval writing culture. She views both the original purse and the subsequent wooden chest used to store texts in the Prison amoureuse as evidence that poetry had become a currency to be stockpiled for future dispersal.12 But to group a money pouch and all other containers used by Flos and eventually Rose ignores the attention Froissart gives to relocating poetry from a simple purse to increasingly elaborate and richly decorated vessels better associated with treasures.13 As witnessed in the theft of Flos’s money pouch, when poetry assumes the status of currency, its only value derives from its circulation and exchange. But these two activities also assure its depreciation. As money can lose its value over time, poetry can lose its significance when detached from both its context and meaning. The farther texts move from their creator, the less likely they are to fulfil the same role, to enjoy the same attention, and to be assigned the same worth. By transferring poetry to a chest, Flos literally removes his texts from circulation. He locks his poetry away, thereby implying a restriction of access to only

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privileged readers. In this manner, he transforms poetry into treasure as opposed to currency. Where currency must be dispersed, treasures must be gathered together, and it is through the accumulation of precious objects and their restricted access that they increase in value. By ending the purloined letter scene with the poet storing away his poetry in a locked chest, Froissart suggests a possible resolution to the struggle for control that pitted the poet against his intended reader in the virelay episode. In both the initial circulation of his virelay and in his lady’s subsequent response, the author lost control of his text and endured the violent appropriation of his words by his lady. When storing away his poetry with the intention of waiting for the right time and the right reader, Flos exerts greater authority over the circulation and even the interpretation of the text because he can arrange that content and context not be severed. This gesture should not be viewed as a rejection of his readers but as an initial stage of negotiation between author and reader. Both must enjoy the work and even contribute to it in some manner, but each must be in service to the text that exerts its seigneurie over all.

Poetic Collaboration: The Reader’s Contribution to Literary Creation This notion of collaboration defines the narrator’s future dealings with Rose, who replaces Flos’s lady as his intended reader. In the later correspondence, Flos and his new reader engage in a true dialogue that evolves into the text we read. The kernel of the Prison amoureuse is a treatise composed by Flos in response to Rose’s request for ‘un petit dittié amoureus, qui se traitast sus aucune nouvelle mater qu’on n’aroit onques veü ne oÿ’ (a small love poem that would treat some new material that has never been seen or heard) (letter V, l. 44, p. 82). This petit dittié lies at the very centre of the Prison amoureuse (ll. 1316–2002), but it stretches far beyond the present text when it is identified as a gloss on Ovid’s works (ll. 1295–98).14 Rose’s response to Flos’s work reveals not only his enthusiasm for the text itself, but also his appreciation for the notion that reading generates and requires written enhancement of previous texts. Thus as Flos’s text is said to expound on an earlier reading of Ovid, so Rose’s future response will gloss Flos’s text.15 Following his careful reading of the tale, Rose experiences a vivid allegorical dream in which he is taken prisoner and guarded by Atemprance. Identifying the dream as a response to the poet’s tale, Rose transcribes it

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and sends it to Flos. He requests that Flos respond in turn with an analysis of his dream that would clarify its relationship with the earlier text (‘sus mon songe mettre aucune exposition nouvelle,’ (provide a new reading of my dream) (Letter VIII, l. 24, p. 149). Finding the prince’s dream to be particularly rich in meaning, Flos proposes multiple potential interpretations and leaves it to Rose to choose the most appropriate (Letter IX). Both Rose and his lady delight in the rich and diverse responses proposed by the narrator, and in a follow-up letter, Rose requests that Flos produce a livret of the multilayered correspondence. Along with his letter, Rose sends an ivory chest in which everything the two have written thus far is enclosed (L. X, ll. 10–18, p. 163). When Flos later sends the book version of events, the couple again reads the work with great enthusiasm. Rose emphasizes in his next letter that his lady kept his copy for a long time and only returned it once she had a copy for herself. Her attentive reading of the work uncovers Flos’s failure to develop fully the parallels between the traitie and the dream. Rose communicates to the poet her desire for further expansion of this aspect of the work. Flos provides the exposition in his final letter along with an explanation of the title. He adds this final exchange to the chest containing the book and returns everything to the prince. This extended exchange between author and audience supplants earlier accounts of literary production in the Prison amoureuse and comes to define literature in terms of its readers. Literature is the product of an intense collaboration whose success is determined by its ability to sustain a productive dialogue with its audience. Yet such was also the case for Froissart’s early virelay, for his lady did respond to his work. The difference, of course, concerns the reader’s degree of aggressiveness and the author’s willingness to acknowledge the reader’s substantial control of meaning. The complete harmony defining Flos’s relationship with the prince and the prince’s lady is manifest in their willingness to let the author express their sentiments. Thus instead of the couple providing glosses to the poet’s text in the manner of Flos’s lady, they request that he develop their suspicions. This is not an example of the author controlling audience. On the contrary, the collaboration described in the text is symbolic of the harmony Froissart hopes to develop with his readers. To this effect, Flos stresses in his final letter that he and his immediate readers have neither exhausted the wealth of meaning nor has he produced a stagnant text resistant to enhancement. He insists on future possibilities for reader involvement: ‘je ne voel mies mes parolles si justefiier que on n’i puist bien oster et mettre, s’il besongne’ (I do not

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want to so defend my words that one feels unable to take away or add if it is necessary) (Letter XII, ll. 50–2, p. 171). In its final analysis, the material text is explicitly defined as a product of continued collaboration between authors and readers.16 Froissart identifies an accomplished text not as a work that communicates a single truth but one that initiates active and multiple readings. It is, in part, for this reason that Froissart so frequently adopts the term gloser to refer to readers’ responses to texts.17

The Material Artefact as a Site of Collaboration The power Froissart affords his readers in the Prison amoureuse reappears on the level of the extant manuscripts of his collected works, where the audience is afforded a crucial role at the outset. The only two extant copies known today are believed to have been produced during Froissart’s lifetime and possibly under his supervision (BnF, MSS fr. 830 and fr. 831).18 The second of the two manuscripts, MS fr. 831, combines opening rubric and illumination to emphasize the partnership formed between author and audience. Folio 1v opens with the claim that Jean Froissart ‘fais, dittés et ordonnés’ the collection ‘a le contemplation et plaisance de pluisours haus et nobles signours et de pluisours nobles et vaillans dames ...’ (‘composed, rhymed, and ordered [the collection] for the contemplation and pleasure of many high ranking and noble lords as well as many noble and worthy ladies). Clearly anticipating a diverse and unknown audience, Froissart is cited as calling for the ‘contemplation’ or a careful meditative reading of the codex that is reminiscent of monastic reading strategies. This opening description of the audience informs our understanding of the only miniature decorating MS 831. The accompanying frontispiece on folio 1v depicts a seated poet reading from a book to an audience of two women and a prince (Figure 27: BnF, MS fr. 831, fol. 1v). The image accurately portrays both the audience evoked in the opening rubric and the main characters of the Prison amoureuse, a work that is close to the epicentre of the codex (fols. 62– 101). Yet the image draws heavily on traditional scholastic portraits of the magister teaching his students. The audience, diminutive in size, stands below the seated poet, their very presence seemingly securing his status as an authoritative figure. At the same time, however, the miniature also incorporates numerous indications of audience involvement: the princely figure appears to hold in his hand a rolled up scroll, thereby suggesting intimate involvement in the writing of the text; the second woman, with her lips slightly parted, appears poised to speak, possibly

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signifying involvement in the meaning, if not the content, of the text; finally, the dog raised on his hind legs below the poet’s seat imparts to the entire scene a sense of movement that suggests an active dialogue between author and audience. In MS 831, the central narrative, opening rubrics, and frontispiece join to depict reading as a collaboration and communal activity. Affirming Eco’s description of open texts as those compositions that are recreated with every reader’s performance of the text, Froissart’s central narrative and the prefatory material to his collected works acknowledge that the life of a literary text depends on reader interaction. Unlike its precursor and model, the Prison amoureuse explores and accepts the complex dance that must transpire between author and audience for a text to come to fruition. The literary exchange between Flos and his diverse audience infuses the early statement that ‘Nouvelete gaires ne gist/ Ne ne sejourne ne repose’ with increasing significance. Not only does the record of Flos’s dealings with his audience testify to the quickness with which new compositions circulate, but it also reveals that new compositions undergo transformations in meaning and form as they move from author to audience. Indeed, this transformation must occur for literature to exist. Without readers’ involvement, without their willingness to study and then bolster the author’s text, poetry risks falling to the status of devalued currency. But if readers can view poetry as more than a form of entertainment and if they willingly initiate a material reading of the work that would respect the physical text, then poetry can be promoted to the status of a coveted and celebrated communal treasure. Both Machaut and Froissart were writing during a transitional period when the laity was redefining its relationship with books, and authors were increasingly aware of the need to speak to multiple readers distinguished by education, class, and region. The Voir dit suggests that by attempting to address a diverse audience that was also increasingly distanced from the author, a work’s integrity and its meaning could easily become fragmented, dispersed, and ultimately jeopardized. Machaut’s solution entails creating boundaries between readers and texts, controlling reader reception through textual strategies intended to frustrate the casual reader and cause the serious reader to meditate intensely on the text. Private reading becomes a salve for a potentially unruly audience, and Machaut imagines readers entering into an intimate pact which demands that they extend to vernacular literature the same loving attention equally afforded a scholastic work or a coveted

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love letter. Froissart responds differently to the expanding audience and the increasing demand for texts in late medieval France. He fantasizes about an informed audience, capable of mastering the skills of the professional reader and comfortable with applying those skills to courtly works that were typically viewed as simple sources of entertainment. Froissart chooses to express this revised vision of readers through a direct refashioning of Machaut’s Voir dit. Liberally drawing from Machaut’s storyline and his unique structure to create the Prison amoureuse, Froissart self-consciously referred back to the master to anchor his text within a larger literary debate. By questioning Machaut’s vision of author–reader relations, Froissart ultimately subverts the master text and rewrites it to communicate a new message. Material reading in Froissart’s fictional world is taken to its extreme when lords and ladies are incited to stitch their own words, desires, and dreams into the very fabric of written matter. Through this process, Froissart offers a new scenario in which controlling readers is neither about restricting audience involvement nor about authors succumbing to aggressive and disrespectful readers, but rather about negotiating the creation of literature with one’s audience. It is a process that Froissart undergoes when reinterpreting the Voir dit through the Prison amoureuse, and it is a model he vividly details through Flos’s literary adventures. In the next chapter, we examine an early fifteenth-century version of the Voir dit that has been falsely identified simply as a late copy of Machaut’s collected works. Pierpont Morgan, MS M 396 sheds light on the increasingly powerful role bookmakers assume in late medieval culture as simultaneously authors of codices and readers of texts. The Pm scribe, better identified as a remanieur, so dramatically reshapes Machaut’s oeuvre through abridgement, excerpting, and the wholesale rewriting of the text that he performs as an inventive reader who authors a distinctively new text.

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8 Reading and Salvation: The Case of Pierpont Morgan, MS M 396

The Pierpont Morgan Library houses the latest extant version of Machaut’s Voir dit. It dates from around 1425–30. It is an unlikely subject for close study. That it appears to be a direct copy of MS A holds little interest for modern scholars, ostensibly because the copy has so distorted the presentation of Machaut’s corpus that it neither fully resembles the original nor so radically breaks with it so as to emerge as a new artistic creation. Furthermore, MS Pm bares the telltale traits of a heavily cannibalized text. More than twenty folios are missing from the collection, some of which clearly appear to have never been included in the final version while others seem to have fallen prey to an iconophile at a later period.1 The edition is further marred by textual and material alterations, the abbreviation or elimination of numerous works from Machaut’s corpus, a hackneyed reproduction of the MS A pictorial program, and the inclusion of texts by other authors. Of little value to the editor, considered derivative by art historians, and too contaminated for the literary scholar, MS Pm exhibits all the traits of what Kate Harris terms a ‘bad text.’ But as Harris argues, contaminated copies that show ‘scars of transmission’ are worthy subjects of inquiry because of the insight they offer concerning reader reception.2 This argument holds true for MS Pm, where close analysis reveals an overarching methodology that helps explain many of the substantial alterations made to Machaut’s corpus. Given that MS Pm can be attributed to a single hand, that the codex closes with a personal explicit hinting at the scribe’s Christian intentions, and that there is consistency in regards to the types of alterations undertaken throughout the codex, the present study pursues the hypothesis that the Pm codex is the product of an engaged remanieur who did not produce a poor copy of MS A but appropriated and rewrote Machaut’s

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corpus to give form to his own ideas. The title of remanieur best evokes the triple roles of scribe, reader, and writer adopted by the author of this radically new rendition of Machaut’s corpus.3 By assuming this complex role, the Pm remanieur has more in common with Deschamps and Froissart than with the copiers considered in Part II. For even though MSS A, F–G, and E contain numerous characteristics that suggest bookmakers engaged in interpreting Machaut’s texts, those copies share a mutual respect for the master’s corpus. Interventions by the various hands and voices shaping those books typically introduced supporting materials intended to reinforce the stability of the corpus. In contrast, the Pm remanieur adopts an approach reminiscent of tactics employed by Deschamps and Froissart, who approached Machaut’s text as malleable material to be appropriated and revised for their benefit. In the present chapter, we consider a far more subversive inventive reader who literally infiltrated Machaut’s corpus to take possession of the master’s voice and to express an alternative reading of the issues that most preoccupied Machaut. Manifesting particular interest in the Voir dit, the remanieur dramatically reinvented the text through sweeping emendations that had the effect of transforming Machaut’s metanarrative into a decidedly didactic text. He reveals a particular interest in guiding his readers to adopt an appropriately respectful and submissive status before the text. The decision to erase all trace of the rebellious, superficial, and entertainment-oriented reading strategies presented in the Voir dit plays to this goal. When changes to overall layout and content are considered in conjunction with the abridgment of the Voir dit, this ‘bad text’ turns out to be self-consciously marked as the product of an engaged, ethical reader. For this reason, MS Pm proves unique in the reception history of the Voir dit.4 Before considering the methods used by the Pm remanieur to convert the practice of reading courtly poetry into a tool for his salvation and that of his subsequent readers, we must begin with a study of the social and literary context in which the manuscript was conceived. The following reflections necessarily remain hypothetical given that the codex offers little information regarding the actual identity of our remanieur. The codex, however, does provide hints regarding its genesis. This evidence can help piece together an account of the social and cultural influences that shaped this rendition of the Voir dit. In addition, the particularities of the manuscript can help flesh out its remanieur. As the author-figure is a product of the text, so our remanieur is constructed in and through the codex we read.5

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Modernizing Machaut: The Pm Alterations within Their Cultural Context MS Pm contains sufficient information to offer preliminary remarks on its dating, geographical origins, and codicological affiliations. The inclusion of Alain Chartier’s La Belle dame sans mercy secures 1424, the date of that work’s composition, as the terminus post quem of the collection.6 Additional support for this late dating is provided by a study of orthographic traits, the use of the cursiva formata, and costume design in the pictorial program. The orthographic peculiarities in particular help situate the manuscript in the Burgundian region.7 Finally, as already mentioned, internal evidence points to the late copy’s close ties with the earliest extant codex of Machaut’s collected works, MS A.8 While this final detail does not help locate the manuscript by time or geography, a comparison of the two copies is invaluable to any study of MS Pm. Numerous changes ranging from large-scale revisions to minute word alterations to the corpus belie any claim that MS Pm is a duplicate of MS A. On the level of material content, MS Pm alters Machaut’s corpus. In comparison to MS A, MS Pm includes only four songs from the music section and four poems from the Loange des dames series. In addition, the Prise d’Alixandre does not appear in MS Pm. Of the fifteen poetical dits retained in this fifteenth-century codex, the Remede de Fortune and the Voir dit undergo substantial abridgement in comparison to MS A versions. Finally, attached to this new, more compact rendition of Machaut’s corpus are three additional compositions that complete the compendium: Jacques Bruyant’s Chemin de Pauvreté et de Richesse, Alain Chartier’s La Belle dame sans mercy, and a partial vernacular prose translation of Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy. In its final analysis, MS Pm offers a fragmented reflection of its source text and betrays its status as an inventive reading as opposed to a faithful transcription of MS A. MS Pm also applies sweeping changes to the physical presentation of Machaut’s corpus. For the sake of comparison, let us recall the essential characteristics of MS A. The principal distinguishing factor in MS A that sets the codex apart from all other extant copies of Machaut’s manuscripts is its generous use of scholastic reading aids. The use of a table of contents, foliation, abundant notae, and abbreviations assured that the scholastically trained reader could use his skills of rapid and silent reading to conduct a learned or professional reading of the codex. Much of the paratextual material in MS A supports an erudite reading. The

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reader could cross-refer works to meditate on discrete parts of texts for hidden significance or to relate arguments within the corpus by calling on the index and the marginal material. The profusion of graphic abbreviations also catered to the learned reader, instigating what Emmanuel Poulle refers to as a collusion between scribe and reader.9 Besides common monosyllabic word abbreviations, MS A contains a number of complex abbreviations that combine single-graphic symbols to represent a multi-syllabic word. Finally, possibly one of the most blatant nods to a professional reader in MS A is found in the Lady Fortune portrait decorating the Voir dit, where the Latin translation of the vernacular text provided in the narrative appears inscribed on Fortune’s wheels. This gesture directly engages a learned reader of the book. Given its obvious pandering to a reader trained to work with scholarly editions, MS A would have proven far less inviting to the lay reader of any generation. If we pursue the hypothesis that MS Pm copies MS A, then we must recognize the attention given to ridding the collection of these academic reading aids. For MS Pm eschews a table of contents, curtails notae and abbreviations, and even displays a reorganized presentation of the Lady Fortune passage so that the Latin etchings and their in-text translations would share the same page and thus be more user-friendly to a reader less familiar with Latin. Whereas in MS A the subsequent translations of the Latin proverbs occur on the verso side of the image, in MS Pm, the text below the portrait provides the first translations, which are highlighted with red rubric and cued to the relevant circle in the image. The Pm remanieur proves especially attentive to abbreviations, substantially restricting their usage to the most common examples. He systematically eliminates complex abbreviations for parce que, car, que, etc., found in MS A while retaining the virga (superscript bar) to replace word endings (e.g., -ment) or double-letter abbreviations (e.g., one m replaced by a virga in comme). He also introduced the increasingly popular tironian sign (a graphic symbol commonly used in late medieval French and English manuscripts) to replace et. But most complex abbreviations (containing two or more graphic symbols) and mid-syllable abbreviations disappear in MS Pm.10 The Pm remanieur also enhances the punctuation system of puncti and capitals already present in MS A with colour washes. All three aids join to announce the beginning of sentences, while only puncti set off subordinate clauses.11 A brief comparison of Letter IX from the Voir dit in MSS A and Pm

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makes apparent to what extent the addition of colour washes and nonabbreviated words would have aided the MS Pm reader in deciphering Machaut’s prose texts. Compared with the fourteen abbreviations used in the MS A version, the same letter in MS Pm only uses the virga on three occasions, otherwise eliminating all single-letter and complex abbreviations. That is, the Pm remanieur provides the fully transcribed word for all complex graphic forms (e.g, proprement in place of ppremeFt). The reduction of abbreviations in MS Pm is due to a variety of factors, including changes in manuscript presentation. The later use of cursive formata, which condensed the space required of word units in comparison to the earlier gothic textura, and more spacious column layouts made space conservation less urgent.12 But in MS Pm, this compact script joins with a particularly spacious mise en page to create an especially readable text. According to Earp, whereas the writing block in MS A uses 52 per cent of the surface, MS Pm employs 54 per cent.13 But these calculations do not take into account the wider inner column. In addition, the roomy interlinear spacing in MS Pm needs to be recognized for its positive effect on reading. Finally, the margins of MS Pm are noticeably less cluttered than MS A, where drolleries and notae populate the margins. In contrast, MS Pm surrounds the text with a pristine frame void of most visual distractions prone to waylay the reader.14 MS Pm also eliminates a key internal distraction to reading Machaut – his music. As already noted, only four songs are retained from the vast music section of MS A and Earp speculates that they are only included as a means of articulation between Machaut’s corpus and the works of the three remaining authors in the compendium.15 Reinforcing this notion is the methodical elimination in MS Pm of the inset music for the Remede de Fortune as well as instructions in the Voir dit directing readers to the music section of the codex (the reader will recall the (‘et y a chant’) rubrics heading eight songs in the MS A version). The lyric poems, now divested of their musical status in MS Pm, are still referred to as songs in the framing narrative, but the actual reader no longer encounters guideposts leading to scores. Most importantly, there is no longer the risk of the reader being distracted from the seriousness of the text by the performance of the songs. Ultimately these changes eliminate one of the greatest impediments to maintaining focus on the narrative. Stylistic alterations and content manipulation in MS Pm work in unison to create a smoother reading of Machaut’s corpus. These sweeping changes in presentation conjoin with substantial editing in the Voir dit to create a dramatically less complex version of Machaut’s most challeng-

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ing work. In the Pm version 157 major alterations to the inset letters ranging from one word to 1000-word passages dramatically streamline the text. The remanieur’s intrusive behaviour complements the philosophy behind the mise en prose campaign that swept the late medieval Burgundian court. The most articulate defense of this movement is provided by the Burgundian writer Philippe de Vigneulles. He justified producing an abridged prose version of antiquated chansons de geste by arguing that both auditors and readers would be able to rediscover the pleasure and benefit of reading about knightly feats without being weighed down by archaic language and verbosity: L’istore est de grant excellance et merveilleux fait d’armes, laquelle se lessoit du tout à lire et n’estoit quasy plus memoire d’icelle, parce que moult de gens n’entendoient pas bien le langaige de quoy l’on soulloit huser, ne ne prenoient plaisir à le lire, pour l’anciennete d’icellui, et weullent les gens de maintenant avoir chose abregée et plaisante, car les esperit deviengne tout les jours plus agut et soubtille. Pour ce aduertis à tous les liseurs et auditeurs d’icelle histoire que moy l’acripvains l’ais abregées, et que partout là où vous trovairais escript pour abregés, quant ainsy trovereis listant, c’est à dire qu’il y ait en l’ancienne histoire quelque grant procès de parolles inutille, lesquelles j’ai lessié pour eviter proxilitey. [This story is about extraordinary and marvellous chivalric feats, of the type that never tires its readers and yet there is hardly any memory of it because most people did not understand the language that had fallen into disuse and they did not take pleasure in reading it because of its archaisms. People today want to have things that are abridged and pleasant because the mind becomes everyday sharper and more subtle. For this reason, I warn all readers and listeners of this story that I as the writer have abridged it and everywhere where you find written abridged, when you read this it means that in the ancient version there was a long passage of unnecessary words which I eliminated in an effort to avoid prolixity.]16

But in the context of MS Pm, abridgement transforms Machaut’s hybrid and polyphonic text into a more linear narrative. Where the reader of MS A (or MSS F–G or E, for that matter) must piece together sometimes as much as three written accounts of a single event as presented in the narrative, in letters, and in poems, the MS Pm reader often discovers only one account of a given event. I shall deal with the content of these excised passages in the second half of this chapter, but for now, it should

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be noted that by eliminating repetitive passages, MS Pm reinvents the experience of reading the Voir dit. This more manageable version requires less piecing together of the narrative and greater opportunity to focus on the storyline rather than the often conflicting accounts of events stemming from the fictional audience’s reception of actions or texts. Through script, layout, orthography, and edited content, MS Pm speaks to fifteenth-century preferences and to the skills of a lay audience. Whereas MS A self-consciously called attention to its status as a learned book through its content, scholastic apparatus, and imposing volume, MS Pm would have easily accommodated a lay reader interested in lively courtly narratives presented through a comprehensible script and inviting mise en page that are, furthermore, devoid of unnecessary, incomprehensible, or ‘irrelevant’ materials. Even the size of MS Pm expresses a different type of reading experience than previously imagined for Machaut’s corpus. Unlike the hefty MS A or the oversized F–G and E copies, MS Pm would not require a lectern upon which to set the book just to turn its pages. Consisting of only 247 folios compared to the 501 that make up MS A and maintaining reasonable dimensions (32.5 × 25 cm), MS Pm is sleeker than other extant copies of Machaut’s complete works. While these material alterations imply the work of an intermediary reader revising Machaut’s corpus for a later audience, they set the groundwork for more substantial changes that obscure the distinction between editorial mediation and textual appropriation. In changing the presentation and content of the book, the Pm remanieur redefined the reader, and reformulated the message and purpose of Machaut’s text. Understanding the new message the Pm remanieur communicates through the Voir dit becomes more transparent when we examine the passages that fall victim to his abridgement campaign. Ostensibly the Pm remanieur was not satisfied with rearranging and redesigning Machaut’s corpus to assist a new generation of readers. He opted instead to infiltrate the master text to direct attention to the moral message expressed through Guillaume’s affair. Before turning to the ethical message that the remanieur foregrounds in his radical revision of the Voir dit, a consideration of his methodical efforts to strip the work of its multilayered readings is necessary.

The Voir dit Alterations With over 157 significant emendations distinguishing it from the MS A version, the Pm Voir dit has the distinction of being the most radically abridged work retained in this new collection. Save two significant cases,

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the alterations affect exclusively the prose correspondence (listing of emendations provided in Appendix II).17 The Pm excisions suggest a clear methodology, one that encompasses stylistic, aesthetic, and didactic concerns. A number of the Pm revisions point to the remanieur’s interest in tightening Machaut’s otherwise unruly text. To do so, he approaches the inset prose pieces much like a mise en prose author converting poetic verse to prose. These dérimeurs were responsible for reshaping content and redefining the purpose of the Arthurian romances and the chansons de geste that they rendered in prose.18 They streamlined these works by abridging descriptions, eliminating peripheral characters and irrelevant subplots, and by introducing succinct structures and contemporary vocabulary that allowed for clarity at the same time that they compressed lengthy passages. This streamlining resulted in the elimination of many characteristics specific to oral compositions. For example, repetition used to recall events, detailed descriptions that evoked a setting or a character’s physical or mental comportment, and authorial asides intended to enhance the importance of an event, slow down a narrative, or generate curiosity were all replaced with fast-paced discourse. These new renditions focused on action and the principle storyline. As divagations gave way to linear trajectories emphasizing the links between events and the logical progression of an adventure, these new prose versions subdivided events into independent chapters with headings that introduced a concise chronology of the story.19 Thus not only were these new renditions easier to manage conceptually, but they were also more manageable physically. Dérimeurs transformed lengthy romances into condensed and mediated works. More compact, easier to understand, and intent on adopting a fast-paced rhythm, mise en prose texts revolutionized the reading experience. Works originally intended for public performance were transformed into written material conducive to independent, private reading. With less need to untangle syntax bound up in metre and rhyme or to struggle through peripheral events or reflections, the reader of prose literature could process a story more quickly, move through material with greater rapidity, and even skim the subdivided text with greater ease. As Doutrepont commented, a prose rendition transformed the reading experience, as the new version ‘ne s’adressait plus à l’oreille, mais à la vue.’20 A number of the abbreviations made in the prose portions of the Pm Voir dit reflect strategies prevalent in mise en prose works. For example, tangential passages touching on issues of idolatry, sentimental longings, planned trysts, and encounters with patrons, friends, or family members

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vanish from this version. This new rendition of the epistolary exchange is free of lengthy passages that reiterate events already recorded in the framing narrative (e.g., Appendix II, 70b, 107a) or in previous letters (e.g., Appendix II, 49b, 56, 84c, 92a). The Pm version also streamlines the  repetitive nature of the letters. Thus there are substantially fewer occurrences of Toute-Belle’s oft-repeated assertions that she only desires to  perform Guillaume’s works (e.g., Appendix II, 11a, 18c, 33b). Also  absent from the Pm version are the ambiguous but erotically charged  allusions in Toute-Belle’s letters to the ‘key to her treasure’ (e.g., Appendix II, 80c, 84b, 128b ) and confusing references to events left undeveloped, such as the visit of a suspicious messenger who requested a letter  for Toute-Belle or comments on a gift ordered for her but later lost  (Appendix II, 131c and 152b). Echoing the tendency to eliminate references to classical figures in mise en prose editions, the MS Pm version of Guillaume’s letters no longer contains comparisons between the couple’s  situation and that of classical lovers, including Pyramus, Leandor,  Chastellaine de Vergi, Lancelot, and Tristan, etc. (e.g., Appendix II, 27c, 42a ).21 The remanieur further limits the cast of characters. Toute-Belle’s family members and Guillaume’s patrons and friends no longer overcrowd their letters. References to Toute-Belle’s brother disappear in a number of letters (Appendix II, 11c, 93, 107b, 112). Thus Toute-Belle never asks Guillaume to meet with her brother, nor does she advise  Guillaume on his conduct at her mother’s court (Appendix II, 97f, 141b). In a similar vein, Guillaume avoids all discussion of his interactions with patrons (Appendix II, 52, 76, 84c, 120d, 124b, 130, 133).22 Through these revisions to the Voir dit, the Pm remanieur eliminates entire subplots and thematic units interwoven throughout the correspondence. The result is a more compact collection that directs readers’ attention to the progression of events. This abridgement campaign deep within the Voir dit works in conjunction with the large-scale technological and stylistic changes to the codex to reshape the material artefact and redirect interpretation. Individual  letters in the Pm Voir dit are sometimes reduced by 87 per cent in comparison to their counterparts in MS A. Letters IV and XXXV are  typical of the entire Pm Voir dit correspondence. Instead of the 1124word version of L. IV in MS A, the reader discovers a 142-word abbreviated version in MS Pm, and L. XXXV in MS Pm is a slim 261-word missive as compared to its prolix 1198-word counterpart. In other terms, L. IV covers 146 lines or nearly four columns of forty lines each in MS A, while occupying only fifteen lines or a quarter of a forty-three-line column in

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MS Pm. When these pared-down versions in MS Pm are compared to their MS A counterparts, the repercussions of this restructuring became apparent. In L. IV, for example, the remanieur drops numerous topics including references to the poet’s joy in reading Toute-Belle’s letters, his desire to see his lady, his overwhelming love for her, and the suffering he endures because of their separation. Besides the lover’s amorous reflections, this revised L. IV also excludes Guillaume’s reflections on music. Hence discussion of composing a melody modelled on a ‘rés d’Alemaigne’ and the ensuing self-celebratory appraisal of his song disappear. Similarly in L. XXXV, eight passages ranging from two to 340 words and addressing such varied topics as the poet’s desire to be with his lady, an update on book production and circulation, reflections on the reception of the compendium by future readers, and the poet’s dealings with both patrons and fellow writers disappear. These radical alterations in MS Pm have a real material impact. It transforms Machaut’s lengthiest work into a compact narrative occupying sixty folios in MS Pm as opposed to eightyfive larger-leaf folios in MS A.23

Pruning the Lover’s Correspondence In one of the rare cases where the remanieur intervenes to acknowledge his editorial practices, he assumes the poet’s voice in the framing narrative, barely disturbing the flow of the text. Indeed for the reader unfamiliar with alternate copies, the remanieur’s presence is wholly undetectable. The remanieur alters a two-verse passage in which the narrator introduces his initial response to Toute-Belle: ‘Et voy ci la lettre seconde, / C’est raison qu’a l’autre responde’ (And here is the second letter, which, appropriately, answers the first) (ll. 549–50). In MS Pm the passage is modified so as to announce from the outset that the letters underwent abridgement: Et voy ci la lettre seconde, Quen substance je uueil mettre. (Appendix II, 2) [And here is the second letter, whose general content I would like to present.]

By specifying that the ‘substance’ of the letter has been recorded rather than the full letter, the remanieur implicitly justifies the numerous abridgements already examined as well as his frequent streamlining of lengthy

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passages.24 Explicitly, the comment defends the occasional decision to include summaries of excised passages. For example, when he excises a 468-word passage in L. XXI, he is obliged to replace it with a forty-word  summary so as to assure the flow of the letter (Appendix II, 70b).  Similarly in L. XXXV, he smoothes over the loss of a lengthy account of the poet’s progress in completing the book by replacing ‘ce qui en est fait’ with ‘je vous envoie par ce message, ce qui est fait de mon livre’ [I send you with this message all that is done on my book]. The remanieur’s abridgement of Machaut’s prose pieces also leads to a rewriting of the lovers’ comments on the length of the letters. Because of the newfound succinctness of the correspondence, purged are TouteBelle’s requests for longer letters, her approving comparison of his  verbose letters to the lengthy Roman de la rose or the prose Lancelot, and Guillaume’s expression of relief that his lengthy letters do not bore his lady (Appendix II, 14, 33c). In a similar vein, as Toute-Belle’s requests  for longer letters fall away (Appendix II, 99a), so do Guillaume’s complaints that her letters are too brief (Appendix II, 134b). Indeed, since most letters have been stripped down to their bare minimum in this new  version, there is little need for apologies or justification for lengthy  letters. Finally, the poet in MS Pm refrains from claiming that the Voir dit is ‘three times the size of Morpheus’ (Appendix II, 110a).

Silencing the Author A surprising percentage of the Pm excisions deal directly with the poet’s metacommentary. In fact, the remanieur systematically divests the lovers’ correspondence of most metadiscourse dealing with the composition, confection, circulation, and reception of the interpolated texts, espe-  cially musical pieces but also the larger work-in-progress. These exten-  sive revisions ultimately transform a narrative detailing the adventure of  writing and negotiating meaning with readers into a conventional ac-  count of a lover writing for his lady. The remanieur proves so efficient in eliminating the various forms of meta-reflection that he effectively unravels the dual narrative that constituted the Voir dit. In her introduction to the Voir dit, Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet draws attention to a number of Pm abridgements dealing with music.25 In the Pm Voir dit, entire subplots detailing the inspiration, creation, and performance of Guillaume’s music disappear leaving only the sparsest of references to music. The repercussions of this decision are far-reaching. The rondeau ‘dix et sept, .v., .xii., .xiiii. et quinse’ (R17) can serve as one 

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of the most flagrant examples revealing the overall impact of the remanieur’s decision to silence discussion of musical composition. R17 would appear to be mentioned for the first time by the lover in L. XXV in MSS A, F–G, and E versions of the work, where he announces, ‘j’ai fait un rondel que je vous envoie, et arés le chant par le premier que j’envoierai vers vous. Et y est vostre nom’ (I have written a rondel, which I now send you, and you will have the music with the first person whom I send your way. And your name is in it) (424f). Over the course of the next ten letters, exchanged, the lovers frequently return to the question of R17. In Toute-Belle’s response to L. XXV, she informs the poet of her success in deciphering the cryptogram (434d). In this and subsequent letters, she reiterates requests that Guillaume send her music for this and/or other works (434d, 460f, 506d). In L. XXXI, Guillaume announces he has finally completed the melody for the ‘rondeau ou vostres noms est’ (rondel in which your name appears) (522k), promising to send it with the next messenger. Toute-Belle announces in her response the receipt of a ‘rondel noté’ with which she is very familiar: ‘je l’avoie autre fois veu et le sai bien’ (I have seen this before and I know it well) (540f), thereby suggesting that she received the music in the interim. Yet in L. XXXIII, Guillaume repeats promises to send in the near future the music for the ‘rondel ou vostres noms est’ (rondel where your name is) (558e). Finally, Guillaume prefaces L. XXXV with the claim that he encloses with that letter ‘un rondel que souvent chant,/ Dont je fis le dit et le chant,/Et se y mis son droit nom par nombre’ (a rondel that I often sing, for which I composed the words and music, and I even inscribed her true name with numbers) (ll. 6249–51). In the letter, he reminds Toute-Belle of her hidden name and urges her to keep the enigma secret, contemptuously announcing ‘laissez muser les museurs’ (let light-hearted fools guess) (572f). Referring to court members as ‘museurs’ or light-hearted fools, the Guillaume of earlier versions assumed that they would not even recognize the numbers as code. R17 appears for the first time in the Voir dit following this letter. In earlier copies of the Voir dit, evidence of the poem’s musical component is evidenced either through rubrics announcing the existence of a melody (MSS A and F) or through the actual presence of musical notation inserted directly into the narrative (MS E).26 In MS Pm, however, R17 fulfils a lesser role. Although Guillaume still promises in L. XXV to send music for the poem, the notation is never forthcoming and follow-up letters contain revised promises to send a ‘rondel’ rather than ‘le chant dou rondel’ (Appendix II, 109, 129).

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Having excised references to the actual music, the Pm remanieur is obliged to erase the poet’s self-congratulatory remarks concerning the quality and complexity of this melody (Appendix II, 43b, 110f, 131a). Now that the music cannot distract the listener, the rondeau no longer functions as a conundrum for les museurs. Instead in MS Pm, Guillaume speaks of the poem only as a composition written exclusively for TouteBelle, never mentioning its circulation among a wider audience. Thus in  the Pm version, Guillaume need not advise Toute-Belle to keep secret  the existence of the cryptogram and he never muses over the inability of later readers to break the code (Appendix II, 131b). As for the musical score linked with R17 in the Voir dit tradition, the much-vaunted music and all paratextual reference to the existence of a melody disappear in MS Pm and, by extension, the song is not included in the meagre music section. Other passages treating music in earlier versions are either systematically excised or considerably revised in MS Pm. In this version, Guillaume remains silent on the specifics of musical composition. For example,  ‘Nés qu’on porroit les estoilles nombrer’ (B33) is no longer set to the popular tune of a ‘rés d’Alemaigne’ (Appendix II, 43a, see also 15f), nor  are the intertwined ballades that a certain T. Paien and Guillaume  composed subject to the author’s boasts concerning his adroit use of  polyphony to enhance the works (Appendix II, 137c). Furthermore, in  MS Pm, Guillaume never requests that Toute-Belle learn to perform  specific pieces (Appendix II, 4, 121b, 131b, 137a), nor does he advise her  on performing his works in collaboration with other musicians (Appendix II, 43c). In turn, Toute-Belle’s requests for musical compositions, while not eliminated entirely, are reduced by nearly half in MS Pm.27 She also ceases to hope that the poet will help her improve her singing  (Appendix II, 11b). Along with the scarcity of comments regarding musical production  and performance is the absence of Guillaume’s self-congratulatory reflections on his compositions to the tune of ‘par Dieu, long temps ha que je ne fis si bonne chose a mon gré’ (my God, it has been a long time since I did such good work that pleased me) (Appendix II, 43b; see also 110f, 137c). As Guillaume has little occasion to exclaim over his talents  as a musician in MS Pm, he also has little need to take music into account when producing the Voir dit. In MS Pm, Guillaume need not worry about having his works scored as he did in earlier versions: ‘je l’ai fait faire pour aucun de mes signeurs, que je le fais noter’ [I had it copied for one of my  lords and I had it notated] (L. X, 188e). Consequently the remanieur

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rewrites the passage to address the author’s concerns for the copying and correct ordering of his text: ‘je l’ai fait ecrire et assembler’ [I had it copied and ordered) (Appendix II, 44). Epistolary alterations deep within the Voir dit have little effect on the verse narrative. The Pm remanieur retains the narrator’s numerous claims of having composed music for specific texts. Thus Guillaume still introduces the rondel ‘Dames, se vous n’avés aperceü’ (R17) by alluding to its musical accompaniment: ‘Et ce rondel, en ce voiage,/ Ou il ha chant, li envoiea ge’ (And with this dispatch, I sent her this rondel with the music) (ll. 1319–20). Similarly while having excised from letters references to composing music for the two intertwined poems Paien and he wrote (B34), he retains references to the accompanying music in the narrative (l. 6419). In fact, references to song filter throughout the narrative verse in MS Pm and the remanieur appears scarcely concerned about the resulting disjunction between the narrator’s allusion to having set works to music and the complete absence of any evidence. In this respect, the remanieur adopts a common late medieval strategy. Many contemporary poets filled their dits with allusions to poetry being sung without providing musical scores. In fact, when Flos of the Prison amoureuse claims that his ballade was sung before his lady, as examined in the previous chapter, or when Messire Ode records a chançon performed at court, neither text documents the music.28 In spite of Deschamps’s calls to separate music and poetry, and regardless of the evidence pointing to fifteenth-century poets’ lack of training in music, song remained a common trope in courtly dits. These references did not reflect reality as much as they conjured up lively court scenes and elegant repartees between lovers, and, perhaps, a nostalgia for a past orality. So too in the Pm Voir dit, now devoid of concrete evidence of these songs, these allusions to musical performance do little more than evoke a lively ambiance. If MS Pm respects allusions to musical performance in the frame narrative of the Voir dit, it nevertheless erases metatextual and paratextual references alluding to the actual existence of this music. Presumably because neither the Loange des dames nor a complete music section appears in MS Pm, embedded instructions to readers to seek out these sections in the Voir dit are meticulously removed in this new version. In the only excised verse passage in the Pm Voir dit, the remanieur erases the call for readers to leaf through the complete manuscript in search of related works – ‘Aveuques les choses notees/ Et es balades non chantees’ (With the notated works and the ballades without music) (ll. 524–5). He

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also benefits from the elimination of rubricated pointers that directed readers in MSS A and F–G to seek the scores for specific poems else-  where in the codex.29 Similarly the miniature cycle in MS Pm, while closely imitating MS A in all other cases, eliminates the sole visual  reference to music in the MS A pictorial program for the Voir dit.30 As the reader will recall, a single illustration in the MS A Voir dit cycle depicts Guillaume composing music. That image portrayed the poet seated with a sheet of music on his lap. The anonymous artist responsible for the scene in MS Pm slightly adjusts the portrait by replacing the filled staff and the word ‘balade’ inscribed below with pseudoscript evoking pure text. In these various instances, we see the scribe and artist of the Pm Voir dit assuring a harmony between the inner and the outer, between the remanieur’s revised description of the book and the external reader’s real encounter with the codex. Through these multi-level changes, we have abundant evidence of a concerted effort to transform Machaut’s Voir dit into a very different type of text. Every excised passage is pursued relentlessly to eliminate all  residue; changes to the letters affect the metacommentary as well as the material presentation of the text. In addition to altering the composi-  tion of the codex, these various changes redefine the principal characteristics of Machaut’s fictional double. In the Pm Voir dit, Guillaume is no longer the accomplished and curious musician responsible for polyphonic compositions, multi-instrumental songs, or light pieces that eas-  ily adapt to popular tunes. Music serves neither as a complement nor as an interruption to storytelling in MS Pm. Consequently, fewer demands are placed on real readers. As music no longer distracts the audience in MS Pm, so interpolated songs or instructions to seek out music in the  Voir dit no longer sidetrack readers. As for the author-figure, he is no longer consumed by the production of his work and is now markedly disinterested in either its form or its future reception. Readers need not have the skills of a musician, the training of a scholar, nor the interests of  a writer to appreciate Machaut’s text in MS Pm. Instead, they are encouraged to read the Voir dit in a linear fashion with a renewed emphasis placed on the story of an illicit and questionable love affair that leads the learned author away from study and makes him ineffectual as a guide for  princes. Both of these critiques generate explicit reprimands by  Guillaume’s friends, patrons, and servant (ll. 6534–7559). The Pm reader undoubtedly enjoys a clearer picture of the reason for these attacks on the poet’s character.

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Revising the Reader’s Role The Pm remanieur strengthens this new version of the Voir dit with a second line of revisions that targets earlier portraits of the inscribed audience as intimately engaged in literary production, more concerned about the writing process than the message communicated, and aggressively challenging the authority of the poet. As suggested by her lessened interest in Guillaume’s music, even his principal reader, Toute-Belle, shows less passion for the mechanics of poetic creation in the Pm version. The remanieur redefines her relationship to the text through a methodical elimination of prose passages that identify her as the coauthor and editor of the collection. She places fewer demands on Guillaume for specific works, whether longer letters or copies of his writings (Appendix II, 33b, 91c, 97c, 99a). In turn, comments on the writing process are only rarely and superficially mentioned in his letters. Thus in MS Pm, Guillaume no longer updates Toute-Belle on his progress in preparing the book (e.g., Appendix II, 124b, 126b, 162), nor does he discuss the book’s length or the many challenges that its unruly nature represents (Appendix II, 85, 87a.). Furthermore, he avoids asking for Toute-Belle’s editorial advice (Appendix II, 122a). In this new version, Toute-Belle sidesteps issues of performing his works or advising the poet on his writing, but she never hesitates to detail the pleasure she experiences in reading, rereading, studying, and memorizing his writings (L. XXII, p. 408t; L. XXIV, p. 414a; L. XXXVIII, p. 600t). Through these alterations, Toute-Belle is almost exclusively presented in her early role as an admiring student who seeks out Guillaume’s companionship, a role that is quickly superceded by her more engaged writing activities in the A, F–G, and E versions of the text. Along with subduing Toute-Belle who quickly emerged as a threat to literary production in alternate versions, the Pm remanieur revisits the influence of Guillaume’s patrons on literary production. In fact, he erases from the letters all references to patrons requesting, reading, and critiquing copies of Guillaume’s works. As already apparent in our study of R17, the Duke of Bar assumed an important role in the literary process in earlier versions of the Voir dit by dictating when and what types of works the poet would compose. In the Pm version, however, the duke is denied any responsibility for R17. On a larger scale, MS Pm erases all reference to patrons as the driving force behind the composition of the Voir dit. In earlier copies, the idea of creating a compendium of the

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lovers’ exchange originated with the requests of several patrons for  copies of that correspondence: s’il vous plaist savoir, pluiseurs grans signeurs scevent les amours de vous et de mi, et ont envoié par devers moy un chapellain qui est moult mes amis, et  m’ont mandé que par li je leur envoie de vos choses et les responses que je  vous ay fait, especialement Celle qui onques ne vous vid; si ai obey a leur commandement car je leur ai envoié pluiseurs de vos choses et des mieues ...  si leur ai escript a vostre loenge le bien et la douceur qui y est, et ce qu’il m’en semble. (L. XXV, 422b) [if it pleases you to know, many great lords know about the love between you and me, and they sent to me a chaplain who is a very dear friend of mine. They asked me through him to send them some of your writings and my responses, in particular ‘She who has never seen you.’ And I obeyed their command because I sent them several of yours and my work ... and I wrote to them in praise of you, as I see it, of the goodness and sweetness that is found in you.]

In MS Pm, the remanieur erases this reference to the poet having produced a prototype of the Voir dit for inquisitive patrons. Along with the elimination of their role as the inspiration for, and the first readers of, an  early version of the Voir dit, patrons are also freed from their role as impediments. They no longer interrupt the writing process with their incessant demands for the poet’s attendance at court or for compositions intended to entertain the court (Appendix II, 52, 120d, 124b, 130, 131d, 133, 138). In fact, in the Pm version, not only do patrons lose all influence over the literary enterprise, they disappear entirely from the lovers’ intimate conversation. The happy result is that the couple re-  mains unconcerned regarding the book’s reception by a larger audience (Appendix II, 79, 86b, 126a, 131b). While epistolary emendations expel patrons from the realm of writing, the framing narrative retains an important role for them as voices of  reason. The two lengthy monologues spoken by Guillaume’s patrons  who critique the poet’s story and openly question its veracity remain in MS Pm. Guillaume, therefore, still must endure the sober speculations of one lord who reiterates claims of Toute-Belle’s infidelity, and he  cannot escape the public ridicule heaped on him by yet another lord  who openly mocks him at court. The Pm remanieur establishes the princes along with Guillaume’s servant as careful and perceptive readers who 

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listen to Toute-Belle’s supposed mocking performance of Guillaume’s works and draw moral conclusions about the dangers of the relationship. As the reader will recall, the advice Guillaume receives includes an admonition for him to return to more serious study, to reflect at greater length on the lessons learned from classic literature, and to reassume his role as an advisor to princes.

Salvation and the Ethics of Reading These changes to the Voir dit wreak havoc on the narrative, as it virtually unravels the double narrative to expose beneath the complex framing of the metacommentary a seemingly predictable courtly affair. Yet when stripped of its competing narrative of book production, the Voir dit serves as a somber warning to the wayward cleric who is fooled in love. By streamlining the text, the remanieur transforms the Voir dit into a mirror that calls on fellow readers to reflect on their own conduct. This message is most effectively brought to light through the careful selection of the three additional works that accompany Machaut’s expurgated corpus. Far from a haphazard selection, the addition of a vernacular prose version of Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, Jacques Bruyant’s Pauvreté et Richesse, and even Chartier’s Belle dame sans mercy bolsters a more didactic approach to Machaut’s text, one that insists on the dangers of love and the benefits of serious study. Each added text in MS Pm harks back to Machaut’s works by perpetuating themes and styles already developed in his corpus. Beyond the structural similarities that link Chartier’s Belle dame sans mercy with the Voir dit, Chartier’s intransigent Belle Dame strengthens the case for a mocking Toute-Belle. At the same time, Chartier pursues relentlessly the lingering doubts concerning the honesty and integrity of women by giving voice to the cold and calculating lady who shows no pity for the lover’s suffering. It is also worth noting that the ensuing debate between Chartier and some of his readers concerning his brutal treatment of the lady does not appear in MS Pm and may reflect a conscious decision on the remanieur’s part to keep rebellious readers at bay, much as he does by excising evidence of similar reading strategies within the Voir dit. Jacques Bruyant’s debate on wealth and poverty adopts the didacticism filtered throughout the Fonteinne amoureuse, the Remede de Fortune, the Confort d’ami, as well as the roy qui ne ment passage in the Voir dit. Finally, in selecting a vernacular translation of Boethius’s Consolation, the Pm workshop concludes the collection with a literary legacy dear to Machaut. He

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drew generously from this classical model in composing the Confort d’ami as well as in defining the allegorical women who educate and advise the narrator on varied subjects in the Prologue, Jugement de Navarre, the Fonteinne amoureuse, and the Voir dit (especially Esperance). Moreover, as Boethius was a champion of pagan literature as a valuable resource for strong moral conduct, the implied message is that vernacular literature – even that of the venerable love poet and musician – can also fulfil a spiritual need. Through the addition of these complementary texts, the Pm remanieur places Machaut within a well-established didactic tradition. Each work explores and develops the appropriate behaviour of the good Christian who must deal with secular society. The closing explicit to MS Pm serves as the linchpin in reshaping reader reception. An explicit often represents the closest thing to a signature that we find in medieval manuscripts. Both medieval authors and scribes used them to assure and even define their relationship to the text. The Pm remanieur, however, signs off with a proverbial conundrum that blurs the boundaries between author and reader: Homme mortel com vous avez tres grant necessite de bien faire . car vous faittes toutes vos oeuvres devant les yeulx de celuy qui tout voit et tout scet. [Mortal man, how you have a great need to do good! For you perform all your works before the eyes of he who sees all and knows all.]

This closing address places Machaut’s collected writings in a larger constellation of Christian works. It is possible that the remanieur intends the closing as an admonishment to the reader who having just finished the book is now equipped with the necessary wisdom to undertake appropriate Christian works. His call echoes Hugh of St Victor’s call for readers of sacred texts to perform good deeds that reflect their study. But playing on the multiple meanings of oeuvres, the remanieur associates the present collection of works (oeuvres) addressing appropriate conduct for clerics, lovers, and princes with good Christian deeds (oeuvres). At the same time, because of the inherent indeterminacy of the term ‘homme mortel,’ the explicit simultaneously evokes the remanieur’s involvement in producing the anthology. For as an homme mortel himself, he organized and revised the collection he now ends. In this sense, the expression faire des oeuvres further links the performance of Christian deeds with the process of making texts. In this manner, the explicit intertwines the fate and responsibilities of the remanieur and his audience. Both can find

Reading and Salvation: The Case of Pierpont Morgan, MS M 396

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salvation through reading not only because the act of reading is an ethical endeavour in and of itself, but because the lessons drawn from rumination on worthy exempla can influence future actions. By signing off with an allusion to all readers’ salvation (including his own), the remanieur evokes the ethical reading strategies dating from as early as the eleventh century when the rumination of the written word had a direct corollary with the formation of moral values. It is the very process of meditatio that Hugh of St Victor designated as key to ethical reading. This admonition to moral conduct, with its poetic overlap of Christian deeds and the written word, recalls the careful rewriting of Toute-Belle’s character, who rather than seeking to revise the poet’s text, is rehabilitated in the Pm version to model almost exclusively study practices that include rereading, meditation, and memorization. But the explicit also refers back to Machaut’s Confort d’ami and Bruyant’s Pauvreté et Richesse for their wisdom as well as to Boethius for his own detailed account of his reflections and realizations drawn from memory of his readings. It must be stressed, however, that the didacticism expressed in the final words of the manuscript are in harmony with the entire codex, where presentation, layout, and content work in unison to create a new rendition of the corpus for not only a new reader, but a new way of reading. The complexity of these changes is most apparent when we pursue the argument that MS Pm is a later version of MS A. If this hypothesis is accepted, then we see in particular the MS Pm remanieur working to reinvent a scholastically influenced codex in which the acts of writing, fabricating, and reading books emerge as overarching themes into a didactic text for readers interested in ethical reading as a strategy for self-improvement. The very process of rewriting Machaut’s corpus to accommodate this type of reading becomes a form of ethical reading in itself, which the remanieur claims as key to his own salvation. John Dagenais’s remarks on ethical reading are insightful in this context: If medieval readers were aware of no other thing, they were aware of the difference between themselves and the text. Yes, they were aware of the dangers of language, that words could mean more than one thing, and they were at the same time masters of language play. But they also saw themselves as the chosen audience of divinely ordained communication. Their texts addressed them rhetorically, grabbed them by the lapels, in a way that allowed no merging of self and text. The slippage that occurred, the space they had to negotiate through reading, was not so much between word and

210 Inventive Readers and the Struggle for Control meaning as between the letter of the text and their own lives. (Ethics of Reading, 14)

The Pm rendition of Machaut’s corpus, in spite of the fact that it now paints a rather banal picture of the author-figure, offers incomparable insight into the myriad ways in which Machaut’s corpus could be read, recycled, and reinvented by subsequent readers to satisfy their own interests and needs.

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Conclusion: The Residual Text, the Fading of the Author, and the Role of Technology

In spite of efforts to establish his corpus as an integral, symbiotic whole, Machaut’s carefully orchestrated collection was utterly dismantled and scattered by the end of the Middle Ages. The few selections from his corpus to enjoy continued currency in the fifteenth century typically circulated anonymously in collections or were misattributed to contemporary writers. Moreover, those compositions, although explicitly voicing their intricate dependence on other Machaut works, were severed from their literary context and presented as standalone texts (e.g., the Jugement de Behaingne without the Jugement de Navarre and the Lay de Plour).1 As for the Voir dit, apart from the Pm rendition, it was not reproduced in its integral (or near integral) form until the nineteenth century, although its life was briefly extended as textual residue throughout the fifteenth century. By residue we refer to those occasions when textual fragments of the Voir dit or traces of its structure and storyline re-emerge in later contexts. This residue represents the predominant form in which Machaut’s works were circulated after his death in 1377. Three types of citation dictated Machaut’s residual presence in later medieval literature. These categories include his presence in miscellaneous collections of poetry, partial citation or imitative modelling of structure and content in new fictions, and eulogistic references to his corpus. Through these citational forms, we catch glimpses of the Voir dit circulating as literary collateral in England, France, and Spain until the end of the fifteenth century. The first example of residual traces of Machaut’s corpus consists of a miscellaneous manuscript potentially offered to Isabeau de Bavière around 1400 (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Libraries, MS Fr. 15 [Pa]).2 MS Pa contains 309 poetic works of which fifteen are attrib-

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uted to ‘ch,’ a possible reference to Chaucer, and twenty-six to Oton de Grandson. Several additional French writers and musicians, including Jean de le Mote, Philippe de Vitry, Eustache Deschamps, Jean Froissart, and Nicole de Margival, are represented. Nearly one-third of the entries, that is, 109 compositions, which occupy the centre of the collection, are samples from Machaut’s corpus. This selection of Machaut’s poetic writings draws extensively from the Loange des dames series as well as from Machaut’s corpus of songs (here recorded without notation). But twentyone of the 109 poems are extracted from the Voir dit.3 In spite of the central location of Machaut’s works in MS Pa, there is no explicit statement that sets Machaut apart from the surrounding poets. His presence is not singled out as a means of bolstering the authority of the other writers and the framing works do not overtly function as literary homage to the master. Instead in MS Pa, lyric samples from Machaut’s corpus seem to be repackaged along with a wide range of poetic writings to produce an aesthically pleasing and varied collection of vernacular poetry.4 Nevertheless, rubrics in MS Pa correctly identify Machaut as the author of his poems, a consideration rarely afforded the poet in other late medieval collections. In these later instances, celebrated writers, specifically Oton de Grandson and Alain Chartier, both of whom reference Machaut’s influence in their writings, are assigned authorship of the maestro’s texts.5 A rare example of direct citation of Machaut’s corpus within the context of a new literary creation reveals one fifteenth-century author attempting to recreate a narrative strongly reminiscent of the Voir dit. The anonymous Roman de Cardenois survives in only one damaged and incomplete manuscript that dates from around 1400 (Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, 10264).6 In this hybrid novel, letters and poetry enhance the story of the Knight of Cardenois and his lady Passe-Beauté. Beyond similarity in structure and the close parallels between the senlis in this romance with Toute-Belle’s, the work also appropriates prose passages from the Voir dit letters and complete poems from Machaut’s corpus.7 In some cases, it transcribes word for word, while in other cases it paraphrases. Such generous and profoundly integrated but unacknowledged usage of the Voir dit points to the sustained popularity of Machaut’s work especially as a romance and to a lesser degree, as an experimental metanarrative. Like Machaut, the anonymous author lingers over the reading experience, insisting on the lovers’ search for privacy to read, their pleasure in rereading, their spontaneous composition of works, and their own interest in registering responses to one another’s writings.

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This continued fascination with the reading experience distinguishes the Roman de Cardenois from other literary imitations of the Voir dit. Two well-known works that seem to engage with the ambiguous portrait of Toute-Belle are Alain Chartier’s La Belle dame sans mercy and Christine de Pizan’s Le Livre du duc des vrais amans.8 But whereas Chartier and Christine’s dependence on the Voir dit is muted and whereas they reveal scant interest in Machaut’s exploration of the reading experience, the author of the Roman de Cardenois provides concrete evidence of his interest in the role assigned reading in romance. Apart from these examples of sampling and appropriation, the Voir dit appears to have otherwise faded to a blurred memory by the middle of the fifteenth century, where it resurfaces on occasion in the form of common lore. Like the crowds that chase Guillaume through the streets singing of his affair, so later writers reference the Voir dit as if it were ‘chose assés commune.’ René d’Anjou’s Livre du Cuer d’Amours Espris (1457) exemplifies this type of residual presence. René summarizes Machaut’s literary contributions as he imagines the master’s life engraved on his tombstone. He alludes to the poet’s lifelong commitment to writing poetry in honour of his lady. René certainly holds greater praise for the poet than Guillaume’s crowds ever did; yet, he too reduces Guillaume’s fame to his reputation as a deceived lover: Guillaume de Machault ainsy avoys je nom Nay en Champaigne fus et sy euz grant renom D’estre fort embrasé de penser amoureux Pour l’amour d’une voir dont ne fus pas heureux Ma vie seulement tant que la peusse veoir Mais pourtant ne laisse pour vous dire le voir A faire dits chancons tant que dura ma vie Sur toutes choses euz de luy complaire envie Et tant que cuer et corps asprement luy donnay Mainte balade en fis complainte et virelay Et tant qu’en ceste amour a dieu ay rendu l’ame Dont le corps gist ycy embas soubz ceste lame. [Guillaume de Machaut was my name. I was born in Champagne and was well renowned to be greatly enflamed with thoughts of love for a truth/a true lady whence I was not happy in my life excepting when I could see her. But I never stopped, to tell you the truth, from composing poems and songs for as long as I lived. Above all things, I wanted to please her and so I bitterly

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gave her heart and body, many ballades, complaints, and virelays did I write, and still in love, to God I gave my soul, of which the body lies here below, beneath this slab.]9

René d’Anjou playfully alludes to the title of Machaut’s magnum opus through the repetition of ‘voir.’ This repetitive allusion to truth would have certainly called to mind for René’s audience Machaut’s dit of the same title. René’s eulogy to Machaut is also telling for the way in which it collapses the poet’s entire corpus into a work produced in honour of his lady. This merging of lady and text centres on the pairing of the lady and the truth in the line ‘Pour l’amour d’une voir dont ne fus pas heureux.’ As Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet details, this line has generated a number of conflicting readings that centre on whether the poet refers to ‘a truth’ or ‘a lady who truly left the poet unhappy.’10 Stripped of its metatextual complexity, Machaut’s ‘truth’ appears as little more than the immortal story of a failed romance in René’s account. Such a reductive reading of Machaut’s romance finds resonance in the radical streamlining documented in the fifteenth-century references to the Voir dit mentioned here. From the MS Pm edition to MS Pa, the Roman de Cardenois, even possibly the La Belle Dame sans mercy and the Livre du duc des vrais amans, and finally in René d’Anjou’s account, the Voir dit appears as little more than the memory of a love affair gone bad. In these examples, later generations are caught in the act of dismantling and reconstructing the carefully wrought, polyphonic work orchestrated by Machaut. Furthermore, these residual traces of the Voir dit register a double move to propose the love affair of Guillaume and Toute-Belle as a frame through which Machaut’s entire corpus can be viewed and then as an unstated justification both for the fragmenting of the poet’s corpus and for the cutting out of references to the bookmaking event in the Voir dit. Eventually the ‘poete renommée’ loses possession of his version of the truth (voir) and more specifically, the Voir dit when later authors and editors recycle his texts. Yet in spite of the fragmentation of Machaut’s work by his fifteenth-century audiences, it is nevertheless evident that even these readers had Machaut’s corpus before their eyes. MS Pm is a meticulous revision of an earlier version of the work. MS Pa records twenty-one poems from the Voir dit in a faithful reversed chronology of their order in the text, thereby suggesting that the scribe leafed backwards through a codex and picked out the poems that stood out from the surrounding text. In citing prose passages over poetry, the Roman de Cardenois offers compelling evidence that its author

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consulted an actual copy of the Voir dit when writing his work. And René d’Anjou, even while speaking of Machaut’s writings as well-known lore, imagines the poet’s eulogy as etched on the firmest and most solemn of surfaces, the tombstone. These final fifteenth-century responses to Machaut’s corpus play out the master’s scripted account of reader involvement in literary creation. Author and reader are shown engaged in a perpetual wrestling for control of the text. This extended narrative unmasks the reader to reveal both a potential partner and a formidable opponent. In Machaut’s account, the vernacular writer never masters his audience but is instead controlled by his public who possesses the authority to dismantle, recycle, dismiss, or reinterpret his work. Responding to the threat represented by aggressive readers, Machaut’s fictional double implemented multiple strategies to reassert control, ranging from the inclusion of anagrams to the exclusion of even his most intimate reader Toute-Belle from the final stages of book production. Turning to his external audience, Guillaume was the one to taunt. He offered an indecipherable anagram in the text’s final lines. In every case, Guillaume attempted to dictate access and delivery to the material object to restrict his audience. But lest we assume that Guillaume sought to sever the book from the groping hands of his reader, let us close with a consideration of the narrator’s comments on Toute-Belle’s final word before he himself ‘signs off’ with his own anagram. Toute-Belle’s last composition closely imitates the poet’s earlier R17. Thus she proposes her own cryptogram of the poet’s name in a rondel that repeats the R17 rhyme scheme. Her rondel ties claims of her eternal love and admiration for the poet to his name: ‘Cinc, .VII., .XII., .I., .IX., .XI. et .XX./M’a de tresfine amour esprise’ [5, 7, 12, 1, 9, 11 and 20 has enraptured me with true love] (ll. 8958–9). The narrator muses on the inextricable pairing of concord and discord that is documented in his lady’s composition and that generally informs both love and poetry: Ainsi fumes nous racordé, Com je vous ay ci recordé, Par tresamiable concorde. Grant joie hai quant je m’en recorde Et grant bien est du recorder Quant on voit gens bien accorder, Et plus grant bien de mettre accort Entre gens ou il ha descort.

8970

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Conclusion

Et pour ce encor recorderai Briément ce qu’a recorder hai: Comment Toute Belle encorda Mon cuer, quant [a] moi s’acorda, Et le trahi a sa cordelle Par le noble et gentil corps d’elle, En une chanson recordant D’une voix belle et accordant Et si doucement acordee Qu’estre ne porroit descordee, Ains est toudis en accordance; Mais tout passe quant son corps danse. (ll. 8966–85)

8975

8980

[And thus we were reconciled (as I have recorded here for you) through very amiable concord. I am overjoyed when I remember it. It is a good thing to write when one sees people reconcile and it is even a greater good to introduce harmony between people who once disagreed. And for this reason I will write briefly again what I have to record: that is how Toute-Belle tied up my heart when she gave herself to me and how she tied it with a rope to her noble and beautiful body. In a song performed by a beautiful and willing voice so harmonious that discord could not exist, she thus put everything in harmony but it all passes when her body dances.]11

These closing remarks on Toute-Belle’s final composition are key to understanding Machaut’s goal of superimposing the model of the amorous couple onto his readers. In her final stance as a poet, Guillaume’s privileged reader, Toute-Belle, uses his text – here understood as encompassing his earlier rondel, his name, and his reputation – to structure her poem and her own identity by fusing her voice and desires with his: ‘Je sienne et il tous miens devint’ (I his and he became all mine) (l. 8962). Only once Toute-Belle has vocalized her submission to his authority in this rondel does the poet propose concord where discord previously reigned. The narrator then turns to his final reflections on the act of recording or writing, which he repeats on five occasions in this passage, referring both to Toute-Belle’s poem and the larger Voir dit composition. Then through rhyme and repetition, he intimately associates these authorial acts with the union of the lovers’ bodies; from recorder, we move through variations on accorder, encorder, and cordelle to arrive at the body, corps. In this central image, the description of his heart hanging from

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Toute-Belle’s body strikingly calls to mind the fashionable small books cut in the shapes of hearts and equipped with a cord to hang from the owner’s belt of late medieval France.12 Whether intending to evoke the image of these personal books in his readers’ minds or to provide simply a material image of his passion for Toute-Belle, Machaut insists on the importance of actual movement for harmony to exist in both writing and love. Recording the couple’s concord is only palpable when Toute-Belle moves, when her body sets in motion his heart hanging from her side. Harking back to the inaugural invitation to his audience to move about in his book, the lover leaves his readers with a palpable image of his cuer/corp[u]s in movement as it seductively swings from Toute-Belle’s side. In describing the cryptogram as a seductive game in which Toute-Belle ties his heart to her body (ll. 8976–9), Guillaume identifies this intimate and erotic dance of the two intertwined bodies/texts as the consummate delight. Once Toute-Belle has identified his body, his corpus, and his name as the source of her existence, Guillaume proceeds to intertwine the names of lover and lady in the final anagram and only then does he return to his earlier invitation to the audience to enter the book, play with its contents by exploring its contents, peeling back the layers of meaning, undressing the relevant verses, and rearranging the letters to reveal the lovers’ true identity. This final reflection speaks to the treatment of his text by intermediary and inventive readers not only during the medieval period but over the centuries. Much like the Pm remanieur, Machaut’s first modern editor pushed the limits of textual engagement. In his 1875 edition of the Voir dit, Paulin Paris resolved to ‘correct’ Machaut’s corpus in a number of ways, including a rewrite of the verses of the final anagram in order to provide a ‘comprehensible’ solution to the puzzle.13 For all the criticism lodged against Paris by modern scholars for his invasive editing, it must be recognized that he performed as Machaut expected his readers would and as his medieval readers actually did.14 The Voir dit expects readers to introduce discord into the text at the same time that they work to harmonize their views with his own. From examples of readers interacting with the text to discussion of textual production to the use of elusive anagrams, the Voir dit incites readers’ engagement with the text. The reception history of Machaut’s text reveals that all recorded readings of the text inevitably enter into the interpretative dance Machaut describes in his final comments on Toute-Belle’s closing rondeau. Machaut

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invites readers to dance and to move with his work as they read it. For just as Toute-Belle’s beautiful song is enhanced by the movement of her body – ‘Mais tout passe quant son corps danse’ – so, as we have seen, readers must move to the rhythm of his text as they read. Machaut reminds his audience of the seductive pleasure that can result when the corpus takes on life and begins to move. Machaut’s medieval bookmakers revealed their willingness to perform as loving readers of his works. The material objects they produced register their reactions to the text and their vision of future interactions. Even when reinforcing messages embedded in the Voir dit, the workshops responsible for MSS A, F–G, and E offer unique renditions of Machaut’s corpus through their decision of what to spotlight, rearrange, or (re)insert. Fellow authors and editors prove even more consuming in their dealings with Machaut’s work. Where Machaut inscribed a fear in readers’ power to appropriate and subsume his writings, these later writers insisted on the benefits of cultivating lay literacy. Deschamps underscored the value of the public as promoters of the writer’s authority, Froissart emphasized the power of the attentive reader to keep the text alive, and the Pm remanieur implied that by nurturing ethical behaviour, author and reader could secure their mutual salvation. In every instance, Machaut’s text survived because professional readers, ostensibly in the name of the laity who owned, used, and circulated these books, answered his invitation and/or challenge. This new model of the loving reader imagined by Machaut did not conform to fixed models of interaction depicted in contemporary texts and iconography, nor did it complement established practices for reading vernacular romance. From the outset, Machaut trained his audience to imagine a new form of reading by offering a full spectrum of reading experiences to consider. In the Voir dit, we discover singers performing music, lovers devouring letters, and clerics studying and expounding on learned works. Machaut demanded that his audience consider the different values assigned an orchestrated performance of songs and the private, intimate experience of reading lovers’ letters. To assure that his audience never lost sight of the mechanics of reading, he interlaced his courtly text with lengthy reflections on the composition, transcription, circulation, and reception of the very book that was necessarily set before them. And regardless of whether read aloud or studied in the privacy of one’s studiolo, the Voir dit was relentlessly presented as bound by its material existence. We will never fully know whether Machaut’s actual lay readers ever

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fulfilled the role he and his intermediary readers imagined for them. As we have retraced the path from literary representation of readers to actual readers responding to Machaut’s work, the lay reader has progressively receded from our view. These real readers have been displaced either by their fictional doubles who fetishize the written word or by learned readers who chip away at his work. The only time we have captured a glimpse of an identifiably real lay audience was when their chatter briefly invaded Deschamps’s account of the Bruges performance or when their symbolic presence overtook the codex, as in the MSS F–G miniature cycle; but in both cases, it was impossible to ascertain the true identity of these readers, their actual response to the work, or their tangible impact on the books we have examined. At the same time, palpable evidence pointing to these lay readers engaging with the text resides in the varied material forms handed down to us. Andrew Taylor calls on us to recognize in the concept of the book as fetish in Western culture the true meaning of a fetish. Again, a fetish, Taylor notes, is no more than a remnant of a greater event or icon that is redolent with evidence of the many hands it has passed through. A fetish is, in its very being, a piece of a larger entity; it must be chipped away and in constant flux to retain its status as a coveted object.15 Taylor’s articulation of the book fetish echoes Machaut’s expressed desire for material, loving readers, who would manhandle his corpus. If ultimately history provides primarily evidence of professional readers of Machaut’s works, it should not blind us to the lively debate that the Voir dit instigated among members of the burgeoning book industry regarding the potentiality of a lay readership. Neither perceived as trained to practise a meditative reading of a text nor visibly interested in adopting a submissive posture before the vernacular writer, lay readers were presented as threatening to adapt their reportedly casual, combative, entertainment-oriented reading habits cultivated over the centuries through public performances to the novel practice of engaging with the material artefact. Is there any surprise therefore that in his final statement, the narrator of the Voir dit calls on the dancing body to describe the reading experience? Evoking one of the most intimate events that can occur within the public context, Machaut turns to dance to imagine a new relationship with the book on public display. Calling on a lay audience to approach the body of his text, Machaut offers one final invitation to fix a loving and desiring gaze on the written artefact and to imagine, if not carry out, a more private engagement with books that would take place far from the noise and crowds of the public space.

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Appendix I Pictorial Content for the Voir Dit in MSS A, F, and Pm

This list provides the location and a brief description of each miniature included in three of the four copies of the Voir dit. MS E has been excluded because of the paucity of miniatures decorating the text. Each illustration is identified by ‘I’. Italics are used to signal folios that are missing in MS Pm, but that would have ostensibly contained miniatures corresponding in placement to both MSS A and F. The complete cycle of Voir dit images from MS A are reproduced in the Leech-Wilkinson and Palmer edition of the text. To facilitate examination, pagination for their edition is provided in parenthesis. MS A I 1, fol. 221r, before v. 1, sealed letter handed to poet. (4)

MS F I 1, fol. 137v, before v. 1, lover and messenger conversing in garden. No letter.

MS Pm I 1, fol. 122r, before v. 1, sealed letter handed to poet.

I 2, fol 138v, before v. 202, lover receives sealed message from messenger. I 2, fol. 223v, before v. 374, messenger bids farewell. (24)

I 3, fol. 139v, before v. 374, lover holds open letter.

I 2, fol. 124r, before v. 374, poet bids farewell to departing messenger.

I 4, fol. 141r, before v. 673, lover in bed hands sealed message to messenger. I 3, fol. 227r, before v. 740, poet in bed receives sealed letter. (50)

I 5, fol. 142r, before v. 740, poet reading open letter in bed.

I 3, fol. 126v, before v. 740, poet in bed receives sealed letter.

222  Appendix I

MS A

MS F

I 4, fol. 230v, before v. I 6, fol. 144v, before v. 1107, 1107, Guillaume on Guillaume on horseback. horseback. (78) I 5, fol. 233r, before v. 1334, Toute-Belle receives a letter marked ‘a ma dame.’ (98)

MS Pm I 4, fol. 129r, before v. 1107, Guillaume on horseback.

I 7, fol. 146v, before v. 1334, I 5, fol. 131r, before v. 1334, Toute-Belle reading open letter Toute-Belle receives a before a bed. Lady standing letter from messenger. at door.

I 6, fol. 233v, before v. I 8, fol. 146v, before v. 1356, I 6, fol. 131r, before v. 1356, 1356, Toute-Belle seated Toute-Belle with hands clasped Toute-Belle with hand to on the edge of bed. (100) in front of her heart. heart. I 7, fol. 235v, before v. 1512, receipt of portrait. (114)

I 9, fol. 148r, before v. 1512, I 7, fol. 132v, before v. 1512, poet kneels at foot of bed; receipt of portrait. portrait at head.

I 8, fol. 237r, before v. I 10, fol. 149r, before v. 1647, 1647, poet approaches poet on horseback. castle. (126)

I 8, fol. 133v, before v. 1647, castle on left and three individuals on horseback.

I 9, fol. 242r, before v. 2397, poet composing before Toute-Belle. Music notes on paper. (168)

I 11, fol. 153r, before v. 2397, lovers under a tree with messenger. Toute-Belle’s head is on lover’s lap.

I 9, fol. 138r, before v. 2397, poet sitting composing before Toute-Belle. No music on the sheet.

I 10, fol 245r, before v. 2805, poet standing outside of church and three women on horse- back before him. (190)

I 12, fol. 155r, before v. 2805, lover in church. Messenger at door alerts him of the arrival of two women who are on horseback.

I 10, fol. 140v, before v. 2805, poet at door with book in hand. Three women on horseback approach.

I 11, fol. 248r, before I 13, fol. 157v, before v. 3077, v. 3077, Toute-Belle seat- lovers on bench with ed between poet and messenger to the side. messenger. (214)

I 11, fol. 143r, before v. 3077, poet and lady holding hands. Messenger stands behind them.



I 14, fol. 162v, before v. 3940, lover kneeling before TouteBelle’s bed with Venus standing beside the bed.

I 12, fol. 255r, before I 15, fol. 162v, before v. 3988, v. 3988, couple in bed couple seated together with with Venus standing Venus observing from a cloud. before them. (266)

I 16, fol. 164r, before v. 4180, lovers meet up with a group of women. Everyone is on horseback.

Corresponding folio missing – vv. 3850–4009

Pictorial Content for the Voir Dit in MSS A, F, and Pm MS A

MS F

223

MS Pm

I 13, fol. 259v, before v. 4598, poet saying goodbye to a group of women. Everyone on horseback. (302)

I 17, fol. 166r, before v. 4598, lover hands sealed letter to messenger.

Corresponding folio missing – vv. 4449–605

I 14, fol. 264r, before v. 4809, men standing before enthroned Semiramis. (328)

I 18, fol. 169r, before v. 4809, Semiramis standing before her bed and four men.

I 12, fol. 154r, before v. 4809, image of queen Semiramis seated on throne.

I 15, fol. 267v, before v. 5060, messenger hands poet a letter marked ‘a guil.’ (350)

I 19, fol. 171r, before v. 5060, lover pulls something from an open box held in his hands.

I 13, fol. 156r, before v. 5060, transference of a sealed letter between poet and messenger.

I 20, fol. 172r, before v. 5162, man in bed with woman beside him (may represent the image of Toute-Belle who visits him during his sleep). I 16, fol. 268v, before v. 5244, poet before king and court. (360)

I 21, fol. 172r, before v. 5244, poet before king and court.

I 14, fol. 157r, before v. 5244, poet before king and court.

I 22, fol. 173 r, before v. 5382, poet kneeling before seated king. I 23, fol. 173v, before v. 5504, poet kneeling before seated king. I 17, fol. 271v, before v. 5734, poet before enthroned king. (386)

I 24, fol. 174v, before 5734, poet kneeling before statue, messenger in background knocking on door.

I 15, fol. 160r, before v. 5734, poet before enthroned king.

I 18, fol. 274v, before v. 5802, Toute-Belle lamenting in bed. (402)

I 25, fol. 176v, before v. 5802, Toute-Belle on edge of her bed, grabbing her heart.

I 16, fol. 161r, before v. 5802, Toute-Belle on edge of her bed, grabbing her heart.

I 19, fol. 278r, before v. 6175, three men attack Julius Caesar. (426)

I 26, fol. 179r, before v. 6175, poet handing letter to messenger.

Corresponding folio missing – vv. 6050–203

I 20, fol. 281v, before v. 6329, Leander swimming before tower. (446)

I 27, fol. 181r, before v. 6329, poet dictating to the scribe.

Corresponding folio missing – vv. 6271–397

224 Appendix I MS A

MS F

MS Pm

I 21, fol. 285v, before v. 6742, giant sinking ship (face of giant scratched out). (476)

I 28, fol. 184r, before v. 6742, monster threatening a boat.

Corresponding folio missing – vv. 6634–794

I 22, fol. 289r, before v. 7232, God of Love presented with banderoles at head, chest, and feet. (502)

I 29, fol. 186v, before v. 7232, God of Love on a pedestal with a young man standing in front of him.

I 17, fol. 168v, before v. 7232, Goddess of Love with writing.

I 23, fol. 291r, before v. 7559, lover placing statue in chest. (520)

I 30, fol. 188r, before v. 7559, lover locking up a chest.

I 18, fol. 170v, before v. 7559, lover putting portrait in chest.

I 24, fol. 293r, before v. 7665, statue of Toute-Belle. (530)

I 31, fol. 189v, before v. 7665, statue of Toute-Belle at foot of bed.

I 19, fol. 171v, before v. 7665, portrait of Toute-Belle.

I 25, fol. 293v, before v. 7718, two birds. (536)

I 32, fol. 189v, before v. 7719, two birds above two lovers kissing.

I 20, fol. 172r, before v. 7719, two birds.

I 26, fol. 294v, before v. 7809, two birds. (542)

I 33, fol. 190r, before v. 7809, woman opening chest.

I 21, fol. 172v, before v. 7809, two birds.

I 27, fol. 296r, before v. 8059, Apollo shaking his finger at the raven. (554)

I 34, fol. 191v, before v. 8097, poet asleep with TouteBelle at foot of the bed.

I 22, fol. 174r, before v. 8059, birds in tree. Figure standing before the tree.

I 28, fol. 296v, before v. 8129, poet taking out portrait from the chest. (560)

I 35, fol. 192r, before v. 8129, poet opens chest.

I 23, fol. 174v, before v. 8129, poet taking out portrait from the chest.

I 29, fol. 297r, before v. 8189, Dame Fortune with inscribed circles. ½ page decoration. (564)

I 36, fol. 192v, before v. 8189, Dame Fortune standing before an audience.

I 24, fol. 175r, before v. 8189, Dame Fortune with inscribed circles. ½ page decoration.

I 30, fol. 301v, before v. 8606, Dame Fortune with wheel and women standing behind her. ½ page decoration. (596)

I 37, fol. 195v, before v. 8606, Dame Fortune on wheel before an audience.

I 25, fol. 178v, before v. 8606, Dame Fortune with wheel and women standing behind her. ½ page decoration.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

225

Appendix II Pm Manuscript Alterations

When available, the corresponding notes identifying the excision in the Imbs edition are indicated along with line or letter information and page number of the same edition in column one in addition, each letter is identified by its author: ‘A’ for Amant and ‘D’ for Dame. In some cases, Imbs incorrectly noted or ignored changes. These errors are italicized. Italics are also used to identify missing folios. Not all alterations to Pm are recorded here. In particular, orthographic or excisions of innocuous expressions that have little impact on the meaning and content of the letters are not noted. Otherwise, listed below are the abbreviations used to identify each alteration. Column two indicates the type of alteration and a concise summary of passage contents. For lengthy passages, topics are presented as subcategories. Key: E = excision; A = abridgement; R = rewrite; Add = addition

1. ll. 524–5, p. 76n524–5

E: music (‘notees’/‘chantees’).

2. ll. 550, p. 76n550

R: ‘en substance.’

3. L. II, A, p. 78n21

E: (a) Reference to being ‘arudis, mus et impotens’; (b) her letters resuscitated him; (c) great desire he has to see her.

4. L. II, A, p. 80n2

E: ‘apprennés le chant.’

5. L. II, A, p. 80n14

E: ‘je me recommend a vous’ (flowery conclusion to letter).

226 Appendix II

6. L. II, A, p. 80n18

R: Reordering of final closing statement.

7. L. III, D, p. 94n1

E: Regarding her power to resuscitate him. (corresponds to passage excised in previous letter, #3).

8. L. III, D, p. 94n7

E: (a) Reference to two noted ballades; (b) she will learn them soon, she will sing them for him; (c) glad to learn of his good health; (d) no desire to sing any other song; and (e) her surprise that she loves someone whom she has never met.

9. L. III, D, p. 94n9

E: Her love grows.

10. L. III, D, p. 94n12

E: Request that he correct her work.

11. L. III, D, p. 96n4

E: (a) She desires only to sing his songs; (b) when they are together, he can teach her to write and sing better; (c) reference to letters sent to her brother.

12. L. III, D, p. 96n8

E: Write back and reference to his poor health.

13. L. IV, A, p. 124n8

E: Excuse for not having visited her.

14. L. IV, A, p. 126n3

E: Glad that his long letters do not bore her.

15. L. IV, A, p. 126–8

E: Not noted by Imbs. Excision begins ‘Et certes il ne faut mie ...’ and ends ‘... trop bien me plaist.’ (a) His happiness when reading her letters and his sorrow because he is far from her; (b) do not provide copies of his writing to anyone; (c) excuses for not writing more often; (d) reference to portrait he desires; (e) promise that he would write innumerable poems for it; (f) he has composed the music for le grand désir on a rés d’Alemaigne.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

227

16. L. V, D, p. 138n5

E: Details regarding the receipt of his letters.

17. L. V, D, p. 138n9

R: Changes ‘veoir et lire’ to ‘veoir et oir lire.’

18. L. V, D, p. 138n11

E: (a) She receives such joy from his letters that she often abandons her other work; (b) send melodies to her before presenting them to others; (c) she does not want to learn any other songs.

19. L. V, D, p. 140n5

(a) Do not come until it is safe (reference to his excuses for not visiting in the previous letter that were excised, #14); (b) send music for several named poems.

20. L. V, D, p. 140n9

E: Again, do not come until it is safe.

21. L. VI, A, p. 148–50

E: Not noted by Imbs. Excision begins ‘quar, par m’ame ...’ and ends ‘... que vous me faites.’ (a) The pleasure and solace he receives from reading, and (b) her words make him a better person.

22. L. VI, A, p. 150n4

E: Her letters make him a better person.

23. L. VI, A, p. 150n5

E: Her letters make him happy.

24. L. VI, A, p. 150n7

E: Again, her letters make him happy.

25. L. VI, A, p. 152n1

E: He is not worthy of her.

26. L. VI, A, p. 152n9

E: If she sends him a portrait, it will be greatly loved.

27. L. VI, A, p. 154n3

E: (a) He will continue to be discreet about his feelings; (b) she resuscitated him; (c) he will praise her and assure that she is remembered like Guenevere, Helen, and Yseult; (d) she has sent nice poems but if he could just spend a day with her, he would teach her the tricks.

228 Appendix II

28. L. VI, A, p. 154n4

E: ‘rondelet noté’ is simplified to rondelet.

29. L. VII, D, p. 160n2

E: Toute-Belle says if she were a man, she would visit him.

30. L. VII, D, p. 160n3

E: Do not fear our meeting.

31. L. VII, D, p. 162n3

E: (a) Allusion to mythical lovers who never met; (b) she hopes to see him soon.

32. L. VII, D, p. 162n4

E: When portrait is done, she will send it.

33. L. VII, D, p. 162n8

E: (a) She will remain where she is until before Easter; (b) send books even though she is not familiar with his poetry and music (because she will not sing anything else); (c) his writing does not bore her – even if he writes something as long as the Roman de la rose or Lancelot; (d) reference to his statement that he could teach her a lot (corresponds to excision #27d); (e) thanks for sending her his ring.

34. L. VIII, A, p. 168n3

E: If what others said about him were true, he would be a coward.

35. L. VIII, A, p. 168n5

E: He criticizes fools who love here and there.

36. L. VIII, A, p. 168n8

E: He fears losing her.

37. L. VIII, A, p. 170n4

E: (a) He remains faithful, ever since receiving her first poem; (b) he only writes for her.

38. L. VIII, A, p. 170n11

E: Closing line in which he expresses hope that she will honour him.

39. L. X, A, p. 184n4

E: General reference to the courage of lovers.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

229

40. L. X, A, p. 184

E: Not noted by Imbs. Passage begins ‘Et comment ...’ and ends ‘... plus eureus qui vive.’ Many women give their love, but none compares to her.

41. L. X, A, p. 186n1

E: He cannot thank her enough for the portrait.

42. L. X, A, p. 186n12

E: (a) Allusion to him being like a knight in the tradition of Lancelot and Tristan; (b) they will see each other soon.

43. L. X, A, p. 188n4

E: (a) Reference to a song sent with music inspired by a German tune; (b) do not change anything in the song because it is perfect; (c) details on the rhythm and instruments that could be used.

44. L. X, A, p. 188n6–7

R: He replaces the following passage: ‘je l’ai fait faire pour aucun de mes signeurs, que je le fais noter’ with ‘je l’ai fait ecrire et assembler.’ There is also a subsequent passage that in F reads ‘et pour ce il convient que il soit par pieces; et quand il sera notés.’ In both A and Pm, ‘et quand il sera notés’ is eliminated.

45. L. XI, A, p. 268n3

R: Changes ‘je ne l’ai peu amender pour certaine choses que mi et mon secretaire vous dirons’ to ‘mais ce a esté pour certaines causes que moy et mon secretaire vous dirons.’

46. L. XI, A, p. 270n4

E: He is not trying to avoid her.

47. L. XI, A, p. 270n6

E: She is the best thing in the world.

48. L. XI, A, p. 270n8

E: He is controlled by desire.

49. L. XII, D, p. 274n3

E: (a) He does not do anything that disappoints her; (b) the summary of what he said in previous letter – a passage that was also eliminated (#47).

230 Appendix II

50. L. XII, D, p. 274n15

E: (a) Refers to his imminent arrival and her necessary departure; (b) encourages him to enjoy visiting with his friends during his stay.

51. L. XII, D, p. 276n7

E: Her feelings will never change.

52. L. XIII, A, p. 282n8

E: Reference to his lord who requests his attendance at court after the neuvaine.

53. L. XIII, A, p. 282n11

E: (a) Second reference that he must leave quickly, and (b) a plea that she change her plans so that he can see her.

54. L. XIV, D, p. 286n5

A/R: Imbs incorrectly states the passage is excised. It is streamlined and inserted later in letter.

55. L. XV, A, p. 290n2

E: Flowery expression to identify himself, ‘cilz qui ha si grant desir, etc.’

56. L. XV, A, p. 292n3

E: Reference and summary of her statements in #54.

57. L. XVI, A, p. 308n9

E: (a) He fears that she considers him a bore when they are together; (b) desire causes him to suffer when they are apart.

58. L. XVII, A, p. 314n2+5

E/R: Excision and addition to opening introductions.

59. L. XVII, A, p. 314n12

E: Desires to see her and wants to know when that will happen.

60. L. XVII, A, p. 316n2

R: Reference to how he will express his joy when he sees her is replaced with a simple request that she figure out how they could see each other more often.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

231

61. L. XVII, A, p. 316n3

E: (a) He tries to make plans to see her; (b) he is sending her a rondelet which is the only thing he has written because of the distractions of the people at court.

62. L. XVIII, D, p. 318n4

E: Assures him of her love and that they need to be grateful for the little time they have together.

63. Not noted in Imbs: ll. 3850–4009 missing because of lost folio. 64. L. XIX, A, p. 368n5

E: His impatience to send the present letter.

65. L. XX, D, p. 372n1

E: Allusions to her desire to see him.

66. L. XX, D, p. 372n2

E: Her pleasure in seeing him.

67. L. XX, D, p. 372n6

E: He has never experienced a better day than their day together.

68. L. XX, D, p. 372n12

E: She is still remembering the day he left.

69. Not noted in Imbs ll. 4449–608 missing because of lost folio. 70. L. XXI, A, p. 404n7

E/R: (a) Long account of the dangers of his travel back home, but he arrived safely; (b) reference to having met Esperance on his path, a summary of the missing lay (#69). The passage summarizes what the narrative already recounted. Imbs fails to cite in full the rewrite, which actually reads: ‘En quel chemin nay este prins dune dame nommee esperance laquelle pource que en ce liure navoie rien fait despecial pour luy ma mis en telle raenchon que je faisse .I. lay appelé lay desperance.’ (Italics mark what is missing in Imbs’s transcription.)

232 Appendix II

71. L. XXI, A, p. 404

E: Imbs does not identify the excised passage that begins ‘Et, ma tresdouce amour ... to ... pour vous.’ Thus the poet’s statement that the lay was written for her.

72. L. XXII, D, p. 406n10

E: She could hardly hide her joy when she received his letter.

73. L. XXII, D, p. 406n12

E: Everyone left her alone (in her bedroom).

74. L. XXII, D, p. 408n4

E: She details her experience and joy in reading his letter.

75. L. XXIV, D, p. 416n5

E: She hopes to see him soon.

76. L. XXV, A, p. 424n9

E: The entire passage on providing his seigneurs with copies of their correspondence and access to her portrait.

77. L. XXV, A, p. 424

E: Not noted by Imbs. Reference to the poem being included with letter (‘ceste cedule enclause en ces presentes’).

78. L. XXV, A, p. 426

E: Not noted by Imbs. Passage begins ‘s’il vous souvient ...’ and ends ‘Et mon doulz cuer’ (a) He assures her that he only hears good things about her and that he only believes good things; (b) he has returned to working on her book that praises her; (c) he details in poetic terms (referring to emeralds, etc.) the profound love she inspires.

79. L.XXVI, D, p. 432n4

E: Reference to him being well loved.

80. L.XXVI, D, p. 434n3

E: (a) Discussion of the lords who asked for copies of their correspondence; (b) allusion to excised passage in previous letter, #76; (c) he has the key to her treasure.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

233

81. L. XXVI, D, p. 434n10

E: She is pleased that others are reading his/their works, but please give new writings to her first.

82. L. XXVI, D, p. 434–6

E: Not noted by Imbs. Passage begins ‘H., vostre ...’ and ends ‘... commencies.’ Reference to his friend H. who visited Paris and says hello.

83. L.XXVII, A, p. 448n2

E: Request that she be careful.

84. L.XXVII, A, p.450n2

E: (a) Reference to rereading her letters twenty times; (b) reference to her ‘tresor,’ (c) another reference to the lords who send for their poetry and to see the portrait (see #76, #80, #81); (d) summary of what she said in previous letter and how lucky he is.

85. L.XXVII, A, p. 450n6

E: Refers to difficulty in ordering the book.

86. L.XXVII, A, p.452n1

E: (a) Desire to accompany his letter; (b) everyone will talk of their love for 100 years; (c) greetings to her sister.

87. L.XXVII, A, p. 452n10

E: (a) ‘vous me faites veillier grant partie des nuis ...’; (b) he only thinks of her.

88. L.XXVIII, D, p. 458n9

E: How she carried the enclosed gift on her for several days.

89. L.XXVIII, D, p. 458n11

E: Any other gift wanted, let her know.

90. L.XXVIII, D, p. 458n15

E: No difference between his things and hers.

91. L.XXVIII, D, p. 460n5

E: (a) Reference to receipt of four ballades and one she sends; (b) allusion to his work on the book; (c) request that he send a song or rondelet with each letter; (d) no desire to sing others works.

234 Appendix II

92. L.XXVIII, D, p. 460n10

E: (a) Summarizes his statement that he stays up all night and works all day (passage excised in previous letter, #87); (b) she stays up all night too; (c) she often separates herself from court to think about him.

93. L.XXVIII, D, p. 462n2+6

E: Desire to see him, say hello to his brother.

94. L.XXIX, D, p. 504n5

E: Details regarding her travels.

95. L.XXIX, D, p. 504n9

E: The festivities, including musical performances, linked with her travels.

96. L.XXIX, D, p. 506n11

E: She dreams of Morpheus.

97. L.XXIX, D, p. 508n4

E: N.B. Excised passage continues beyond what Imbs notes. Continues until ‘... dont vous avez la clef. Mon tresdoulz cuer.’ (a) Where she is, she knows no one; (b) her only entertainment is reading his book; (c) request that he send what is completed of the book; (d) she will not show it to anyone; (e) sorry to not have written earlier; (f) her brother will be in the vicinity and she wants him to see her brother; (g) do not show him the portrait if he visits, talk a little about his feelings about her (but not too much) and that she sings his music willingly; (h) she has not sent any letter through her brother or her servants and she’ll explain why when they see each other.

98. L.XXIX, D, pp. 508–10

E. Not noted by Imbs. Passage begins ‘et certes je le doi ...’ and ends ‘Mon tresdoulz cuer.’ She is well loved by him and she remembers well their meeting.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

99. L.XXIX, D, p. 510n5

235

E: (a) Desires long letters – the first thing she checks when receiving letters; (b) nothing he sends bores her; (c) secretly sending him things; (d) she may be travelling to ‘you know where.’

100. L.XXIX, D, p. 510n6

E: Date and preliminary closing to letter.

101. L. XXX, A, p. 514n7

E: Reference to requesting something by word of mouth.

102. L. XXX, A, p. 514n9

E: He kept his promise.

103. L. XXX, A, p. 516n3+5

E/Add: The messenger will inform her that he cannot sleep and Pm adds: ‘ades n’aye laboure en uostre liure’ in place of referring to his constant thoughts about her.

104. L. XXXI, A, p. 518n5

E: (a) Another allusion to her request that he not write unless she writes first; (b) his health is fine; (c) he tried to find out news about her from her servants but to no avail; (d) allusion to her statement that in spite of the festivities, she remains melancholy.

105. L. XXXI, A, p. 518n10

E: He has talked to his close friends who have asked what is wrong with him.

106. L. XXXI, A, p. 518n13

E: (a) He will never love again; (b) he wrote a letter and other things that he has enclosed with this letter.

107. L. XXXI, A, p. 520n8

E: (a) Morpheus visited him and he awakens saying ‘Longue attente ...’; (b) her brother visited; (c) he wants to know why she does not write and why he is not allowed to write.

236 Appendix II

108. L. XXXI, A, p. 522n5

E: Allusion to what he has implied by her earlier letters.

109. L. XXXI, A, p. 522n8

E: ‘le chant dou rondel’ becomes ‘un rondel.’

110. L. XXXI, A, p. 522–4

E: Not noted in Imbs. Passage begins ‘Je sui si embesongniés ...’ and ends ‘... me semble bon.’ (a) Overwhelmed by the work for her book, three times the size of Morpheus; (b) he refers to her request for a copy, noting the time it would take and the fear that it will get lost; (c) he has done more since La Madeleine than he has done in a year; (d) he is returning the chest of his letters that he has now recorded in the book; (e) he thanks her for various gifts and a ballade she sent; (f) he includes the music for a piece, noting that it includes a tenor and countertenor.

111. L. XXXII, D, p. 536n5

E: If she were in his place she would trust him more.

112. L. XXXII, D, p. 536n7

E: Reference to her brother.

113. L. XXXII, D, p. 538n6

E: She has not written because she thought she would not get information back from him.

114. L. XXXII, D, p. 538n12

E: Now she has a messenger she knows.

115. L. XXXII, D, p. 540n7

E: (a) Assertion that she has not forgotten him; (b) she wishes that he had never sent the letter in which he speaks of his doubts; (c) she could not read his letter and ended up throwing it in the fire.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

116. L. XXXII, D, p. 542n2

237

E: (a) Reference to a rondel he sent that she already knows; (b) requests other music and one title in particular; (c) reference to a letter in the coffret addressed to Guillaume (the passage regarding the coffret in the previous letter was excised, #110d); (d) he will receive people from her court; (e) address where he is to send his letter; (f) greetings from her sister.

117 Followed by an excision due to lost pages – ll. 6050–204. 118. L. XXXIII, A, p. 556n4

E: Lengthy apology for having written the mean letter.

119. L. XXXIII, A, p. 558n1

E: Only loves her.

120. L. XXXIII, A, p.558n5

E: (a) He promises to never write such a letter again; (b) he sends her a rondel with her name even though he has not heard it; (c) reference to her request for the melody to ‘L’ueil’; (d) he has been so distracted by the Duke of Bar that he has done nothing other than entertain.

121. L. XXXIII, A, p. 558n7

E: He eliminates reference to including a rondel.

122. L. XXXIII, A, p. 558n9

E: (a) Let him know if there is anything to correct; (b) learn the rondel he has included; (c) he has no other copy of the book so do not lose it.

123. L. XXXIV, D, p. 562n11

E: Be nice to the messenger.

124. L. XXXV, A, p. 566n3

E: (a) Happy to hear from her; (b) because of the Duke of Bar and others he has not written; (c) he stays up late and gets up early; (d) has accomplished little on the book.

238 Appendix II

125. L. XXXV, A, p. 566n4

R: Instead of ‘ce qui en est fait,’ the scribe writes ‘ce qui est fait de mon livre’ to make up for the previous excised passage.

126. L. XXXV, A, p. 566n11

E: (a) Allusion to the pleasure of future readers; (b) all that remains is to put in the last letters; (c) ignore my complaining.

127. L. XXXV, A, p. 568n4

E: (a) He cannot come to her because he knows no one; (b) he resembles ‘le menestral’ who is the most miserable (the remanieur retains an identical comparison in an earlier letter, L. XXX, p. 522).

128. L. XXXV, A, p. 570n7

E: Misstated by Imbs. The remanieur retains the middle section that begins ‘Mais ce me grieve ...’ and ends ‘... d’un pays.’ (a) He can only complain to her; (b) reference to the trésor that he does not get to use.

129. L. XXXV, A, p. 570n8

E: ‘le chant et le rondel’ becomes ‘le rondel.’

130. L. XXXV, A, p. 570n9

E: He was forced to give a copy of the rondel with Toute-Belle’s name to the duke.

131. L. XXXV, A, p. 572n8

E: Loss of a lengthy passage that included (a) reference to listening to the rondel; (b) learn it but do not tell anyone about name – ‘laissiés muser les museurs’; (c) a suspicious messenger who insisted that he write something visited. Guillaume refused, and identifies the messenger as the one who caused him to write the mean letter; (d) he is going to his lord’s house and might not be able to write frequently; (e) mentions that he is sending Paien’s ballade and his response, and will send the music later.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

239

132. L. XXXVI, D, and ll. 6271–397 are missing because of lost pages. 133. L. XXXVII, A, p. 592n4

E: He ended up abandoning the trip to the duke’s house.

134. L. XXXVII, A, p. 592n12

E: (a) Allusion to Paien and the ballades and the fact that she has said nothing; (b) she wrote very little in her last letter; (c) should he also write less?

135. L. XXXVII, A, p. 594n7

E: Literary allusions to Pyramus and Tysbé, Leandor, Chastellaine de Vergi, Lancelot.

136. L. XXXVII, A, p. 594n12

E: Reference to her beauty and his desire to see her.

137. L. XXXVII, A, p. 594n14

E: (a) He hopes she will learn the song; (b) he has listened to it and likes it a great deal; (c) mentions that it has 4 voices.

138. L. XXXVIII, D, p. 598n2

E: Glad to hear that he cancelled his trip (summary of details provided earlier were also excised, #133).

139. L. XXXVIII, D, p. 600n18

E: Reference to her great desire to write when she arrives at her destination.

140. L. XXXIX, D, p. 604n5

E: Expresses fears about him travelling.

141. L. XXXIX, D, p. 606n4

E: (a) Come secretly and only with people you trust; (b) send someone to her mother’s court and that is how she will know he has arrived.

142. L. XXIX, D, p. 606n13

E: (a) Reference to Coulombelle; (b) Toute-Belle opened a letter from Guillaume addressed to her brother.

143. ll. 6634–794 – corresponding pages missing 144. L. XL, D, p. 672n3

E: She accuses Guillaume of having no desire to fix the problem (which is her pain and frustration).

240 Appendix II

145. L. XL, D, p. 672n7

E: She marvels in the respect he has always shown women and her love for him (both of which are not apparent in his current treatment of her).

146. L. XL, D, p. 676n1

E: Lengthy passage in which (a) she begs that he love her; (b) if he no longer loves her then she is worse than Medée; (c) not only will she never love another man, but those under her authority will never be allowed to love a man.

147. L. XL, D, p. 676n4

R: Love her the way he did before. Not noted in Imbs edition that the passage is actually replaced with a new passage: ‘mais veuille vostre tres grant douceur un milier amoy oster du grant mischief ou je suy et moy donner confort et joie. Et sachez certainement quelle ne peut jamais venu de nulle part selle ne vient de vous.’

148. L. XL, D, p. 676n5

E: He is the sole source of her happiness.

149. L. XLI, A, p. 678n6

E: (a) Happy with her letter; (b) allusion to where she is and his desire to join her.

150. L. XLI, A, p. 678n12

E: Allusion to the fact that his plans may change.

151. L. XLI, A, p. 680n5

E: He will be near her soon and will do what she requested (reference to the excised passage in an earlier letter, #141).

152. L. XLI, A, p. 680n12

E: (a) Send greetings to H.; (b) he had ordered something for her but the goldsmith died and he has lost his gold.

153. L. XLII, A, p. 728n2

E: Write as often as possible.

Pm Manuscript Alterations

241

154. L. XLIII, D, p. 736n3

A: Lengthy passage replaced with a condensed version.

155. L. XLIII, D, p. 736n7

E: She is returning his last letter so that he can decide if she is justified in being angry.

156. L. XLIII, D, p. 736n10

E: Deictic reference to an earlier statement – ‘What I said above.’

157. L. XLIII, D, p. 738n6

E: May the two of them be happy when God sees fit to reunite them.

158. L. XLIII, D, p. 740n7

E: (a) Violent image evoking her wish to rip out her heart and pull out her teeth to testify to their love; (b) write more often; (c) her desire to be with him; (d) she has not seen the valet he was to send in May.

159. L. XLIII, D, p. 740n15

E: He can be sure of her feelings as if he literally held the key in his hands.

160. L. XLIV, D, p. 746n3

E: Nothing would keep her from writing to him.

161. L. XLV, A, p. 768n14

E: ‘Pour ce que trop grant familiarité engendre hayne.’

162. L. XLV, A, p. 770n11

E: I went a long time without working on the book.

242 Appendix III

Appendix III: Illustration Key

Figure 1: MS f.fr. 2810, fol. 226r Figure 2: MS f.fr. 2810, fol. 226r, close-up Figure 3: Berlin, Staatliche Museen Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, MS 1233 Figure 4: BnF, MS f.fr. 22545, fol. 40r Figure 5: British Library, MS Harley 4431, fol. 259r Figure 6: BnF, MS fr. 146, fol. 10r Figure 7: BnF, MS fr. 146, fol. 11r Figure 8: BnF, MS fr 1569, fol. 1r Figure 9: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. Er Figure 10: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. Dr Figure 11: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 242r Figure 12: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 140r Figure 13: BnF, MS fr. 9221, fol. 176r Figure 14: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 175v Figure 15: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 297r Figure 16: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 237r Figure 17: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. Bv Figure 18: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. Av

Illustration Key 243

Figure 19: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 233v Figure 20: BnF, MS fr. 1584, fol. 301v Figure 21: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 179r Figure 22: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 181r Figure 23: BnF, MS fr. 22545., fol. 139v Figure 24: BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 141r Figure 25 : BnF, MS fr. 22545, fol. 146v Figure 26: BnF, MS fr. 9221, fol. 204r Figure 27: BnF, MS fr. 831, fol. 1v

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Notes

Introduction: Reading and the Laity 1 John Dagenais, The Ethics of Reading in Manuscript Culture: Glossing the Libro de Buen Amor (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). 2 Robert Darnton, ‘What Is the History of Books?’ in The Kiss of Lamourette: Reflections on Cultural History (New York: W.W. Norton, 1990), 107–35. 3 Michael T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England 1066–1307 (Oxford: Blackwell, rpt 1993). 4 On the Parisian book trade, see Richard H. Rouse and Mary A. Rouse, Manuscripts and Their Makers: Commercial Book Producers in Medieval Paris, 1200–1500 (Turnhout: Harvey Miller, 2000) and Christopher de Hamel, A History of Illuminated Manuscripts (London: Phaidon, 1994). 5 Franz Bäuml, ‘Varieties and Consequences of Medieval Literacy and Illiteracy,’ Speculum 55 (1980): 237–64. 6 On books of hours, see de Hamel, A History, 168–99; Roger Wieck, Time Sanctified: The Book of Hours in Medieval Art and Life (New York: George Braziller, 1988), and Paul Saenger, ‘Books of Hours and the Reading Habits of the Later Middle Ages,’ Scrittura and Civilita 9 (1985): 239–69. 7 The push for literacy in the late medieval period altered familial relations by privileging mothers as their children’s first teachers. M.T. Clanchy, ‘Learning to Read in the Middle Ages and the Role of Mothers,’ in Studies in the History of Reading, ed. G. Brooks and A.K. Pugh (Reading: Centre for the Teaching of Reading, University of Reading School of Education, with the United Kingdom Reading Association, 1984), 33–9 and Pamela Sheingorn, ‘The “Wise Mother”: The Image of St. Anne Teaching the Virgin Mary,’ Gesta 93 (1993): 69–80. 8 Dominique Barthelemy and Philippe Contamine, ‘Les aménagements de

246 Notes to pages 3–4

9 10

11

12

13

l’espace privé,’ in Histoire de la vie privée, ed. Philippe Ariès and George Duby (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1985), 5 vols, 2: 393–502; 498–9; Geneviève Hasenohr, ‘L’essor des bibliothèques privées aux XIVe et XVe siècles,’ in Histoire des bibliothèques françaises. Les bibliothèques medievales du VIe siècle à 1530, ed. André Vernet (Paris: Promodis, 1988); Derek Brewer on the fourteenthcentury passion for withdrawing rooms in ‘The Social Context of Medieval Literature,’ in Medieval Literature: Chaucer and the Alliterative Tradition, ed. Boris Ford (Harmondsworth: Penguin, rev. ed. 1982), 15–40. Barthelemy and Contamine, ‘Les aménagements de l’espace privé.’ Henri-Jean Martin and Roger Chartier, eds., Histoire de l’édition française (Paris: Promodis, 1982), vol. 1; Paul Saenger, ‘Silent Reading: Its Impact on Late Medieval Script and Society,’ Viator 13 (1982): 366–414; 406 (also reproduced in Martin and Chartier, Histoire), and Space between Words: The Origins of Silent Reading (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 266–71. On the relationship between purpose and dimensions of books in the later Middle Ages, see Armando Petrucci, Writers and Readers in Medieval Italy, trans. Charles M. Radding (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995). On layout, Malcolm B. Parkes, ‘The Influence of the Concepts of Ordinatio and Compilatio on the Development of the Book,’ in Medieval Learning and Literature: Essays Presented to Richard William Hunt, ed. J.J.G. Alexander and M.T. Gibson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976), 115–41, and Pause and Effect: An Introduction to the History of Punctuations in the West (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), as well as Genviève Hasenohr, ‘Les systèmes de réperage textual,’ in Mise en page et mise en texte du livre manuscrit, ed. H.-J. Martin and J. Vezin (Paris: Editions du cercle de la librairie–Promodis, 1990), 273–88 and ‘Abbréviations et frontières de mots,’ Langue française 119 (1998): 24–9. On spacing, see Paul Saenger, Space between Words. On indices in secular texts, see Richard H. Rouse and Mary A. Rouse, ‘La naissance des index,’ and on the use of illuminations, see Hélène Toubert, ‘Formes et functions de l’enluminure,’ both of which are included in Histoire de l’édition française, vol. 1, 77–86 and 87–130, respectively. Keith Busby provides new insight on the influence of form on meaning in Codex and Context: Reading Old French Verse Narrative in Manuscript, 2 vols., Vols. 221–2, Faux Titre (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002). Janet Coleman closely links literacy with major cultural and literary innovations in Medieval Readers and Writers: 1350–1400 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1981). On the pivotal contributions of Charles V to the translation campaign, see Claire Richter Sherman, Imaging Aristotle: Verbal and Visual Representation in Fourteenth-Century France (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California

Notes to pages 4–5

14

15 16

17

18

19

247

Press, 1995); Anne D. Hedeman, The Royal Image: Illustrations of the Grandes Chroniques de France, 1274–1422 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1991), 93–128; Serge Lusignan, Parler vulgairement: Les intellectuels et la langue française au XIIIe et XIVe siècles, 2d ed. (Paris: J. Vrin, 1987), 129–66. On Books of Hours, see De Hamel, A History, Wieck, Time Sanctified, and Saenger, ‘Book of Hours.’ De Hamel also associates the secular romances of the fourteenth century with the newly literate laity in A History of Illuminated Manuscripts, 142–67. Richard de Bury, The Philobiblon, trans. Archer Taylor (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1948), 96. Malcolm B. Parkes distinguishes professional readers from pragmatic and recreational readers, both of whom he identifies as members of the laity of the thirteenth century and thereafter in ‘The Literacy of the Laity,’ in The Medieval World, ed. David Daiches and Anthony Thorlby (London: Aldus Books, 1973), 555–77. Brian Stock explores the impact of interpretive communities on scriptural readings in The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983). His findings can be extended to the secular experience of reading courtly literature and the practice of debating a specific work’s value and lessons following a performance. See Helen Solterer’s study of reading in ‘Seeing, Hearing, Tasting Woman: The Senses of Medieval Reading,’ Comparative Literature 46 (1994): 129–45. Solterer provides further examples of women readers forcing change through distinctive interpretations of select works in The Master and Minerva: Disputing Women in French Medieval Culture (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995). Although my definition of the hybrid text differs from recent scholarship on this literature, my understanding of textual hybridity is indebted to the scholarship of Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book: The Poetics of Writing in Old French Lyric and Lyrical Narrative Poetry (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987), Maureen Boulton, The Song in the Story: Lyric Insertions in French Narrative Fiction, 1200–1400 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993, esp. 272–94), Nancy Regalado, ‘The Chronique métrique and the Moral Design of BN fr. 146: Feasts of Good and Evil,’ in Fauvel Studies: Allegory, Chronicle, Music, and Image in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS français 146, edited by M. Bent and A. Wathey (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), 469–94,’ and Emma Dillon, Medieval Music-Making and the Roman de Fauvel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), esp. 216–82.

248 Notes to pages 6–7 20 H.J. Chaytor, From Script to Print: An Introduction to Medieval Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1945), 133. 21 On the increased privileging of the privy chamber over receiving halls, see Richard Firth Green, Poets and Princepleasers: Literature and the English Court in the Late Middle Ages (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1980), esp. 54–9. 22 Chroniques, ed. K. de Lettenhove, 25 vols. (Brussels, 1870–7), 11: 85. 23 Chroniques, 15:164. 24 Evident in Froissart’s description of his audience is what Joyce Coleman refers to as a ‘mixedness’ that defined late medieval literary culture as one in which orality, aurality, and literacy coexisted. See Public Reading and the Reading Public in Late Medieval England and France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). Although Coleman uses the concept of mixedness to underscore the continued dominance of orality, the present study shifts the argument to consider the inclusion of references to the material artefact and the intimate reading experience within works that were most likely presented in a public format as a means of enticing readers to abandon the public sphere to study books in small groups or in private. 25 A reproduction of the image is provided in Deborah McGrady, ‘What Is a Patron? Benefactors and Authorship in Harley 4431, Christine de Pizan’s Collected Works,’ in Christine de Pizan and the Categories of Difference, ed. Marilynn Desmond (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998) 195–214; figure 27, 196. 26 Dedicatory Prologue, Oeuvres poétiques de Christine de Pisan, ed. Maurice Roy (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1886–96), 3 vols, 1: xiv–xvii. 27 On the physical benefits of reading, see Glending Olson, Literature as Recreation in the Later Middle Ages (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1982). To appreciate the shift to individual study, see Brian Stock on the impact of interpretive communities in earlier medieval culture, The Implications of Literacy. On the ethics inherent in medieval reading practices, see Mary Carruthers, ‘Memory and the Ethics of Reading,’ in The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 156–86, and John Dagenais, The Ethics of Reading. 28 On debate poetry, see Michel-André Bossy, ed. and trans., Medieval Debate Poetry: Vernacular Works (New York: Garland, 1987), xi–xvi, and Howard Bloch, Medieval French Literature and Law (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1977), 167. Coleman also provides ample evidence that specula principis were read aloud to encourage discussion, Public Reading, 109–47. 29 As Charles de la Roncière points out in his study of the interior spaces of Tuscan nobility of the fourteenth century, ‘Les pieces du logement

Notes to page 8 249 augmentent en nombre ... au bénéfice des chambres. Plus important encore, ces chambres ferment à clé, ou même au verrou, obstacle encore plus inviolable. Les maisons s’organisent ainsi comme un emboîtement d’espaces privés toujours plus étroitement personnels,’ ‘La vie privée des notables toscans,’ in Histoire de la vie privée, vol. 2, 216. Roncière’s comments complement allusions to private spaces in late medieval French literature. For example, in the Voir dit, Guillaume de Machaut specifies that the lady locks herself in her bedroom to read her lover’s letters (Guillaume de Machaut. Le livre du voir dit, ed. Paul Imbs, Paris: Livre de Poche, Lettres Gothiques, 1999, ll. 1334–43. L. XXIIb, p. 406, L. XXVIIIg, p. 460), and Christine de Pizan opens the Livre de la cité des dames with a detailed description of her private study (Maureen Cheney Curnow, The Livre de la cité des dames of Christine de Pisan: A Critical Edition, 2 vols., PhD diss., Vanderbilt University, 1975). 30 Evelyn Birge Vitz offers an exhaustive study of the full spectrum of reading options available to a medieval audience in Orality and Performance in Early French Romance (Woodbridge, Suffolk: D.S. Brewer, 1999), 164–227. Based on her study of twelfth- and thirteenth-century court literature, she proposes a continuum of performance experiences ranging from ‘high’ to ‘low’ performances. Where Vitz contends that courtly literature was rarely, if ever, accessed through private reading in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries (219), scholarship on works of the fourteenth and fifteenth century suggest that individual reading is more common. For examples of the many ways in which a single work could be reproduced for different reception modes, see Sylvia Huot’s work on the multiple versions of the Roman de la Rose. Huot provides some of the most compelling evidence to date of how a single work was transformed through bookmakers’ reception of the text (The Romance of the Rose and Its Medieval Readers: Interpretation, Reception, Manuscript Transmission, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 31 Daniel Poirion was among the first to emphasize the influential role of the Voir Dit on future literature. Le poète et le prince. L’évolution du lyrisme courtois de Guillaume de Machaut à Charles d’Orléans (Paris: PUF, 1965). Subsequent studies that have documented Machaut’s impact on the construction of medieval authorship include William Calin, A Poet at the Fountain: Essays on the Narrative Verse of Guillaume de Machaut (Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky; 1974); Kevin Brownlee, Poetic Identity in Guillaume de Machaut (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1984); Jacqueline CerquigliniToulet, ‘Un engin si soutil’: Guillaume de Machaut et l’écriture au XIVe siècle (Paris: Champion, 1985); Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book; and Deborah McGrady, ‘Constructing Authorship in the Late Middle Ages: A Study of

250 Notes to pages 8–13

32

33

34 35 36

37

38

39

40

the Books of Guillaume de Machaut, Christine de Pizan and Jean Lemaire de Belges,’ PhD diss., University of California, Santa Barbara, 1997, 35–107. See Robert Sturges, Medieval Interpretations: Models of Reading in Literary Narrative, 1100–1500 (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1991) and ‘Speculation and Interpretation in Machaut’s Voir Dit,’ Romance Quarterly 33 (1986): 23–33. On ‘new philology’ and ‘new medievalism,’ see Bernard Cerquiglini’s seminal essay on the subject, Éloge de la variante: Histoire critique de la philologie (Paris: Des Travaux/Seuil, 1989); Stephen Nichols, ‘Introduction: Philology in a Manuscript Culture,’ Speculum 65 (1990): 1–10; and David Hult, ‘Reading It Right: The Ideology of Text Editing,’ Romanic Review 79 (1988): 74–88. John Dagenais, The Ethics of Reading, 170. Regarding the involvement of of scribes and artists, cf. Richard and Mary Rouse, Manuscripts and Their Makers, vol. 1, 235–60. Inventive readers embody the attitudes and characteristics that L. Jenny attributes to the intertextual reader, defined as someone who moves between linked texts and who by returning to the source text from a new angle, inevitably finds new meaning. L. Jenny develops this definition of intertextual reading in ‘La stratégie de la forme,’ Poétique 27 (1976): 257–81. In many respects, Nancy Regalado articulates the same concept when discussing ‘reciprocal reading’ in ‘The Chronique métrique.’ Numerous studies explore the rich production of books undertaken in the name of patrons in the late Middle Ages. See especially Millard Meiss, French Painting in the Time of Jean de Berry: The Late Fourteenth Century and the Patronage of the Duke (London: Phaidon, 1967). De Hamel stresses the influence of the recipient and the intended purpose for a work on book production: ‘difference of purpose is reflected in the material, size, colour, layout, decoration, and binding,’ A History, 8. Walter Ong has warned against using the term readership in pre-modern contexts because it confers like-mindedness to an inevitably diverse group of individuals. In the late medieval period, however, it appears that writers and bookmakers were particularly interested in normalizing the reading experience. Walter Ong, ‘The Writer’s Audience Is Always a Fiction,’ Proceedings of the Modern Language Association 90 (1975): 9–21. Sigla will serve to identify manuscripts hereafter. E. Hoepffner first assigned these sigla to Machaut’s Manuscripts; see Hoepffner, Oeuvres de Guillaume de Machaut, Société des Anciens Textes Français (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1908–11), 3 vols., 1: xlviii–xlix. I expand on Robert Darnton’s idea of circuits of communication to move backward from the distribution of books to consider the process that trans-

Notes to pages 13–21 251 forms works into books. See Robert Darnton, ‘What Is the History of Books?’ 41 Kevin Brownlee suggests that Eustache Dechamps’s identification of Machaut as poete in his lyric eulogy represents the first instance of the term being conferred on a vernacular poet. See Poetic Identity, 7–8. 42 On the editorial history of the Voir dit, see Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet’s informative and vastly entertaining account in ‘Le “Voir Dit” mis à nu par ses éditeurs, même. Étude de la réception d’un texte à travers ses editions,’ in Mittelalter-Rezeption. Zur Rezeptions-geschichte der romanischen Literaturen des Mittelalters in der Neuzeit 2 (1991): 337–80. 43 The actual relationship between readers and texts is the subject of continued debate among theorists. It is a debate that pits those who argue that the text gives birth to the reader against those for whom no work exists without a reader to resuscitate the written carcass. Regarding the former, see especially Jonathan Culler, Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics and the Study of Literature (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975); Michael Rifaterre, Semiotics of Poetry (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1978); and Walter Ong, ‘The Writer’s Audience Is Always a Fiction.’ As for the latter argument, see Maurice Blanchot who links the image of the resuscitated text with Lazarus in ‘Reading,’ in Readers and Reading, ed. Andrew Bennet (London: Longman, 1995), 188–95. See also the key writings of Hans Robert Jauss, Toward an Aesthetic of Reception (Brighton: Harvester, 1982); Norman N. Holland, Five Readers Reading (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975); and Stanley Fish, Is There A Text in This Class? The Authority of Interpretive Communities (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1980). Part I: Inscribed Readers 1 Hans Robert Jauss, Toward an Aesthetic, 19. 1. Reading between the Lines 1 The Livre des merveilles, first presented to Jean sans Peur, was immediately offered to the recipient’s uncle Jean de Berry in January 1413 as a New Year’s gift. The compendium includes the narratives of Marco Polo (1271– 95), Odoric of Pordenone (1331), William of Boldensele (1336), Sir John Mandeville (1322–56), John Hayton (1307), and Ricold of Montecroce (1294-1309). Complete details on the manuscript are provided by Millard Meiss, French Painting in the Time of Jean de Berry: The Boucicaut Master (New York: Phaidon, 1967). See especially pp. 38–40 and for a complete descrip-

252 Notes to pages 21–4

2

3

4

5

6

7

tion of the manuscript and miniature cycle, pp. 116–22. Excerpts of Hayton’s narrative and those of the other narratives included in the Livre des merveilles are provided by Louis de Becker, L’Extrême orient au moyen âge (Paris: E. Leroux, 1877), 125–253. Only three other miniatures in the manuscript depict author-figures. Fol. 141r includes an illustration of John Mandeville taking leave of King Edward II of England; on fol. 256r, the Pope listens to Jean Hayton’s plan for a crusade; and on fol. 257r, Hayton writes his Fleur des histoires d’Orient. That the frontispiece serves to celebrate ducal power is clear. Evidence of the duke’s authority overwhelms the picture frame. From the tympanum of the duke’s arms over the entryway to the Burgundian flag, with its fleur-de-lys and the blue and gold stripes of Burgundy draped over his seat, the scene offers a panoply of symbols establishing the duke’s political identity. Dressed in ceremonial garb, made of expensive fabrics, furs, gold, and jewels, the duke’s political body creates a display that competes for attention with the ceremony of the book exchange in which he participates. Brigitte Buettner, Boccaccio’s Des cleres et nobles femmes: Systems of Signification in an Illuminated Manuscript (Seattle and London: College Art Association in association with University of Washington Press, 1996), 90. All English translations are from The Didascalicon of Hugh of St Victor. A Medieval Guide to the Arts, trans. Jerome Taylor (New York: Columbia University Press, 1961, rpt 1963). Original Latin is from Jacques Paul Migne, Patrologiae cursus completes, sive bibliotheca universalis ... omnium sanctorum patrum, Series Latine, 221 vols. (Paris: 1844–64), vol. 176 (hereafter abbreviated as PL). Michael Camille’s study of the Bible moralisée of the thirteenth century provides invaluable evidence of the changing perception of books. These texts, in which text and image are intricately intertwined, repeatedly portray books as sources of divine wisdom for the masses. See ‘Visual Signs of the Sacred Page: Books in the Bible moralisée,’ Word and Image 5 (1989): 111–30; esp. 111–12. For a general overview of medieval reading practices and the particular influence of these two works, see Jean Leclercq, O.S.B., The Love of Learning and the Desire for God. A Study of Monastic Culture, trans. Catharine Misrahi (New York: Fordham University Press, 1961). On Hugh of St Victor, see Ivan Illich, In the Vineyard of the Text: A Commentary to Hugh’s Didascalicon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993) and Mary Carruthers, ‘Memory and the Ethics of Reading,’ in The Book of Memory, 156–88. Scholarship on John of Salisbury tends to stress his influence on public readings, see Joyce Coleman, Public Reading and Armando Petrucci, Writers and Readers, especially p. 139.

Notes to pages 24–8

253

8 Illich argues, on the contrary, that the monastic model of studium legendi was abandoned in favour of the vita clericorum as a model to be imitated by the laity (In the Vineyard, 86). 9 The intended audience of the Didascalicon is often overlooked by modern scholars who tend to speak of the work as the most concise written record of the monastic reading tradition. Illich points out in his introduction to the Didascalicon that most students of the open school did not adopt a monastic way of life but used the fundamentals acquired at the school to enter into secular professions (77). On Victorine training, see also Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Oxford: Blackwell, 1952), 83–106. My study pursues Mary Carruther’s implicit statement that Hugh of St Victor’s model of ethical reading, which is a practice contingent on the ‘highly active reading,’ can be applied to all forms of secular reading (The Book of Memory, 186). Paul Saenger’s study of Hugh of St Victor is quite informative on the issue of how the Didascalicon influenced the layout and decoration of manuscripts destined for secular audiences. See ‘Reading in the Later Middle Ages,’ A History of Reading in the West, ed. A. Cavallo and R. Chartier (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1999), 120–48. 10 By encouraging the study of philosophy and even fiction in small doses as he does in the first books (e.g., III, iv), Hugh counters longstanding arguments that only Scripture merited study. In fact, the dominant belief maintained that monks should restrict their reading to the Psalter and spend their time in prayer as opposed to study. See G.M. Paré, La renaissance du XIIe siècle : Les écoles et l’enseignement (Paris, 1933), 186. 11 In fact, Hugh uses the same terminology to speak of a higher level of contemplation when referring to the study of secular writings and to Scripture. Speaking of meditation in relation to secular writings, he states ‘Ea enim maxima est, quae animam a terronorum actuum strepitu segregat, et in hac vita etiam aeternae quietis ducedinem quodammodo praegustare facit’ (PL, III, xi). Later in reference to the study of Scripture, he defines contemplatio as ‘in qua quasi quodam praecedentium fructu in hac vita etiam quae sit boni operis merces futura praegustatur’ (PL, V, xi). 12 Leiden, University Library, MS Vulcanianus 46, fol. 130, manuscript produced in Fulda, 1176–7. A reproduction is provided in James Taylor’s English translation, frontispiece. An alternative pictorial tradition is associated with Hugh of St Victor in Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Laud Misc. 409, fol. 3v. Hugh is presented as the magister educating others as opposed to portraying him as the private, meditative reader of texts. 13 For more information on the continued success of this work as documented in the manuscript tradition, see R. Goy, Die Überlieferung der Werke Hugos von Sankt Victor (Stuttgart: Monographien zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 14,

254 Notes to pages 28–32

14

15

16 17

18 19 20 21

1976); Bernhard Bischoff, ‘Aus der Schule Hugos von St. Viktor,’ in Aus der Geisteswelt des Mittelalters, ed. A. Lang, J. Lecher, M. Schumaus (Münster: Beiträge zur Geschichte der Philosophie und Theologie des Mittelalters Band 3, Heft I, 1935), 246–50; Charles Henry Buttimer, ed., Hugonis de Sancto Victore Didascalicon de studio legendi: A Critical Text, Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Latin 10 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1939), pp. xv–xliii. A few additional manuscripts are noted by Buttimer’s reviewers; see Bibliothèque de l’Ecole des chartes CIII (1942): 236; and Etudes classiques 8 (1939): 432–3. Susan Noakes proposes that we view the Othea as a fifteenth-century reading manual in Timely Reading. Between Exegesis and Interpretation (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988), 98–134. The metaphor is articulated over the length of the Cité des dames. See Hugh’s discussion of the reader as mason (VI, iv). On the influence of general monastic reading methods on Christine, see Mary Agnes Edsall, ‘Like Wise Master Builders: Jean Gerson’s Ecclesiology, Lectio divina, and Christine de Pizan’s Livre de la Cité des dames,’ Medievalia et Humanistica 27 (2000): 33–56; 48–50. Suzanne Reynolds, Medieval Reading: Grammar, Rhetoric and the Classical Text (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). English translation from The Metalogicon of John of Salisbury, trans. Daniel D. McCarry (Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1971). Latin text cited from Ioannis Saresberiensis, Metalogicon, Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis, vol. 98, ed. J.B. Hall (Turnhout: Brepols, 1991). Coleman, Public Reading. Armando Petrucci, Writers and Readers, 139. Malcom B. Parkes, ‘The Literacy of the Laity.’ Scholars link the appearance of the book in Marian iconography with the writings of the Pseudo-Bonaventure who first suggested that the Virgin was reading Isaiah’s prophecy of the Incarnation when the angel appeared to her. Thus, the book placed in the Virgin’s hands first served to reinforce the continuity between the Old and New Testament. See David M. Robb, ‘The Iconography of the Annunciation in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,’ Art Bulletin 28 (1936): 480–526; note 21, p. 485. See also Clanchy, ‘Learning to Read,’ 192, and Laurel Amtower, Engaging Words: The Culture of Reading in the Later Middle Ages (New York: Palgrave, 2000), 65–9. Widely disseminated in the final two centuries of the Middle Ages, Annunciation iconography typically portrayed the Virgin kneeling before an open book. Millard Meiss offers numerous examples of the late medieval Annunciation scene in French Painting, plates 296, 316, 483.

Notes to pages 33–7

255

22 On the changing iconography of St Anne, see Pamela ‘Sheingorn, ‘The Wise Mother.’ 23 The Bedford Hours, facsimile, ed., Janet Backhouse (London: British Library, 1990). For additional examples of this new iconography, see Millard Meiss, French Painting, plates 179 and 315. 24 Vie de Saint Louis, Paris, BN, MS f.fr. 5716, fol. 16 and the Grandes Chroniques de France, BN MS f.fr. 2813, fol. 265. Images reproduced in Anne D. Hedeman, The Royal Image, figures 88, p. 126 and 87, p. 125. 25 Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale Albert 1er, MS 9505, fol. 2v. The image is reproduced in François Avril, Manuscript Painting at the Court of France: The Fourteenth Century (1310–1380) (New York: George Brazillier, 1978), plate 33. 26 Both frontispieces are reproduced in François Avril, Quand la peinture était dans les livres. Les manuscrits enluminés en France, 1440–1520 (Paris: Flammarion, 1993), plates 10 and 54. 27 BnF MS f.fr. 259, fol. 15. The image is reproduced in Millard Meiss, French Painting, plate 431. 28 Yet another example heads the French translation of Boccaccio’s works produced in the Boucicaut Workshop. The opening miniature shows the author seated before an open book outside the walls of the Garden of Eden, as if the Garden arises from his study of Genesis. The image is reproduced in Millard Meiss, French Painting, plate 379. 29 Le Jugement du roy de Behaigne and Remede de Fortune, ed. James I. Wimsatt and William W. Kibler, music ed. Rebecca A. Baltzer (Athens: The University of Georgia Press, 1988). 30 For a description of the opening miniatures, see Earp, Guillaume de Machaut: A Guide to Research (New York: Garland), 152. 31 MS Vg (New York, Wildenstein Collection) portrays a clerk instructing a child and MS A depicts a bearded man instructing a child. 32 Millard Meiss offers a detailed comparison of the miniatures in an earlier compendium that Christine presented to the Duke of Berry (BnF, MSS fr. 835, 836, 606) and the Harley manuscript, which is considered to be a close copy of the earlier manuscript (290–6). For a discussion of variations in the miniature cycles that Meiss glossed over, see Deborah McGrady, ‘What Is a Patron?’ 206–12. 33 For a complementary study of these images that insists on their relationship to a larger debate on reading as a public or private endeavour, see Emma Dillon, Medieval Music-Making, 94–108. The earlier author portraits that draw on the magister tradition are insightfully analysed by Emmanuèle Baumgartner in ‘Seuils de l’oeuvre: Le folio liminaire des manuscrits du Roman de Troie de Benoît de Sainte-Maure,’ in Le dialogue des arts: Littérature et

256 Notes to pages 37–9

34

35

36

37

38

39

peinture du moyen âge au XVIIIe siècle, ed. Jean-Pierre Landry et Pierre Servet (Lyon: C.E.D.I.C., Université Jean Moulin, 2001), 1:14–31; figures 1–8. Baumgartner stresses the artist’s dependence on the contrast between author and patron to articulate the cleric’s role in the process (see especially 17–19). On the common use of book paraphernalia in portraits of the author-figure in Rose manuscripts, see David Hult, Self-Fulfilling Prophecies: Readership and Authority in the First Roman de la Rose (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 25–93. Françoise Ferrand, although also identifying the frontispiece as a novel and powerful claim to authority, interprets the scene by comparing it to the traditional donation scene that frequently introduced late medieval texts. She argues that the poet appropriates the seat of the patron, whereas the allegorical figures, bowing before the author double as patrons. This ‘role reversal,’ while compelling, seems to miss the point of the artist’s play with a more closely related established iconography, that of the monastic reader of religious writings and later, of the secular reader of devotional texts. Françoise Ferrand, ‘Regards sur le Prologue de Guillaume de Machaut,’ in Guillaume de Machaut: Poète et compositeur. Actes et colloques. Reims (19–22 avril 1978) (Paris: Éditions Klincksieck, 1982), 235–9. Christine’s self-conscious detailing of her passage from lectio to contemplatio may function as a subtle defence against earlier allegations in the Querelle sur le roman de la Rose that she failed to read correctly Jean de Meun’s text. See Le débat sur le Roman de la Rose, ed. and trans., Eric Hicks (Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1996), 38–9. The Livre de la cité des dames, I.1.1a ed. Curnow, Relevant to Christine’s description is Saenger’s definition of silent reading favouring ‘the perusal and reference consultation of books.’ Paul Saenger, ‘Silent Reading,’ 385. The opening miniature to the Livre de la cité des dames has attracted much scholarly attention. For different readings of the miniature, see Sandra Hindman, ‘With Ink and Mortar: Christine de Pizan’s Cité des Dames (An Art Essay),’ Feminist Studies 10 (1984): 457–83; Joël Blanchard, ‘Compilation and Legitimation in the Fifteenth Century: Le Livre de la Cité des Dames,’ trans. Earl Jeffrey Richards, in Reinterpreting Christine de Pizan, ed. Earl Jeffrey Richards, Joan Williamson, Nadia Margolis, and Christine Reno (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1992), 228–49; and Jacqueline CerquigliniToulet, ‘Christine de Pizan and the Book: Programs and Modes of Reading, Strategies for Publication,’ Journal of the Early Book Society, 4 (2001): 112–26. Armando Petrucci has already pointed to the influence of the scholastic model on court reading habits (Writers and Readers, 140–1).

Notes to pages 39–42 257 40 The efforts of authors and bookmakers in the late Middle Ages to accommodate readers confirms Laura Kendrick’s argument that early medieval manuscript decoration worked to define reading as a site of struggle, whereas these pictorial allusions become less common in the late Middle Ages. Laura Kendrick, Animating the Letter: The Figurative Embodiment of Writing from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (Ohio: Ohio State University Press, 1999), 144–5. 41 Tibaut, Le roman de la poire par Tibaut, ed. Christiane Marchello-Nizia, Société des anciens textes français (Paris: Picard, 1984), ll. 2221–4. 42 Li Bestiares d’amours, 6. 43 Oxford Bodleian Library, MS Douce 308, fol. 86v. The image is reproduced in Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book, figure 12, and discussed, p. 170. 44 Elizabeth Eva Leach explores Machaut’s play with different contexts and delivery modes in ‘Machaut’s Balades with Four Voices,’ Plainsong and Medieval Music 10 (2001): 47–79 and ‘Death of a Lover and the Birth of the Polyphonic Ballade: Machaut’s Notated Ballades 1–5,’ The Journal of Musicology 19 (Summer 2002): 461–502. 45 The Art of Love, and Other Poems, 2d ed., rev. G.P. Goold, trans. J.H. Mozley, Loeb Classics Library, vol. 232 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1979). The origins of the ars dictaminis date back to the fourth century, when the Roman rhetorician C. Julius Victors added an appendix, de epistolis, to his Ars rhetorica. Beginning in twelfth-century France, it became common practice for works on rhetoric to include sections on dictamen. Writers like John of Garland, Geoffrey of Vinsauf, and Bernard de Meung all included treatment of the art in their handbooks on rhetoric. These treatises contain detailed and even tedious information on the different components of letters, beginning with the salutatio to the conclusio. Faithful to classical rhetoric, French rhetoricians underscored the importance of the captatio benevolentiae, that is the opening portion of the letter, where one endeavoured to render the recipient ‘attentive, docile, and well-disposed,’ as the intention of all letters is to sway the reader. For a detailed history of the ars dictaminis, see James J. Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages: A History of the Rhetorical Theory from Saint Augustine to the Renaissance (Arizona: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, rpt 2001), 194–268. The first treatment of dictamen in French vernacular, however, was written by the exiled Italian, Brunetto Latini. For a discussion of this work, see Murphy, Rhetoric, 231. 46 For an overview of the growing importance of bedrooms in monastic culture, see Mary Carruthers, The Craft of Thought. Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 171–220.

258  Notes to pages 42–7 47 Débat de deux fortunés d’amours, the Poetical Works of Alain Chartier, ed. James C. Laidlaw (London: Cambridge University Press, 1974). 48 A reproduction is provided in McGrady, ‘What Is a Patron,’ figure 31, p. 209. 49 Amtower, Engaging Words, 5–6. 2. Lay Readers in Guillaume de Machaut’s Voir dit 1 See Kevin Brownlee, Poetic Identity; Jacqueline Cerquiglini, ‘Un engin si soutil.’ R. Barton Palmer explores similar preoccupations in Machaut’s judgment poems; see ‘The Metafictional Machaut: Self-Reflexivity and Self-Mediation in the Two Judgment Poems,’ Studies in the Literary Imagination 20 (1987): 23–39 and ‘Transtextuality and the Producing-I in Guillaume de Machaut’s Judgment Series,’ Exemplaria 5 (1993): 283–304. 2 An important exception is the work of Robert Sturges, ‘Speculation and Interpretation.’ The study is revised and inserted into Medieval Interpretations, 100–24. It should also be noted that Brownlee, while maintaining a focus on the development of the author-figure in the Voir dit, acknowledges in passing the increasingly important role Machaut attributes to audience in the second part of the narrative (129–56). 3 The game of truth in Machaut’s text has captured the attention of numerous scholars who have underscored the indeterminate nature the author extends to truth. See Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet, (‘Un engin si soutil,’ 159–200) and Robert Sturges, Medieval Interpretation. For a survey of truth conventions in medieval culture, see Jeanette Beer, Narrative Conventions of Truth in the Middle Ages (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1981). 4 In his insightful study of reading in Marie de France’s lais, Sturges demonstrates that her description of writing and reading is dependent on metaphors of love, especially sleeplessness and the importance of secrecy. Sturges writes of the reading experience as detailed in the Lais that ‘to read or interpret the text correctly is to enter into an erotic relationship with it,’ Medieval Interpretation, 89. He links these tendencies in Marie de France’s writings with Machaut (101). The present section will pursue Sturges’s observations to their full extent. 5 All quotations are from the Imbs and Cerquiglini-Toulet edition. Readers are also encouraged to consult the Leech-Wilkinson/Palmer edition for English translations as well as for reproductions of all thirty miniatures decorating the manuscript. Translations of this text are my own, but I benefitted greatly from the Palmer translation. For example, on p. 92, my rendering relies heavily on his work, albeit with some changes in wording and punctuation. Guillaume de Machaut. Le Livre dou Voir dit (The Book of the

Notes to pages 47–58  259 True Poem), ed. Daniel Leech-Wilkinson and trans. R. Barton Palmer (New York: Garland, 1998). 6 Sylvia Huot writes that Toute-Belle represents for Guillaume just ‘another illustrated text’ since he relates to her primarily through her words. He, in turn, rather than functioning as a lover, is the consummate poet-composer; From Song to Book, 281, 284. 7 Of course, conflating master and student with the lover and his lady is not new. Yet reversing Abelard and Heloise, the quintessential example of such a relationship, Guillaume restructures a potential amorous relationship as an academic coupling. On the transformation of the courtly lover into an aged poet who teaches writing rather than lovemaking, see Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet, ‘Un engin si soutil,’ 142, 226. 8 Scholars of the Voir dit continue to debate the veracity of the epistolary correspondence. Most recently, R. Barton Palmer reiterates and presents at length evidence that the letters and poems attributed to Toute-Belle were truly composed by someone other than Machaut in his introduction to the bilingual edition (xxvii–l). The present study approaches the Voir dit as a pseudo-fiction. While the story recounted most likely draws from lived experiences, the Voir dit is nonetheless a fictional creation and, therefore, the writings attributed to Toute-Belle are at minimum embellished and enhanced by Machaut if not entirely written by him. On the Voir dit as an example of pseudo-autobiography, see Laurence De Looze, Pseudo-Autobiography in the Fourteenth Century: Juan Ruiz, Guillaume de Machaut, Jean Froissart, and Geoffrey Chaucer (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1997), 66–101. 9 Toute-Belle shares numerous traits with the women writers and characters that Helen Solterer examines as respondents to vernacular literature. What renders the Voir Dit so striking is the inscribed conflict between the poet’s idealized version of his reader and the reality of Toute-Belle that he is forced to confront over the longue durée (Helen Solterer, The Master and Minerva). 10 Didascalicon, V, x. 11 Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet identifies this blurring of the poetic works as the essential ingredient in what she identifies as Machaut’s hermaphroditic text (‘Un engin si soutil,’ 155). 12 For a discussion of Machaut’s conscious play with the legal sense of the title, see Jane Taylor, ‘Machaut’s Livre du Voir-Dit and the Poetics of the Title,’ in Et c’est la fin pour quoy sommes ensemble. Hommage à Jean Dufournet, Professeur à la Sorbonne Nouvelle. Littérature, histoire et langue du Moyen Age (Paris: Champion, 1993), 3 vols., 3:1351–62. 13 Brownlee comes to a very different conclusion when he refers to Guillaume’s two-week stay at Charles’s court as ‘a period in which Guillaume’s identity as

260 Notes to pages 58–68

14 15

16

17

18 19

20

21

22 23

a professional writer impinges on his identity as lover’ (Poetic Identity, 115). Brownlee distinguishes between the titles of faiseur and poete in the same study (7–9). Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet, ‘Un engin si soutil,’ 163n18. Godefroy defines carole as ‘danse en rond; divertissement dont la danse fait partie,’ Dictionnaire de l’ancienne langue française, 10 vols (Paris, 1937). As Glending Olson has documented, such a use of courtly literature would be typical in late medieval culture, where listening to light poetry was considered a healthy and pleasant undertaking by both princely advisors and doctors (Literature as Recreation). My categorization of the readers in the Voir dit differs slightly from that of Robert S. Sturges. He distinguishes between only the poet, the lady and the ‘crowd’ of court readers. I break the court readers into two sub-categories; the patron-readers and the court audience at large (Medieval Interpretations, 100–4). In this respect, Machaut anticipates Walter Benjamin’s lamentation of the mechanical reproduction of art as leading to the death of the aura surrounding artistic creation. Illuminations: Essays and Reflections, ed. with an introduction by Hannah Arendt, trans., Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 1986, 1968). On interpretative communities, see Stanley Fish, Is There A Text in This Class? 167–80. Barton Palmer contends that inclusion of references to the writing process, princely behaviour, classical texts, and even the extensive discussion of Livy’s portrait of Fortune testify to Machaut’s efforts to redirect the text to accommodate a new type of reader (Le Livre dou Voir Dit, pp. l–lvi). See also Kevin Brownlee, Poetic Identity, 95, 127–8. For further discussion of this passage, see Deborah McGrady, ‘Le Voir dit: Réponse à l’Ovide moralisé ?,’ Cahiers de recherches médiévales, Special Issue, ‘Lectures et usages d’ Ovide (XIIIe–XVe siècles),’ ed. Emmanuèle Baumgartner, 9 (2002): 99–113. Where Kevin Brownlee speaks of the narrator’s dual identity, I view his clerkly and courtly personas as competing identities (see Poetic Identity, 94–156). Barton Palmer, ‘Introduction,’ xxvi–xlvii. For details regarding the earlier scholarship, see ibid., xxxvii, n. 4 and xxxix, n. 5. It can easily be argued that the parallels drawn here between Machaut the author and Guillaume the fictional poet prove Toute-Belle’s true existence. For the very reasons detailed above in note 8, the present study sidesteps the issue of historical fact because it inevitably turns into a circular argument that distracts from Machaut’s sublime manipulation of his audience.

Notes to pages 69–73 261 24 On the possible cause of this decrease in Toute-Belle’s poetic production, see Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski, Reading Myth: Classical Mythology and Its Interpretations in Medieval French Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 154–67. The remaining two poems attributed to Toute-Belle are an incomplete chanson balladée (ll. 8453–87) and a rondeau (ll. 8958–65). 25 He alludes to his return of a chest holding their correspondence in L. XXXI, pp. 522–4k. 26 For a description of the extant manuscripts, see François Avril, ‘Les manuscrits enluminés de Guillaume de Machaut,’ in Guillaume de Machaut: Poète et compositeur. Actes et colloques. Reims (19–22 avril 1978) (Paris: Éditions Klincksieck, 1982), 117–33; 131–2 and Lawrence Earp, A Guide to Research, 73–128, especially 87–94, 101–2. A selection of Machaut’s manuscripts will be discussed fully in section II. 27 Avril, ‘Les manuscrits enluminés,’ 132. 28 On the particular originality associated with the images of the poet composing music and poetry in Machaut’s other manuscripts, see Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book, 242–301. 29 François Garnier, Le langage de l’image au moyen âge. Signification et symbolique (Paris: Le Léopard d’or, 1982), 184–6. 30 Garnier, Le Langage, 113. 31 The seven miniatures depicting Toute-Belle in MS A are located on fols. 233r, 233v, 242r, 245r, 248r, 255r, 274v. Respectively, she is depicted receiving a letter, lamenting, sitting before the poet who composes a ballade, arriving at church on horseback, sitting with the poet and the messenger, lying in bed with the poet, lamenting. In addition, four miniatures depict the portrait sent by Toute-Belle as opposed to Toute-Belle herself (fols. 235v, 291r, 293r, 296v), thereby emphasizing the role of the artist, whether it be a painter or a writer in the creation of Toute-Belle. 32 There are, however, images in MS A depicting Machaut as a member of a court audience. In both instances, these images decorate the ‘roy qui ne ment’ dream sequence (fols. 268v and 271v). 33 Godefroy defines muser as both ‘s’amuser, perdre son temps’ and ‘jouer de la musette’ (Dictionnaire de l’ancienne langue francaise, 10 vols., Paris, 1937). 34 For a summary of these arguments, the reader is referred to Jacqueline Cerquiglini’s article on early editors of the Voir dit, ‘Le Voir Dit mis à nu.’ 35 In an earlier reading of Machaut’s use of anagrams, Laurence de Looze suggested that ‘[t]he reader must trover – which is both discover and compose – these names (words) from the letters at his disposal, just as the poet fashions the raw material of language into a poem’ (‘Guillaume de Machaut and the Writerly Process,’ French Forum 9 (1984): 145–61; 153). He later adds to his earlier comments that ‘[Guillaume de Machaut] invests the reader

262 Notes to pages 73–82

36 37 38 39

with writerly, almost creationary, powers – the power to (re)write the author’ (’Mon nom trouveras’: A New Look at the Anagrams of Guillaume de Machaut – The Enigmas, Responses, and Solutions,’ Romanic Review 79, no. 4 (1988): 537–57; 540–1. In his more recent study of anagrams in Machaut’s works, he considers the impossibility of correctly pulling Machaut’s name from anagrams as ‘near-naming,’ which the poet uses to evade his reader (Pseudo-Autobiography, 73). Machaut’s comments on the anagram in the Voir dit may throw new light on scholars’ constant manipulations of the poet’s anagrams, as they suggest that the desire to extract Machaut’s name from an anagram has less to do with their desire to associate the text with the poet, as de Looze suggests, and more to do with controlling the text as reader/ masters. In ‘Un engin si soutil,’ Cerquiglini-Toulet notes that in fact, there are 479,001,600 possible solutions to the anagram (235). Brian Stock, Implications of Literacy. Paul Saenger, Space between Words, 273–6. Jonathan Culler, ‘Prolegomena to a Theory of Reading,’ in The Reader in the Text: Essays on Audience and Interpretation, ed. Susan R. Suleiman and Inge Crosman (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 46–66; 51–2.

Part II: Intermediary Readers and Their Shaping of Machaut’s Voir dit 1 Roger Chartier, ‘Texts, Printing, Readings,’ in The New Cultural History, ed. Lynn Hunt (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1989), 154–75. 2 Because of the radical abridgement campaign undertaken to create the unique version of the Voir dit presented in Pierpont Morgan, MS M 396 (MS Pm), I reserve discussion of this manuscript for Part III. The sigla provided by Ernst Hoepffner will serve to identify the extant manuscripts hereafter. 3 See Stephen Nichols, ‘Introduction.’ 4 Dominic Leo’s recent dissertation is a promising contribution to the study of the involvement of intermediary readers, here artists, to Machaut’s corpus. See ‘Authorial Presence in the Illuminated Machaut Manuscripts,’ PhD diss., Institute of Fine Arts, New York University, 2004. 5 Williams pointed to the detailed description of book production contained in the Voir dit as suggestive evidence of the author’s intimate familiarity with the bookmaking process and mused that references to ‘le livre ou je mets toutes mes choses’ may refer to MS A where a rubric introducing the index reads ‘Vesci l’ordenance que G. de Machau wet qu’il ait en son livre’ (fol. Av). See ‘An Author’s Role in Fourteenth-Century Book Production:

Notes to pages 82–5

6 7 8

9 10 11 12

13 14

15 16 17

263

Guillaume de Machaut’s “livre où je met toutes mes choses,”’ Romania 90 (1969): 433–54. Reproductions of the index are provided in Earp, ‘Machaut’s Role in the Production of Manuscripts of His Works,’ Journal of the American Musicological Society 42 (1989): 461–502; 483–5. François Avril, ‘Les manuscrits enluminés,’ 126, 132. Lawrence Earp, ‘Machaut’s Role,’ 487. See William W. Kibler and James I. Wimsatt, ‘Machaut’s Text and the Question of His Personal Supervision,’ in Chaucer’s French Contemporaries: The Poetry/Poetics of Self and Tradition, ed. R. Barton Palmer (New York, 1999: AMS Press, Inc), 93–110. Other scholars point out the greater care taken in producing MSS F–G than found in MS A. Paul Imbs considered MSS F–G to be the most authoritative copy of Machaut’s works and thus established it as the base text for his edition of the Voir dit. Leech-Wilkinson and Barton Palmer have held out against the growing preference for MSS F–G over MS A by establishing MS A as the base manuscript for their recent edition of the Voir dit Besides the two miniatures decorating the Prologue, a third appears at the head of the Prise d’Alixandre. Anne Walters Robertson, Guillaume de Machaut and Reims: Context and Meaning in his Musical Works (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 51. Avril, ‘Les manuscrits enluminés,’ 128–9. To complicate matters even further, it is also possible that the illuminations were only later added. Elizabeth A. Keitel reproduces and offers a detailed description of the arms in ‘La tradition manuscrite de Guillaume de Machaut,’ in Guillaume de Machaut: Poète et compositeur (Paris: Klincksieck, 1982), 74–94; 92. Avril, ‘Les manuscrits enluminés,’ 129. Hoepffner linked the manuscript with a payment to Guillaume de Machaut by the Duke of Berry in 1371, speculating that the payment was in relation to the receipt of MS E. This claim has since been roundly contested. An exlibris attributed to Nicolas Flamel, secretary to the Duke of Berry on the opening folio only confirms the duke’s eventual ownership: ‘Ce livre de Machaut est de Jehan, filz de roy de France Duc de Berry et d’Auvergne, Conte de Poitou d’Estampes, de Bouloingne et d’Auvergne. FLAMEL.’ The codex also contains a now effaced signature on the last folio: ‘Ce livre et au duc de Berry et d’Auvergne, conte de Poitou et d’Auvergne.’ Keitel notes that the ex-libris appears on a double folio of different parchment (Elisabeth Keitel, ‘La tradition manuscrite,’ 90). Meiss, French Painting, 1:315; Avril, ‘Les manuscrits enluminés,’ 128. Avril, ‘Les manuscrits enluminés,’ 128. For a discussion of the possible material cause for this intermingling of two

264 Notes to pages 85–6

18

19 20

21

22 23

24

25

26

different musical genres, see Lawrence Earp, ‘Scribal Practice, Manuscript Production and the Transmission of Music in Late Medieval France: The Manuscripts of Guillaume de Machaut,’ PhD diss., Princeton University, 1983, 126–9. Renaming Machaut’s works is not unique to MS E. The Dit de l’alerion, for example, is identified by an alternative title present in MS 1586, the Dit de .iiii. oysiaulx. François Avril, ‘Manuscrits enluminés,’ 128. James I. Wimsatt and William W. Kibler, music ed. Rebecca A. Baltzer, Guillaume de Machaut: Le Jugement du roy de Behaigne and Remede de Fortune (Athens: The University of Georgia Press, 1988), 23; R. Barton Palmer and Leech-Wilkinson, ‘Introduction,’ xcv–xcvii. Jacqueline Cerquiglilni-Toulet, ‘Introduction,’ 27. It should be noted that in other discussions of MS E, Cerquiglini has been more generous in her assessment of MS E. See, for example, ‘Un engin si soutil,’ 41–2. Her seemingly conflicting assessments are understandable given that in the first cited incidence, she is ultimately evaluating the codex as an unworthy source for an edition and in the second, as a source of innovation. On the uniqueness of the collection, see Margaret Bent, ‘The Machaut Manuscripts Vg, B and E,’ Musica Disciplina 37 (1983): 53–82. Hasenohr, ‘Les romans en vers,’ in Mise en page et mise en texte du livre manuscript, ed. Henri-Jean Martin and Jean Vezin (Paris: Editions du cercle de la librairie – Promodis, 1990), 245–62; 262. For more details, see Earp, Scribal Practice, 120–9, 146–7. It should also be noted that the Remède de Fortune in MS E also includes music and the Prise d’Alixandre adopts a similar layout to accommodate the epistolary correspondence. That is, like the Voir dit, the letter portions of the text supplant the three-column layout, extending across the page. Margaret Bent, ‘The Machaut Manuscripts,’ 72–5 and Lawrence Earp, Scribal Practices, 310–26, especially 322. Bent prefers to view changes to the musical works as resulting from the scribe’s access to authoritative materials; Earp, on the other hand, suggests that changes to the music are the result of widespread circulation of Machaut’s texts. See Earp, ‘Machaut’s Role,’ 490. In either case, we are evidently working with an ‘edited’ version of Machaut’s works. Paul Imbs acknowledged in discussions at the 1978 Reims conference that ‘ces degradations sont en réalité des actualisations du point de vue du langage. Le langage a été modernisé, ..., simplement pour faciliter la lecture,’ ‘Débat 1ère journée, après-midi,’ in Guillaume de Machaut: Poète et compositeur (Paris: Klincksieck, 1982), 135–42; 138.

Notes to pages 86–96  265 27 Earp, ‘Scribal Practice,’ 125–6. 28 Mary A. Rouse and Richard H. Rouse, Authentic Witnesses. Approaches to Medieval Texts and Manuscripts (South Bend, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1991). 3. Instructing Readers 1 Embedded comments in Guillaume’s letters on the bookmaking process have been meticulously detailed and examined by Sarah Jane Williams in her seminal article ‘An Author’s Role.’ 2 Elspeth Kennedy, ‘Scribe as Editor,’ in Mélanges de langue et de literature du moyen âge et de la Renaissance offerts à Jean Frappier, 2 vols. (Genève: Droz, 1970), 1:523–31; 531. 3 In this instance, my rendering of the passage relies heavily on Palmer’s transla- tion, albeit with some changes in wording and punctuation. Note, for example, that Palmer translates the line as ‘The pleasant ones as well as the bitter’ (l. 495). Imbs provides a near identical French translation: ‘les aimables et les amers’ (p. 75). 4 The spelling stabilizes by the sixteenth century, when ‘sur/sure’ assumes both interpretations. 5 Ruth Morse, Truth and Convention in the Middle Ages: Rhetoric, Representation, and Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). Regarding the letters, Jacqueline Cerquiglini addresses directly their value as vehicles of truth, see ‘Un engin si soutil,’ 47–9. 6 ‘Prologue,’ Oeuvres de Guillaume de Machaut, vol. 1, 1–12; section V, ll. 6, 57, 63. 7 In three instances, a single work appears in the Loange, the Voir dit, and the music section. Possibly noticing the triple entries, the bookmakers responsible for MSS F–G excised the compositions in question from the Loange while retaining them in the Voir dit and in the music section. Finally, there are two additional entries that while repeated twice in MS A (in Loange and in the Voir dit), do not figure in the Loange section of MSS F–G. Earp provides a concordance for all manuscripts containing the Loange in the Guide to Research, Table 6.7, 247–55. 8 Elizabeth Eva Leach argues that a similar approach to reading Machaut’s work through cross-referencing appears in the Loange des dames (‘Death of a Lover,’ 472–5). 9 MS E presents a radically different scenario by placing the Voir dit in the music section of the compendium. Chapter 5 is dedicated to examining the repercussions associated with the text’s new location. 10 These marginal instruments and players are located on fols. 1v, 16v, 54v, 127v, 161v, 233r, 237r.

266 Notes to pages 97–8 11 As opposed to MS A, in MSS F–G, the Loange is listed in the music section. Thus the reader only need advance to find the multiple entries of material that first appear in the Voir dit. In MS E, both the Loange and the few notated songs that are repeated precede the Voir dit. Discussion of the rearrangement of the song section to eliminate repetition in MS E is discussed in chapter 5. 12 Although discussing modern music, Susan Youens’s remarks concerning the difference between poetry read and poetry set to music rings especially true for late medieval polyphonic music: ‘Poetic meaning derives in part from the disposition of line, rhyme, meter, and stanza, from verse’s many devices, such as enjambment, that are obliterated by music ... Music ... rides roughshod over the very structures that constitute poetry ... the singing voice itself, especially at the high and low ends of the voice, makes individual words and syllables difficult to distinguish, and the veiling or virtual obliteration of the poetry becomes an expressive instrument beyond the ken of language.’ Retracing a Winter’s Journey: Schubert’s Winterreise (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 308–10; 308. 13 The invitation to look through the entire corpus, as well as appeals to consider the physical page, are not limited to the Voir dit but are filtered throughout Machaut’s corpus. The poet’s own tendency to perceive of his creative enterprise as a voluminous or multi-volume entity is already mentioned in the Jugement de Navarre, where the lady’s admonishment that he read his own works to find the source of her anger leads the poet to complain that he does not have the required time to read cover to cover or ‘d’ordre en ordre et de point en point’ his many books. The Judgment of the King of Navarre, ed. and trans. R. Barton Palmer (New York: Garland, 1988), l. 889. 14 Although indices have a long history, dating back to the Greeks, they reemerge as important components of medieval books in the twelfth century, thus corresponding to the first documented surge of literacy in medieval culture. See Parkes, ‘Ordinatio and Compilatio,’ and Rouse and Rouse, ‘La naissance.’ By the fourteenth century, these reading aids have grown in complexity. Examples of table of contents that include summaries of the texts listed, alphabetized indices of major writings so large they are produced as separate works, and complex presentations of lists that adopt visual representations of trees or hands to help situate works become more common in the later Middle Ages. On the growing complexity, see Malcolm Parkes, ‘Folia librorum quarere : Medieval Experience of the Problems of Hypertext and the Index, Fabula in tabula: una storia degli indici dal manoscritto

Notes to pages 98–108

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al testo elettronico: atti del Convegno di studio della Fondazione Esio Franceschini e della Fondazione IBM Italia, Certosa del Galluzzo, 21–22 ottobre 1994, ed. Claudio Leonardi, Marcello Morelli, and Francesco Santi (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 1995), 23–41. Gérard Genette, Seuils (Paris: Seuil, 1987). Lawrence Earp has persuasively argued that the MSA table of contents began as a list of instructions addressed to the workshop and it was only later redefined as a table of contents; see Lawrence Earp, ‘Scribal Practice,’ 52–83 and ‘Machaut’s Role,’ 482–7. Regarding the ordering of some musical entries, Earp notes that the inconsistencies between the list of instructions and the actual layout of MSA can be explained by scribal efforts to avoid splitting polyphonic voices of a single composition across a page turn (‘Machaut’s Role,’ 482). Yet another case of negotiations resulting from hybrid compositions can be detected in the presentation of the Jugement poems and the Lai de plour that was often attached to these works in other copies (L22). At an early stage in producing MS A, the decision was taken to place the lay with the other musical pieces. I am indebted to Lawrence Earp for pointing this out to me. Earp,‘Machaut’s Role,’ 486–7. Earp, ‘Scribal Practices,’ 59–62. In ‘Machaut’s Role,’ Earp alters his argument to suggest that possibly neither the Voir dit nor the Prise appeared in the original listing (486). Curiously, in spite of the erasure, which implies an evident concern for correcting the list, the revisions fail still yet to replicate the actual order of texts in MS A, where Le dit de la marguerite precedes Les complaintes in the manuscript. As noted earlier, the scribe remedies the former error when providing foliation.

4. Illustrations and the Shape of Reading 1 For an analysis of the ‘Ymage’ dream sequence and its overall relationship to the Voir dit, see Deborah McGrady, ‘Réponse à l’Ovide moralisé ?’ 2 Hélène Toubert, ‘Formes et functions de l’enluminure. 3 Stephen Nichols argues for the importance of illuminations as evidence of bookmakers adapting a work for the intended recipient and as a receptacle for their own agenda in ‘Commentary and/as Image,’ South Atlantic Quarterly 91 (1992): 965–92. 4 Michael Camille, ‘The Book of Signs: Writing and Visual Difference in Gothic Manuscript Illumination,’ Word and Image 1 (1985): 133–48; 138.

268

Notes to pages 108–24

5 The MS E copy of the complete Voir dit does not figure in the present study of pictorial programs, as it only assigns space for four miniatures to the Voir dit. 6 Of these thirty miniatures that MS F shares in common with MS A, only one disagrees with the layout in MS A. The miniature in question is located in MS A before line 8059 and in MS F, before line 8097. 7 Appendix I provides a listing of the images decorating copies of the Voir dit in MSS A, F, and Pm). References in this chapter to the miniature cycles in MSS A and F will indicate the manuscript and corresponding image number listed in the Appendix. Readers are directed to the Leech-Wilkinson and Palmer edition for reproductions of all the illustrations decorating the MS A version of the Voir dit, for which pagination is provided in the Appendix. 8 For an excellent discussion of the artists of MS A and an overview of the MS A miniature cycle, see Dominic Leo’s informative and thought-provoking essay in the Leech-Wilkinson and Palmer edition of the Voir dit. (xci–xciii). 9 Genviève Hasenohr, ‘La Prose,’ in Mise en page et mise en texte du livre manuscrit, ed. H.-J. Martin and J. Vezin (Paris: Editions du cercle de la librairie – Promodis, 1990). 10 Emile Benveniste, Problèmes de linguistique générale (Paris: Gallimard, 1966), vol. 1, 237–50. 11 See Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book, 53–64. 12 Christopher de Hamel, A History, 101. 13 Michael Camille, Images on the Edge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 42. 14 On the importance of pictorial variance within miniature programs, see Brigitte Buettner, Boccaccio’s Des cleres, 57. 15 These classical and moral divagations include the poet’s reflections on Semiramus (ll. 4809–982), Hébé (ll. 5083–123), Caesar (ll. 6175–202), Leander, and other classical lovers (ll. 6329–90); the reciting of dreams in which imaginary figures counsel the poet, including le ‘roy qui ne ment’ dream (ll. 5162–733) and the dream in which Toute-Belle’s portrait retells the story of the crow (ll. 7719–8096); and the counsel of Guillaume’s living acquaintances, including the secretary’s retelling of the fates of foolish lovers (ll. 6652–7187) and his lord’s reflections on the God of Love (ll. 7232–341). 16 The case for some mnemonic wheels as actual devices to be manipulated by students is presented by Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory, 251. 17 The image is reproduced on the cover of Paul Imbs’s recent edition of the Voir dit. 18 Roland Barthes, S/Z (Paris: Seuil, 1970), 120–1. 19 Paul Saenger links private reading with a return of erotic literature (Space

Notes to pages 124–9

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between Words, 274–5). But whereas Saenger argues that private reading leads to writing erotic literature, I contend that in the Voir dit, reading actually becomes an erotic act. Evelyn Birge Vitz has recently revisited the practice of ‘erotic reading’ as presented in earlier literature. She documents the insistence of writers of romance on spurring their audiences to imitate fictional lovers in their amorous actions. Here, we pursue Vitz’s argument. Erotic reading is a ‘literary’ education in the art of fetishizing written matter. Evelyn Birge Vitz, ‘La lecture érotique au Moyen Age et la performance du roman,’ Poétique 137 (2004): 35–51. 20 Andrew Taylor, ‘The Manuscript as Fetish,’ Textual Situations: Three Medieval Manuscripts and Their Readers (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 197–208. 5. Layout and the Staging of Performance in BnF, MS fr. 9221 1 Machaut does not detail the music-making process in a single passage but intersperses references throughout the narrative. Throughout the Voir dit, Guillaume makes clear that the composition of the music is a second phase in production. His oft-repeated statement that he will compose the music later recurs throughout his letters. In L. XXXIII, Guillaume informs TouteBelle of his habit of listening to his works performed so that he can make necessary corrections before disseminating copies (p. 558e). Concerning the final need to locate a messenger to learn the melody, Guillaume establishes this as one of his early challenges. Regarding the initial ballade he sends his lady, he informs the external audience that he taught the melody to the messenger (ll. 604–6). 2 The relative absence of music in the A and F–G copies of the Voir dit is all the more surprising given the already well-established Remede tradition, in which musical interpolations and visual references to music were common fare (a tradition represented in MSS A and F). Sylvia Huot provides an excellent study of this tradition, pointing out the nuances that distinguish the MS A Remede from the early copy of the work in MS C (BnF, MS f.fr. 1586), where the miniature cycle sought to promote simultaneously the musical and textual aspects of the interpolated compositions. She argues that MS A dramatically downplays the musical component of the Remede de Fortune in the miniature cycle to emphasize the poet’s writerly identity (From Song to Book, 277–80). Her study of the Remede in MS A concurs with my reading of the MS A Voir dit. 3 D.F. McKenzie, Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, rpt 1999), 13.

270  Notes to pages 130–40 4 The last two pieces in this list were conjoined and set to a single score. 5 For a descriptive and comparative listing of the miniature cycles of all extant Machaut manuscripts, see Earp, Guide to Research, 129–88. 6 The reader will recall that MSS A and F–G incorporate the Remede music directly into the narrative. 7 This long line layout is not unique to the MS E version of Machaut’s works. BnF, MS fr. 1586 also experiments with alternating page layouts for the Remede de Fortune. But no other extant copy of the Voir dit presents this layout. For a reproduction of such a page from MS 1586, see François Avril, Manuscript Painting, plate 24. 8 Hasenohr acknowledges the influence layout can have on reading tempo: ‘La présentation des textes en prose sur deux colonnes, ... , n’allait pas de soi: fonctionnelle quand elle permettait d’ameliorer la lisibilité en brisant des lignes trop longues ou trop resserrées, elle risquait à son tour de l’entra­ver lorsqu’elle isolait des séquences trop courtes’ (‘La Prose,’ 268 a/b). 9 Emma Dillon, Medieval Music-Making, 216–82. 10 On the importance of script to shaping our reception of a text, several scholars comment on its power to orient readers in the reception of a text because it designates what is to be privileged, the purpose of the book, and how it is to be used; see Stanley Morison, Politics and Script: Aspects of Authority and Freedom in the Development of Graeco-Latin Script from the Sixth Century B.C. to the Twentieth Century A.D. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972); Bernhard Bischoff, Latin Paleography: Antiquity and the Middle Ages, trans. Daibhí o Cronín and David Ganz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), esp. 71, 77, 79, 206–7; and Martin Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture: ‘Grammatica’ and Literary Theory 350–1100 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 383–5. 11 Not noted in the table of contents is that the Voir dit is extended by two works, ‘Lay de Plour, Malgré Fortune’ (L19/14) and an opus dubium, ‘Doulz cuers gentils.’ After the last work, a rubric announces ‘explicit le voir dit’ (fol. 211). 12 See introduction to Part II of the present study for an overview of scholarly reception of MS E. 13 Nancy Regalado, ‘The Chronique métrique,’ 470. 14 Boulton explores the use of song to structure a narrative in chapter 7 of The Song in the Story (243–71). As for the disjunction between the story sketched by the songs and its development in the narrative, see especially Boulton’s analysis in the same study of the Amoureuse Prise by Jehan Acart, pp. 260–3. 15 The notion of polyphonic reading introduced here is indebted to Maureen Boulton’s comparison of the composition of the Voir dit to polyphonic

Notes to pages 140–5

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practices. What is proposed here expands on her argument to take into account the fourth ‘voice’ in the Voir Dit, which is represented by the musical compositions. See Maureen Boulton, ‘The Dialogical Imagination in the Middle Ages: The Example of Guillaume de Machaut’s Voir Dit,’ Allegorica 10 (1989): 85–94. Boulton explores the implications of rhetorical distinctions between prose, narrative verse, and songs for our understanding of the Voir dit in ‘Guillaume de Machaut’s Voir Dit: The Ideology of Form,’ in Courtly Literature: Culture and Context. Selected Papers from the Fifth Triennal Congress of the International Courtly Literature Society, Dalfsen, the Netherlands, 9–16 August 1986, ed. K. Busby and E. Kooper (Amsterdam: John Benjamins and Utrecht Publications in General and Comparative Literature, 1990), 39–47; 40–2. Gabrielle Spiegel offers the most detailed analysis of the link between prose and truth in her study Romancing the Past: The Rise of Vernacular Prose Historiography in the Thirteenth Century (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993). Regarding manuscript production, textual evidence reveals that MS E was transcribed in three major stages. Following an establishment of the layout, the scribe transcribed the narrative portions of the text. While it is not clear what followed next, the letters and the music appear to have been transcribed separately. The presence of a catchword on fol. 194v suggests that the verse portions were composed first because in announcing the next grouping, it cites the first word of the narrative although the page opens with the continuation of letter. It is important to note that while the inscribed instructions to readers in the Voir dit are not eliminated or altered, the reader of MS E does not experience the codex in the same manner. Where the readers of MSS A and F–G would be rewarded, for searching in the music section, with the discovery of the eight compositions not included in the Voir dit, the MS E reader discovers a single song reproduced in the previous music section. There are, however, ten poems from the Voir dit that are reproduced in the Loange collection. Emma Dillon, Medieval Music-Making, especially chapter 2, ‘Music and The Book: Approaches to the Interpretation of Manuscripts,’ 29–64. An early example of a text especially dependent on its creative presentation is the Roman de Fauvel, but the codex is not entirely successful in presenting a lisible text since no clear order guides readers in proceeding through the various components that make up the work. Nancy Freeman Regalado examines how the manuscript directs the reader’s experience in ‘The Chronique métrique.’

272

Notes to pages 146–56

Part III: Inventive Readers and the Struggle for Control 1 ‘How to Recognize a Poem When You See One,’ in Is There a Text? 322–37; 327. 2 Marcel Jousse, La manducation de la parole (Paris: Gallimard, 1975). 6. Eustache Deschamps as Machaut’s Reader 1 Kevin Brownlee, Poetic Identity, 7–9. 2 ‘Reading as Poaching,’ in The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Rendall (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984), 165–76. 3 Ian Laurie and Deborah Sinnreich-Levi calculate that only approximately 23 per cent of Deschamps’s corpus can be classified as love lyrics: ‘Introduction,’ Eustache Deschamps: Selected Poems (New York: Routledge, 2003), 22. 4 All citations and references to Deschamps’s corpus are from Le Marquis de Queux de Saint-Hilaire, Oeuvres completes d’Eustache Deschamps, 11 vols. (Paris: 1878). The reader is also encouraged to consult the recent bilingual anthology of Deschamps’s writings edited and translated by Ian S. Laurie and Deborah Sinnreich-Levi, Selected Poems. 5 Brownlee considers faiseur to be simply a gloss of poete (Brownlee, Poetic Identity, 8). Ardis Butterfield, however, argues that faiseur embraced music and poetry, whereas the second title appears as a synonym for ‘author.’ Poetry and Music in Medieval France: From Jean Renart to Guillaume de Machaut (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 291–2. Faiseur is loosely translated here as ‘writer’ to distinguish it from the more respected title of poet. 6 Two additional works speak to the poets’ intimate familiarity, for the two are said to endure one another’s excessive flatulence when sharing a room: ‘Je, meliant, Enguerran et Machaut,/ Nous plaignons for du pet qu’a fait Oudart’ (R578, vol. 4: 37) and ‘Machaut m’amet que je poy laidement’ (R585, vol. 4: 43). There are also examples of Machaut’s works in the Art de dictier. 7 Robert Magnon draws similar conclusions in his study of ballades 123 and 124: ‘Eustache Deschamps and His Double: Musique Naturele and Musique Artificiele,’ Ars Lyrica 7 (1993): 47–64; 63–4. 8 In two additional interlocking rondeaux, Deschamps appears to rewrite once again Toute-Belle’s initial poem. In ‘cellui qui n’ose vous parler’ (R1275, 7:15), he underscores his own ineptness to assume the role of lover through a rich play of intertextual allusions. Deschamps’s poetic persona claims that his timidity keeps him from openly expressing his love before his lady. She responds by accusing him of cowardice, noting that the honour-

Notes to pages 156–9

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able act is to speak, not write: ‘Plus seur est de parler que d’escripre’ (R276, 7:16, l. 4). I am not suggesting that Deschamps is the first to use poetry to moralistic ends. On the contrary, a long tradition is in place, one that Machaut himself drew on to compose many of his works, of which the two best examples are the Confort d’ami and the Prise d’Alixandre. Even the Voir dit contains numerous moral lessons concerning a wide array of topics ranging from gossip and infidelity to the repercussions for avarice and indifference. In this respect, the Voir dit fused a courtly topic with didactic material, thereby opening the door to multiple readings. Moreover, if we interpret notae as evidence of how medieval audiences actually read texts, then we must acknowledge that the didactic interpolations in the Voir dit, especially the roy qui ne ment passage which details the appropriate conduct of princes and lovers, the dream sequence in which Toute-Belle’s portrait revisits ovidian mythology, and Guillaume’s own study of Livy’s commentary on Fortune were by far the most popular passages. Machaut, however, even in his less than complementary portrayal of Toute-Belle as possibly an overzealous young lady more interested in the poet’s material than his heart, never openly attacks love poetry as a foil for more devious ambitions. On Deschamps’s literary journey towards a more moralistic discourse, see Laura Kendrick, ‘Rhetoric and the Rise of Public Poetry: The Career of Eustache Deschamps,’ Studies in Philology 80 (1983): 1–13. Compounding this negative portrait of his audience is Deschamps’s repeated descriptions of his public as superficial, materialistic, and cruel. Of the wealthy, he writes ‘riches veult les autres subvertir/ Et tout avoir; prandre aux povres le leur’ (B3, 1: 72–3, ll. 11–12). He frequently speaks of the vices that pervade the court: his audience covets all they see (B15, 1:15; B21, 1:99–100, etc), they are incorrigible gossipers (B20, 1:98–9) and false lovers (B33, 1:115–16). All is summed up in Ballade 72 in which the poet converses with a friend of his staying at court. The poet presents the court as a pack of lying, gossiping, greedy, selfish, and deceptive individuals who exploit even the poor and powerless to achieve their desires (B72, 1:171–3). One can only imagine that this audience might vociferously challenge his doomsday accounts of court culture, laugh in the face of his exaggerated cynicism, or worse turn a deaf ear to his numerous moralistic writings. Deborah Sinnreich-Levi, ed., L’Art de dictier (Lansing, Mich.: Colleagues Press, 1994), 64–7. Sinnreich-Levi refers to the therapeutic qualities that Deschamps assigns poetry in ‘Medicine and Music, Hygiene and Poetry: L’Art de dictier Revisted,’ Romance Languages Annual 10 (1998): 164–7.

274

Notes to pages 160–2

13 It is possible to extend the Fortune Passage to include events recorded in ll. 8606–805, where Toute-Belle’s confessor provides a retort to Guillaume’s unbecoming comparison of the poet’s lady and Fortune by likening the lover to Lady Fortune. Two late manuscripts encourage extending the passage to include this section. Bern, Burgerbibliothek, 218 (MS K) and Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, 5203 (MS J) retain the two Lady Fortune passages from the Voir dit while eliminating intervening letters. For a description of these manuscripts, see Earp, A Guide to Research, 97–100. 14 Joyce Coleman, ‘Text Recontextualized in Performance: Deschamps’ Prelection of Machaut’s Voir Dit to the Count of Flanders,’ Viator 31 (2000): 233–48. 15 The first modern edition of Deschamps’s complete works by Queux de Saint-Hilaire proposed two dates for Deschamps’s meeting with the count. The first date of 19 June 1369 marks the marriage of Louis de Mâle’s daughter Marguerite of Flanders to Philippe the Bold, Duke of Burgundy (1:377). Raynaud later proposed an alternative date of March–May 1375 when a peace conference in Bruges hosted by the count brought together Burgundian and French representatives (11:22, 224). Coleman concurs with Raynaud’s dating. In spite of these dismissals of the wedding celebrations, historical documents make a convincing case for the presence of Deschamps and the count in Bruges in 1369. The extensive travelling throughout Flemish territory undertaken by the wedding party following the marriage ceremony at the church of Saint-Bavon in Gand included a stop in Bruges, where the duke hosted several banquets for the bourgeoisie. Reference to Philip the Bold’s visit to Bruges following his marriage are found in Amable Guillaume Prosper Barante, Histoire des ducs de Bourgogne de la maison de Valois (1364–1477) (Paris, 1842) and Richard Vaughan, Philip the Bold (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1962), 6. More recently, Bertrand Schnerb discusses the duke’s repeated visits to Flanders over the summer of 1369 and again in 1370, 1371, 1372, 1374, and in 1375–6 for the peace conference. See Schnerb, L’État bourguignon 1363–1477 (Paris: Perrin, 1999), especially 58–63. It is quite feasible that his father-in-law joined Philip the Bold on these excursions since they were intended as a means of introducing the region to the heir apparent. Furthermore, the earlier wedding event would have entailed its own large entourage and it is likely that Deschamps, having entered royal service in 1368, would have accompanied the duke. On Deschamps’s royal service, see Ian S. Laurie, ‘Biography,’ in Eustache Deschamps, French Courtier-Poet: His Work and His World, ed. Deborah M. Sinnreich-Levi (New York: AMS Press, 1998), 1–72; 7, 42n30. If in fact we consider the wedding event as the venue for the reading, the evident conflict that

Notes to pages 162–70

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emerges between the framing event and the misogynous content of the selected passage should come as no surprise. Deschamps’s poetry frequently casts marriage in a misogynistic light. Among his so-called ballades amoureuses, the reader unearths various warnings addressed to men to be wary of marriages to either younger or older woman (B536, 3:375). In his incomplete Miroir de marriage – his lengthiest composition, Deschamps provides his most exhaustive study of marriage, listing the pros and cons. But the text ends abruptly with a virulent misogamous and misogynous diatribe. Palmer, ‘Introduction,’ xxvi–xxvii, lii. For a different perspective, see Brownlee who identifies the second half as a rewriting of the first (Poetic Identity, 127–56). The decoration of this passage in MSS A, F, and E has already been discussed in Part II. MSS J and K also contain similar illustrations. See Earp, A Guide to Research, 181–2 for a comparative description of the miniatures of all extant medieval copies. In MS Pm, an ostensible copy of MS A (to be discussed in chapter 8), the rubricator emphasizes the important link between the verbal description and the subsequent image when he alters the introductory material and writes ‘ymage a ainsi disoit’ (fol. 110r). The use of the refrain ‘sil est voirs ...’ at the conclusion of each individual reflection, however, can be viewed as an internal division that Machaut used to mark the narrative. If we extend the Fortune passage to include the confessor’s follow-up analysis of Fortune, then both large miniatures can be said to decorate the Fortune passage, see above n. 13. Text is included in only one other image, the ‘Dieu d’amours’ image that precedes l. 5382. Carruthers, Book of Memory, 35–7. Ibid., 245. These ideas were developed here in in chapters 2 and 4. Roland Barthes, S/Z, 120–1 On the notion that this ballade was sent to Deschamps, see Saint-Hilaire’s comments, 5:53.

7. Jean Froissart’s Reinvention of the Author–Reader Relationship 1 Apart from an unquestionably vague reference to having received a song sent from Reims in Joli Buisson de Jonece, Froissart remains surprisingly silent on his familiarity with Machaut and his poetry. Le Joli Buisson de Jonece in Jean Froissart: An Anthology of Narrative and Lyric Poetry, ed. and trans. Kristen M.

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9 10

Notes to pages 170–82

Figg and R. Barton Palmer (New York: Routledge, 2001), 267–478, l. 5076. The fact that Machaut’s reputation was widespread at the outset of Froissart’s career in 1360, combined with Froissart’s affiliation with Wenceslas, the son of King John of Bohemia and a patron of Machaut, makes it difficult to imagine that the two poets had not met or at the very least that the young Froissart had not heard or read Machaut’s poetry. For an overview of Froissart’s life, see the introduction to his collected works by Figg and Palmer, see especially pp. 1–6 and, in terms of his relationship with Machaut, pp. 26–33. On Chaucer’s use of Machaut’s poetry, see James I. Wimsatt, Chaucer and His French Contemporaries: Natural Music in the Fourteenth Century (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991), 77–107, 109–40, 244–8. Anthime Fourrier’s scholarship paved the way for this complementary reading of Froissart. See his introduction to Jean Froissart, La Prison amoureuse (Paris: Éditions Klincksieck, 1974), 15–16. ‘From Text to Text and from Tale to Tale: Jean Froissart’s Prison amoureuse,’ in The Centre and Its Compass: Studies in Medieval Literature in Honor of Professor John Leyerle, ed. Robert A. Taylor, James F. Burke, et al. (Studies in Medieval Culture 33), (Kalamazoo, MI: 1993), 87–110; 102. Umberto Eco, The Role of the Reader (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979), 49. Machaut’s Prologue prefaces his corpus with claims that Nature and the God of Love engendered his poetry when they extended to him the skills and the sentiments necessary for composing amorous texts. Machaut promises to sacrifice all in the name of love and he acknowledges that his devotion will be handsomely repaid by a life filled with joy and poetry (Prologue, ll. 105–10). His prologue details the richness and technical variety of his corpus of ‘dis et chansonettes’ (l. 125) as well as emphasizing that he underscores that his writings embody his very essence (Prologue, ll. 135–7). All citations, unless otherwise noted, are from Fourrier (1974). Translations are mine. For a bilingual translation, the reader is referred to the excellent edition by Laurence De Looze, ed. and trans., Jean Froissart: La Prison amoureuse (The Prison of Love) (New York: Garland, 1994). On the possibility that Rose is a fictional double for Wenceslas, see William W. Kibler, ‘Poet and Patron: Froissart’s Prison amoureuse,’ L’Esprit Créateur 18 (1978): 32–46. Laurence De Looze, Pseudo-Autobiography in the Fourteenth Century, 119–20. Godefroy, Dictionnaire de l’ancienne française et de tous ses dialectes du IXè aux XVè siècles (Paris: F. Viewey, Libraire-éditeur, 1880).

Notes to pages 182–90

277

11 Del Sotto, Le Lapidaire du XIVè siècle: Description des pierres précieuses et de leur vertus magiques (Geneva: Slatkine, 1974, rpt), 13. 12 Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet, ‘Fullness and Emptiness Shortages and Storehouses of Lyric Treasures in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,’ in Contexts: Style and Values in Medieval Art and Literature, Yale French Studies Special Edition, ed. Nancy Regalado and Daniel Poirion (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991), 224–39; especially 237–9 and La couleur de la mélancholie: La fréquentation des livres au XIVe siècle 1300–1415 (Paris: Hatier, 1993). 13 Additional references to enclosing texts in chests or in expensive fabric occur in ll. 803 (aloiiere), 2115 (coffinet bel et poli), 2210–11 (un coffin/de cuir bouli, poli et fin), 2230 (kamouka), 3162 (coffre), 3428 (cofin), 3468 (cofin), L. X, l. 18 (coffre) 3749 (d’ivoire un coffret), 3763 (coffre), 3874 (coffret). 14 Flos’s dit is an actual conflation of several Ovidian myths. See Douglas Kelly’s seminal study, ‘Les inventions ovidiennes de Froissart,’ Littérature 41 (1981): 82–92 as well as Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book, 312–14. 15 Douglas Kelly studies Froissart’s references to glossing as a reading method encouraged by the author in ‘Imitation, Metamorphosis, and Froissart’s Use of the Exemplary Modus tractandi,’ in Froissart across the Genres, ed. Donald Maddox and Sara Sturm-Maddox (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1998), 101–18, especially 105. On the intertextual play that defines Froissart’s writings, see Claire Nouvet, ‘Pour une économie de la délimitation: La Prison amoureuse de Jean Froissart,’ Neophilologus 70 (1986): 341–56, especially 349–52. For an introduction to the history of ‘glose’ in the Middle Ages, see Robert W. Hanning, “I Shal Finde It in a Maner Glose’: Versions of Textual Harassment in Medieval Literature,’ in Medieval Texts and Contemporary Readers, ed. Laurie Fink and Martin Sichtman (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987), 27–50. 16 Douglas Kelly notes Froissart’s shaping of his audience as interpreters who must expound on his exempla. See ‘Imitation, Metamorphosis,’ 104–5. 17 e.g., l. 507; L. VI, 1. 51; l. 2228; ll. 3310–11; l. 3470. 18 Fourrier speculates on Froissart’s supervision in the preface to his edition of the Prison amoureuse (7–8). 8. Reading and Salvation 1 A study of the manuscript reveals the loss of one folio between fols. 83–4, five folios between 86–7, two folios between 87–8, six folios between 89–90, one between 95–6, 102–3, 112–13, and 117–18. Regarding the Voir dit specifically, one folio is missing between the following folios: 148–9, 151–2, 162–3,

278

2

3

4

5

6

7

Notes to pages 190–2

163–4, 165–6. The majority of the missing folios correspond to decorated passages in MS A, the ostensible model for MS Pm. These findings are based on an examination of the manuscript and alter the earlier listing of missing folios proposed by François Avril, ‘Les manuscrits enluminés,’ 130n41. Kate Harris, ‘John Gower’s Confessio amantis: The Virtue of Bad Texts,’ in Manuscripts and Readers in Fifteenth-Century England. The Literary Implications of Manuscript Study, ed. Derek Pearsall (Cambridge: Boydell and Brewer, 1983), 27–40; 27–8. I acknowledge that the ‘hand’ responsible for MS Pm may simply serve a ghostwriter, whether the master of a workshop, a patron, or a now lost voice recorded in an intermediate version of Machaut’s corpus. Until further research is undertaken to identify manuscript provenance, I assign agency to the Pm remanieur. Recent scholarship supports this approach, as scholars have explored the intrusive role scribes can play in reproducing medieval texts. See David Hult’s analysis of Gui de Mori’s revisions to the Roman de la Rose in Self-Fulfilling Prophecies, Sylvia Huot, From Song to Book and The Romance of the Rose and Its Medieval Readers. Recently Richard and Mary Rouse and Richard Emmerson have called for caution before attributing too great an authority to atelier workers. The Rouses directly challenge Huot’s work on the Rose manuscripts in Manuscripts and Their Makers, 235–60. Richard Emmerson, ‘Text and Image in the Ellesmere Portraits of the Taletellers,’ in The Ellesmere Chaucer: Essays in Interpretation, ed. M. Stevens and D. Woodward (San Marino, Calif.: Huntington Library, 1995), 143–70. On the ethics of reading, see John Dagenais, The Ethics of Reading, Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory, esp. chapter 5, ‘Memory and the Ethics of Reading,’ 156–88, Laurel Amtower, Engaging Words, and Judson Boyce Allen, The Ethical Poetic of the Late Middle Ages (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982). While Michel Foucault’s essay on authorship focuses exclusively on the construction of the author-figure, it is clear that these same mechanisms are revealed in MS Pm, where author and reader coalesce in the figure of the remanieur. See ‘What Is An Author?’ in Textual Strategies: Perspectives in PostStructuralist Criticism, ed. and trans. Josué V. Harari (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1979), 141–60. Only two other extant manuscripts of Machaut’s collected works possibly date from this period: BnF, MS fr. 843 and MS fr. 1587. For a description of these collections, see Earp, Guide to Research, 95–6. In the latter case, the collection is limited to only four of Machaut’s works. On orthography, the 1940 Pierpont Morgan dossier on MS Pm notes ‘The spelling of such words as beauté, ioli, menchonge, auxi, oeul, cuers,

Notes to pages 192–5

8

9

10

11 12

13 14

15 16

279

viengne, chastiaux, recesses, and the use of the article (ly tristes, ly ioieux), may indicate a South Burgundian scribe,’ (3). James Laidlaw’s work on the Belle dame sans mercy confirms traces of Northeastern dialect in this text (The Poetical Works of Alain Chartier, 1974), 7. François Avril’s work on the pictorial programs decorating Machaut’s manuscripts shows that the Pm illumination program closely imitates MS A both in content and distribution throughout the corpus. See ‘Les manuscrits enluminés,’ 129–30. Lawrence Earp suggests that an analysis of the musical scoring in MS Pm also links the collection with MS A. See Earp, Guide to Research, 101. Concerning abbreviations, Emmanuel Poulle argues that scribe and reader colluded based on the secret language of abbreviations (see ‘L’Écriture latine au Moyen Âge,’ in L’Écriture: le cerveau, l’oeil et la main, ed. Colette Sirat, Jean Irigoin, and Emmanuel Poulle (Turnhout: Brepols, 1990), 335– 48; 337. Genviève Hasenohr discusses the influence of the university book trade on the proliferation of abbreviations. See ‘De l’écriture à la lecture: réflexion sur les manuscrits d’Erec et Énide,’ in Les manuscrits de Chrétien de Troyes/The Manuscripts of Chrétien de Troyes, ed. K. Busby, T. Nixon, A. Stones, and L. Walters (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993), 1:97–148 and ‘Abbréviations et frontières de mots.’ Keith Busby explores in depth the relationship of abbreviations to reading skills in Codex and Context, 127–224. An important exception occurs when typical mid-syllable abbreviations coincide with the end of a prose line, such as in the prose interpolations of the Voir dit. In these instances, the penultimate syllable is abridged and the remainder of the word appears on the following line. In this manner, the Pm remanieur benefits from the abbreviated word forms to satisfy a triple function: it allows him to condense a word to fit more of it on a line, signals the word’s continuation on the next line, and announces the end of a sentence. On punctuation, see Malcolm B. Parkes, Pause and Effect. On the common tendency to eliminate abbreviations in fifteenth-century manuscripts, see Paul Saenger, Space between Words. Compare his discussion of Bede’s early reflections on suspension abbreviations (87) with a study of later medieval shifts in script and punctuation (269–71). Earp, Guide to Research, 87 and 101. On the power of marginalia to distract readers and challenge the central text, see especially Michael Camille’s groundbreaking work, Images on the Edge. Earp, Guide to Research, 102. Cited in Georges Doutrepont, Les mises en prose des épopées et des romans

280 Notes to pages 195–201

17

18 19

20 21

22

23 24

25 26

chevaleresques du XIVe au XVIe siècle (Brussels: Palais des academies, 1939), 389. Because a number of important alterations to the Voir dit are not signalled in the Imbs edition, all of the substantial alterations in the Pm version are listed in Appendix II. In referring to excised, rewritten, or abridged passages in this study, the respective reference number from the accompanying appendix is used. Georges Doutrepont detailed the characteristics of this movement in his groundbreaking work Les mises en prose. For an overview of the prose campaign, see Rhétorique et mise en prose au XVè siècle: Actes du VIe colloque international sur le Moyen Français. Milan, 4–6 mai 1988, ed. Sergio Cigada and Anna Slerca (Milano: Vita E Pensiero, Pubblicazioni dell’Universit a Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, 1991). Doutrepont, Mise en prose, 565. References to classical lovers are retained, however, in lyric interpolations and in the framing narrative. See, for example, the complaintes composed by the two lovers. References to patrons in the framing text remain in MS Pm. In all extant copies of the Voir dit, for example, allusions to the dauphin are found throughout the narrative, although he is only named in ll. 3151–6. Other references to the future king include ll. 1529–31, ll. 3104–20, ll. 3253–9, ll. 7200–401, and it is possible that the roy qui ne ment dream sequence models the king on the Dauphin (ll. 4934–5467). As noted previously, at least five folios are missing from the PM Voir dit. The PM remanieur’s strategy to streamline Machaut’s text is far from out of synch with ideas expressed first by the narrator. On several occasions, Guillaume confesses that he has eliminated some letters, abbreviated others, or refrained from including discussions because they were too lengthy to be included. In this respect, the Pm remanieur can be said to take his cues from the author. Cerquiglini-Toulet, ‘Introduction,’ 26–9. There is scholarly debate surrounding references to R17. Leech-Wilkinson argues that the allusion to a cryptogrammatic poem in L. XXXI refers to ‘Dame, se vous n’avez’ (R13) although there is no indication that R13 contains Toute-Belle’s name. See ‘Le Voir Dit and La Messe de Nostre Dame : Aspects of Genre and Style in Late Works of Machaut,’ Plainsong and Medieval Music 2 (1993): 43–73; 48–50. My argument hinges on R17 being the only obvious cryptogram in the Voir dit and the fact that following the first reference to a rondeau containing Toute-Belle’s name in L. XXV, R17 is the first rondeau recorded.

Notes to pages 202–12

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27 In MS Pm, Toute-Belle requests music in Letters XXVI, 434d; XXVIII, 460f; XXIX, 506d; and XLVI, 782d, but excised are three additional requests from Letters V, VII, and XXVIII (Appendix II, entries 19b, 33b, and 91c). 28 Oton de Grandson, ‘Le livre Messire Ode,’ in Oton de Grandson: Sa vie et ses poesies, ed. Arthur Piaget (Lausanne: Librairie Payot, 1941), 381–478, ll. 329–330. 29 The Imbs edition fails to note that in all cases where we find this rubric repeated in MS F (his base text) and MS A, the same rubrics are missing in MS Pm. 30 Earp’s comparative description of the Voir dit pictorial programs fails to mention this difference. Conclusion: The Residual Text, the Fading of the Author, and the Role of Technology 1 Yet another example is the Confort d’ami, where although the narrator advises the king to examine the Remede de Fortune and the Lay de Bon Espoir, later copies typically reproduce the work without these supports. For the reference, see Guillaume de Machaut Le Confort d’ami (Comfort for a Friend), ed. and trans., R. Barton Palmer (New York: Garland, 1992), ll. 2247–8. For manuscript information, see Earp, Guide to Research, entry 35, 108. 2 On content, history, and purpose of the collection, see James I. Wimsatt, Chaucer and the Poems of ‘Ch’ in University of Pennsylvania MS French 15 (Cambridge: Boydell and Brewer, 1982). For details on production and ownership, see 50–2, 66–8, 238–9. Wimsatt’s argument for the queen’s ownership of this manuscript stems from the suspect claims of Charles Mudge. As Wimsatt admits, we can only hypothesize on the possibility that MS Pa was indeed owned by the queen. Clearly further research on this fascinating manuscript is needed (47, 132n2). 3 Wimsatt identified only nine works as copied from the Voir dit. Earp provides a more complete concordance of the Pa entries in Guide to Research, 116–18. It should be noted that three of the twenty-one works from the Voir dit reproduced in MS Pa appear to have been copied from the Loange des dames series rather than directly from the dit. Wimsatt and Earp present evidence in separate studies that suggest these works were directly copied from MS E. Specifics of this argument are provided by Earp, Guide to Research, 115–16. 4 Wimsatt, Chaucer and the Poems of ‘Ch,’ 47. 5 Oton de Grandson, ‘Lay de Desir en complainte: Belle, tournez vers moy voz yeux,’ in Oton de Grandson: Sa vie et ses poesies, ed. Arthur Piaget (Lausanne: Librairie Payot, 1941), ll. 157–8. Alain Chartier, ‘Debat de Reveille Matin,’ in

282

6

7

8

9

Notes to pages 212–14

The Poetical Works of Alain Chartier, ll. 229–37. For examples of mistakes of authorship, see Earp, Guide to Research, 105–6, 110–11, 114, entry #47. No exact dating for either the manuscript or the Roman de Cardenois that it contains has been proposed. Noteworthy is the presence of the manuscript in the library of the Marquís de Santillana (1398–1458). Dating the work is vexed by the state of this unique copy because both the beginning and the ending of the Roman are absent due to missing folios at the outset and the fact that the scribe broke off writing at the end. Pierre-Yves Badel suggests that the author might have been familiar with Oton de Grandson who was a prisoner in Spain 1372–4. Pierre-Yves Badel, ‘Par un tout seul escondire: Sur un virelai du Buisson de Jeunesse,’ Romania 107 (1985): 369–79; 377. It should be noted, however, that little evidence points to Grandson’s affiliation with this work. Marcello Cocco has worked extensively on the intertextual relationship between Cardenois and the Voir dit. A listing of literary borrowings is provided in Marcello Cocco, ‘L’inedito Roman de Cardenois et la fortuna di Guillaume de Machaut,’ Cultura Neolatina 31 (1971): 125–53. These insertions include a passage from Jugement Behaingne, sample poems from the Loange series (Lo37, 73, 216, 220), and other poems including Cp6, RF1, B5, V19; from the Voir dit, ‘Je ne puis saouller,’ ‘Mes dous amis,’ and direct citation from Letter XXV. Cocco’s edition of the work, Roman de Cardenois (Bologna: Pàtron, 1975) has been strongly criticized. Beyond pointing out numerous editorial errors and transcription mistakes, two of these reviews provide additional examples of textual borrowing from Machaut’s corpus. See Gian Battista Speroni, ‘Una rilettura del ‘Roman de Cardenois’ (a proposito di una recente edizione),’ Medioevo Romanzo 4 (1977): 110–34, especially 118–20, and Philippe Ménard, in Romance Philology 39 (1985–6): 121–3. The Poetical Works of Alain Chartier, ed. J.C. Laidlaw (London: Cambridge University Press, 1974) and Christine de Pizan, Le livre du duc des vrais amans. A Critical Edition, ed. Thelma S. Fenster (Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1995). Studies on Chartier and Christine’s generous but unidentified borrowings from Machaut’s corpus are examined in Leonard W. Johnson, Poets as Players: Theme and Variation in Late Medieval French Poetry (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990). Barbara Altmann, ‘Reopening the Case: Machaut’s Jugement Poems as a Source in Christine de Pizan,’ in Reinterpreting Christine de Pizan, ed. E. Jeffrey Richards (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1992), 137–56. Quoted from BnF, MS fr. 1509 in Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet, ‘Un Engin si soutil,’ 239–40. For full text, see René d’Anjou, Le livre du cuer d’amours espris, ed. Susan Wharton (Paris: Union générale d’éditions, 1980), or the bilin-

Notes to pages 214–19

10

11

12 13 14

15

283

gual edition by Stephanie Viereck Gibbs and Kathryn Karczewska, The Book of the Love-Smitten Heart (New York: Routledge, 2001). Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet discusses at length the various interpretations of the usage of these colloquial expressions. She rightfully points out that Paulin Paris’s initial reading of ‘d’une voir’ in this eulogistic work as a reference to the Voir dit cannot be sustained, nor can Ernst Hoepffner’s rewriting of the passage to replace ‘voir’ with ‘voix.’ Nevertheless, Cerquiglini-Toulet’s insistence that René’s usage of the term is little more than a verbal tic ignores the forceful literary echo such an interjection represents. See Cerquiglini-Toulet, ‘Un Engin si soutil,’ 240–3. Although I have retained the punctuation recorded in the Imbs/ Cerquiglini-Toulet edition, my reading of this passage conflicts with the translations and even the modern punctuating of these lines in both the Imbs and Palmer editions. Jaeger, The Book of the Heart (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000). See Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet’s discussion of Paulin Paris’s manipulation of Machaut’s text in ‘Le Voir Dit mis à nu,’ 347–80. As Sturges points out, by the end of the Voir dit, the reader ‘must almost inevitably become a “médisant”’ (‘Speculation,’ 31). While not referring to the anagrams, Cerquiglini-Toulet also acknowledges that Paulin Paris’s textual indiscretions can be blamed to a certain extent on Machaut: ‘Machaut a préparé le piège dans lequel l’éditeur est tombé’ (‘Le Voir Dit mis à nu,’ 377). Andrew Taylor, Textual Situations, especially 197–208.

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286 Bibliography – Le livre du duc des vrais amans. A Critical Edition. Ed. Thelma S. Fenster. Binghamton, N.Y.: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1995. – The Love Debate Poems of Christine de Pizan. Ed. B. Altmann. Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1998. – Oeuvres poétiques de Christine de Pisan. Ed. M. Roy. Paris: Firmin Didot, 1886–96. Deschamps, Eustache. L’Art de dictier. Ed. D. Sinnreich-Levi. Lansing: Colleagues Press, 1994. – Eustache Deschamps: Selected Poems. Ed. Ian S. Laurie and Deborah SinnreichLevi. New York: Routledge, 2003. – Oeuvres completes d’Eustache Deschamps. Ed. Le Marquis de Queux de SaintHilaire. 11 vols. Paris: SATFL, 1878. Froissart, Jean. Jean Froissart: An Anthology of Narrative and Lyric Poetry. Ed. and trans. Kristen M. Figg and R. Barton Palmer, 267–478. New York: Routledge, 2001. – Chroniques. Ed. K. de Lettenhove. 25 vols. Brussels, 1870–7. – Jean Froissart, La Prison amoureuse. Ed. A. Fourrier. Paris: Éditions Klincksieck, 1974. – Jean Froissart: La Prison amoureuse (The Prison of Love). Ed. and trans. L. de Looze. New York: Garland, 1994. Fournival, Richard de. Li Bestiares d’amours di Maistre Richart de Fornival e Li Response du Bestiaire. Ed. C. Segre. Milan: Riccardo Ricciardi, 1957. Gervès du Bus and Chaillou de Pesstain [facsimile]. Le Roman de Fauvel in the edition of Messire Chaillou de Pesstain, A Reproduction in Facsimile of the Complete Manuscript Paris Bibliothèque Nationale, Fonds Français 146. Ed. Edward H. Roesner, François Avril, and Nancy Freeman Regalado. New York: Broude Bros., 1990. Godefroy, Frédéric. Dictionnaire de l’ancienne française et de tous ses dialectes du IXè aux XVè siècles. Paris: F. Viewey, Libraire-éditeur, 1880. Hayton, Jean. Livres des merveilles (excerpts) in L’Extrême orient au moyen âge. Ed. Louis de Becker, 125–253. Paris: E. Leroux, 1877. Hugh of St Victor. The Didascalicon of Hugh of Saint Victor. A Medieval Guide to the Arts. Trans. and introduction by Jerome Taylor. New York and London: Columbia University Press, 1961; rpt 1991. – Hugonis de Sancto Victore Didascalicon de studio legendi: A Critical Text. Ed. Charles Henry Buttimer. Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Latin, 10. Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1939. John of Salisbury. Ioannis Saresberiensis, Metalogicon, Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis. Ed., J.B. Hall. vol. 98. Turnhout: Brepols, 1991. – The Metalogicon of John of Salisbury. Trans. Daniel D. McCarry. Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1971. Le Lapidaire du XIVè siècle: Description des pierres précieuses et de leur vertus magiques. Ed. Del Sotto. Geneva: Slatkine, 1974, rpt.

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Index 305

Index

Amtower, Laurel, 43 anagram, 11, 40, 71, 72–3, 215, 217 d’Anjou, René: Livre du Cuer d’Amours Espris, 213–14, 215 Annunciation scene, 24, 32, 254n21 Augustine, 25 author-figure, 36, 80, 81, 149, 204 author: authority, 6, 8–9, 58; construction, 150; portrait of, 8, 27, 112, 256n35 Avril, François, 82, 133 Barthes, Roland, 124 Bedford Hours, 33 Bent, Margaret, 86 Bersuire, 34 Boethius, 27, 192, 207, 209 book industry, 3 bookmakers, 7, 11; as intermediary readers, 79–145; as interpreters, 79 books: as fetish, 125–6; iconography, 24 Books of Hours, 4, 32. See also Bedford Hours Boucicaut Master, 21–3 Boucicaut workshop, 34 Boulton, Maureen, 139–40

Bruyant, Jacques, 192, 207, 209 Buettner, Brigitte, 21 Bury, Richard de, 4 Camille, Michael, 107–8, 113 Carruthers, Mary, 166 Cassiodorus, 25 Cerquiglini-Toulet, Jacqueline, 73, 85, 133, 184, 200, 214 Certeau, Michel de, 152 Chansons roiaus, 99, 103 Charles V, 33 Chartier, Alain, 42; La Belle dame sans mercy, 192, 207, 212, 213, 214 Chartier, Roger, 79 Châtelain de Coucy, 5 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 170 Chrétien de Troyes, 5 Christine de Pizan, 6, 7, 39; Complainte amoureuse, 43; Enseignemens moraulx, 35–6; Epistre a Eustace Mourel, 169; Livre de la cité des dames, 28, 38; Livre du duc des vrais amans, 41, 213, 214; Proverbes moraux, 35 Cité des dames Master, 6, 39 Coleman, Joyce, 162, 248n24

306

Index

Confort d’ami, 207, 208, 209, 273n9, 281n1 contemplatio, 25, 38, 253n11 cryptogram, 70, 71, 73, 141, 217 Culler, Jonathan, 74 Dagenais, John, 9, 209–10 Dante Alighieri, 5 deictic terms, 89–91, 94 delivery: and circulation, 52, 62; and control, 11, 14, 69; iconography, 111; and interpretation, 7, 14, 62, 136–8; and layout, 142–5; oral, 11, 58, 60, 61, 126, 203; space, 6, 7, 21–3, 25, 42, 49–50, 110, 120, 121–4, 125, 159; technologies, 5, 6, 41, 43, 58, 61, 62, 66, 74, 97, 133, 135, 145, 159, 162 (see also under hybrid and reading) de Looze, Laurence, 73, 170–1, 181, 183 Deschamps, Eustache, 12–13, 150, 191, 212, 218, 219; Art de dictier, 158–9; authority, 152, 155, 162, 168; Ballade 127, 152, 157, 159–64, 274–5n15; praise of Machaut, 153, 154–7, 163; self-deprecation, 153, 157 devotional literature, 23. See also Books of Hours; Psalters didactic literature, 23, 157 Dillon, Emma, 144 Dit de la harpe, 132 Dit de la marguerite, 99, 101, 102, 103 Duke of Bar, 57, 58, 71, 73, 205 Earp, Lawrence, 82, 99, 102, 194 Eco, Umberto, 171, 188 epistolary genre, 41, 140–1

faiseur, 58, 154, 156, 169 Fish, Stanley, 150 Fonteinne amoureuse, 5, 51, 85, 86, 96, 127, 207, 208 Fournival, Richard de, 5; Bestiaire d’amours, 39, 40–1 Froissart, Jean, 39, 150, 191, 212, 218; Chroniques, 6; Meliador, 6, 7; Prison amoureuse, 5, 13, 169, 203; — author-reader relations, 171, 178, 179, 182–3, 185, 186, 188; — circulation, 176, 177, 188; — poetic collaboration, 185–9; — portrait, 187–8; — purloined letter episode, 180–5; — structure, 172–3; — virelay episode, 173–9 Genette, Gérard, 98 gloser, 187 gloss, 28–9, 46, 55, 66, 173, 186 gossip, 10, 57, 63, 64 Grandes Chroniques de France, 33 Grandson, Oton de: Messire Ode, 203, 212 Harris, Kate, 190 Hasenohr, Geneviève, 85 Hayton, Jean, 21, 22, 43 Hoepffner, Ernst, 83 Hugh of St Victor, 10, 24, 55, 150, 208, 209; Didascalicon, 24, 25–8, 38; manuscript history, 27–8; portrait of, 27 hybrid: expressions, 22; form, 5, 39–40, 101, 102, 144, 145, 151, 163, 194, 212; performance, 5, 10, 14, 131, 134. See also under delivery; Deschamps, Eustache; Voir dit illustrations: function, 107–11, 117;

Index 307 reception, 113. See also under manuscripts indices, 98–9, 266n14 Jean sans Peur (Duke of Burgundy), 21 John of Salisbury, 10, 55; Metalogicon, 24, 28–32 Jugement de Behaingne, 211, 267n18 Jugement de Navarre, 208, 211, 266n13, 267n18 Kennedy, Elspeth, 89 Kibler, William W., and James I. Wimsatt, 82 Lady Fortune, 65–7, 273n9; delivery, 166–7, 168; framing marginalia, 165–6; framing rubrics, 165; illustration, 90, 104, 107, 115–17, 143, 161–2, 164–6, 193; mise en page, 165–6, 193 lectio, 25, 26, 29–30, 39 letters: genre, 257n45; graphic presentation, 144; iconography, 5, 42, 110, 111–12, 113–14, 118, 119– 22, 142–3; as models, 43, 118, 144 listeners, 72 Livy. See Lady Fortune Loange des dames, 94, 96, 97, 102, 103, 192, 203 magister, 28, 29; portrait of, 30–1, 34; iconographic influence, 34–9, 187 manuscripts: – attributes: author involvement, 80–1, 88; decoration, 80; form, 88; glossing, 80, 149; layout, 4, 149; metacommentary, 91; ordering, 80, 88, 149

– Berlin, Staatliche Museen Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, MS 1233, 30 – Bern, Burgerbibliothek, MS 218, 274n18 – London, British Library, Harley 4431, 6, 35–6, 38 – Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, 10264, 212 – New York, Pierpont Morgan, MS M 396, 12, 13, 189, 214; abbreviations, 193–4, 279n10; abridgement, 196–207; additions, 199; content, 190, 191, 192; dating, 192; delivery, 191; dimensions, 196, 199; explicit, 208–9; message, 191, 207–9; metadiscourse, 200; mise en page, 191, 194, 196; music, 194, 199, 200–4; punctuation, 193; remanieur, 150–1, 190, 191, 196; rubrics, 193, 194; script, 192, 194, 196; streamline, 195–6, 280n24 – New York, Wildenstein Collection, MS Vg, 82 – Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, MS 5203, 274n14 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 146, 36–7 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 259, 34 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 830, 187 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 831, 187–8 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 835, 43 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 840, 169 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 1569, 37

308  Index – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 1584, 12, 37–8, 71, 79–83, 126, 191, 209, 218; abbreviations, 82, 193–4; delivery, 143, 145;  dimensions, 82; illustration, 79–80,  81, 84, 87, 105, 107, 108–17, 119–  20, 122, 144–5; mise en page, 90, 109, 134; mise en texte, 94–5; music, 80, 94, 96, 97, 128, 129, 130, 136, 204; ordering, 89, 95, 100; ownership, 81; reception, 133, 142; rubrics, 90, 96, 144–5; scholarly apparatus, 82–3, 192; table of   contents, 81–2, 89, 98–105, 136 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 2810, 21–3 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 9221, 12, 79–80, 126, 191, 218; content, 85; delivery, 128,  133, 134; dimensions, 85, 134;  illustrations, 79–80, 84–5, 130,   143, 144–5; mise en page, 85–6, 90, 130–3, 138, 141–3, 144; modernization, 86; music, 80, 85, 86, 87, 94, 97, 128–45; production, 271n18; ordering, 132–3; ownership, 84; reception, 135–6, 138–42; rubrics, 144–5; script, 84–5, 86, 134; table of contents, 132 – Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 22545–6, 12, 35,   79–80, 191, 218; dating, 83; deco­ ration, 83, 84; delivery, 143, 145; illustrations, 79–80, 83, 87, 105, 108–26, 167, 219; mise en page, 90, 134; music, 80, 94, 96, 128, 129, 130, 136, 204; ordering, 95; ownership, 83–4; reception, 133, 142; rubrics, 96 – Philadelphia, University of Pennsyl-

vania Libraries, MS Fr. 15, 211–12, 214 Marie de France, 5 Master of the Bible of Jean de Sy, 81, 82. See also Prologue Master of Jean Rolin, 33 Master of Jouvenel, 34 McKenzie, D.F., 129 metatext, 88–97 meditatio, 25, 209 mise en prose, 195, 197–8 monasticism: iconography, 35; and reading, 23, 45, 187 music, 50–2, 53, 68, 114, 127–8, 129–  30, 200–4; influence on narrative structure, 141–2; notation, 144; performers, 143, 177. See also under individual manuscripts new philology, 9, 80 Ong, Walter, 250n38 operatio, 25, 39 orality, 144 Oresme, Nicole, 33 Ovid, 106, 154, 185 Ovide moralisé, 65 Palmer, R. Barton, 67, 163 paratext, 12 Paris, Paulin, 217 Parkes, Malcolm, 4, 83 patronage, representation, 5, 6, 21–3, 252n3. See also under reader performance. See delivery performers, 72 Peronne, 155–6 poete, 13, 15, 58, 152, 154, 156, 169, 214 Poulle, Emmanuel, 193

Index 309 praelectio, 29, 30 Prise d’Alixandre, 101, 131, 133, 192, 273n9 private reading. See delivery Prologue, 37–8, 81, 85, 100, 173–6. See also Master of the Bible of Jean de Sy prose, 140–1 Prose Lancelot, 5, 200 Psalters, 32 reader: casual, 188, 219; controlling, 104; iconography, 11, 27–8, 30–9, 41–2; ideal, 58, 136; inscribed, 10, 46, 58, 71; intermediary, 9, 12, 79–145, 149, 153, 219; inventive, 9, 12, 149–210; lay, 4, 8, 15, 16, 39, 43, 84, 150, 172, 218, 219; learned, 4, 6, 192; lovers as models, 39; loving reader, 47–52, 56–7, 74, 218; as patron, 5, 33 (see also patronage); pragmatic, 4, 32; private, 7, 26, 39, 126, 158; privileged, 5; professional, 4, 13, 37, 39, 81–3, 104, 116, 145; recreational, 4, 32, 83, 145 reader reception, 80, 150 reading: erotic, 48, 118, 123–5, 180– 4, 168–9n19; ethical, 207–10; furniture, 3; intimate, 4, 6, 7, 11, 51, 105, 125, 135, 142; material, 44, 56, 126, 133, 135, 158, 237, 189; polyphonic, 140–1; privacy, 212; private, 11, 51, 58–9, 126, 135, 145, 162, 188, 218, 219; public, 4, 6, 13, 26, 43, 62, 74, 133, 135, 144, 159, 162, 166–8, 218, 219; reciprocal, 135, 138, 250n36; scenes, 5; secrecy, 49, 51, 68; silent, 7; space (see under delivery)

reception theory, 14. See also individual theorists Regalado, Nancy, 135. See also reading, reciprocal Reims, 82, 83 Remede de Fortune, 35, 36, 85, 101, 102, 130, 132, 133, 136, 154, 192, 194, 207, 269n2, 270n7, 281n1 Rémy, Perrin. See under manuscripts, BNF, MS fr. 22545–6 Reynolds, Suzanne, 28–9 Robertson, Anne Walters, 83 Roman de Cardenois, 212–13, 214 Roman de Fauvel, 36–7, 144, 271n21, 282n6. See also under manuscripts, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 146 Roman de Poire, 39, 40, 42 Roman de la Rose, 200. See also under manuscripts, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 1569 Saenger, Paul, 74 St Anne, 32–3 St Louis, 33 scholasticism, 3, 4; and author portraits, 33, 36, 187; iconography, 34, 35; and manuscript layout, 87, 209; and reading methods, 23, 45, 48, 192 skills, 136 song. See music Stock, Brian, 73–4 Sturges, Robert, 8, 258n4 table of contents. See indices and see under manuscripts Taylor, Andrew, 125–6, 219 Toute-Belle: admiring, 48, 171; betrayal, 59–60, 206; co-author, 53,

310

Index

69, 71; editor, 55, 69, 71, 204; listener, 71; muse, 47–8, 71; patron, 53, 55, 204, 206; performer, 10, 198, 207; poet, 53–4, 69, 205, 216; portrait of, 71–2, 114, 122, 261n31; reader, 42, 49, 50, 205; student, 48–9, 52–5, 205; threat, 54; true identity, 67–8; unconventional lover, 47–8, 137 translation campaign, 4 Tristan et Yseult, 5 Vie de St Louis, 33 Vitz, Evelyn Birge, 249n30 Voir dit: composition, 88, 128, 141, 269n1; dissemination, 56, 59–61; form, 8, 10, 41, 79, 86; Guillaume,

as reader, 63, 65; historical foundation, 259n8; instructions to readers, 10–11, 12, 14, 46, 51, 68–9, 79, 90, 145, 203; internal reception, 62, 79, 104, 217; lost letters, 69; médisants, 56, 67; museurs, 72, 201, 202; metatext, 79, 87, 91–7; patrons, 55–61, 198, 206; roy qui ne ment scene, 63, 207, 273n9; title, 11, 56, 58, 93, 214; ymage scene, 64–5, 67, 106–7, 115. See also anagram; cryptogram; Duke of Bar; Lady Fortune; Toute-Belle; and see also under manuscripts Williams, Sarah Jane, 81–2

STUDIES IN BOOK AND PRINT CULTURE General editor: Leslie Howsam

Hazel Bell, Indexes and Indexing in Fact and Fiction Heather Murray, Come, bright Improvement! The Literary Societies of NineteenthCentury Ontario Joseph A. Dane, The Myth of Print Culture: Essays on Evidence, Textuality, and Bibliographical Method Christopher J. Knight, Uncommon Readers: Denis Donoghue, Frank Kermode, George Steiner, and the Tradition of the Common Reader Eva Hemmungs Wirtén, No Trespassing: Authorship, Intellectual Property Rights, and the Boundaries of Globalization William A. Johnson, Bookrolls and Scribes in Oxyrhynchus Siân Echard and Stephen Partridge, eds, The Book Unbound: Editing and Reading Medieval Manuscripts and Texts Peter Stoicheff and Andrew Taylor, eds, The Future of the Page Bronwen Wilson, The World in Venice: Print, the City, and Early Modern Identity Elizabeth Sauer, ‘Paper-contestations’ and Textual Communities in England, 1640–1675 Janet Badia and Jennifer Phegley, eds, Reading Women: Literary Figures and Cultural Icons from the Victorian Age to the Present Jonathan Earl Carlyon, Andrés González de Barcia and the Creation of the Colonial Spanish American Library Deborah McGrady, Controlling Readers: Guillaume de Machaut and His Late Medieval Audience