Obscurity in Medieval Texts 3901094326, 9783901094323

Table of contents :
Lucie Doležalová, Jeff Rider and Alessandro Zironi / Textual Obscurity in the Middle Ages (Introduction) 1
Florin George Calian / "Clarifications" of Obscurity: Conditions for Proclus's Allegorical Reading of Plato's "Parmenides" 15
Christiane Veyrard-Cosme / "Lucifica nigris tunc nuntio regna figuris". Poétique textuelle de "l'obscuritas" dans les recueils d'énigmes latines du Haut moyen Age (VIIe-VIIIe s.) 32
Jeff Rider / The Enigmatic Style in Twelfth-Century French Literature 49
Susan Small / "Mise en abyme" in Marie de France's "Laüstic" 63
Greti Dinkova-Bruun / Perturbations of the Soul: Alexander of Ashby and Aegidius of Paris on Understanding Biblical "Obscuritas" 75
Carla Piccone / "Versus obscuri" nella poesia didascalica grammaticale del XIII sec. 87
Alessandro Zironi / Disclosing Secrets: Virgil in Middle High German Poems 110
Hiram Kümper / "Obscuritas legum": Traditional Law, Learned Jurisprudence, and Territorial Legislation (The Example of "Sachsenspiegel" and "Ius Municipale Maideburgense") 124
Noel Putnik / To Be Born (Again) from God: Scriptural Obscurity as a Theological Way Out for Cornelius Agrippa 145
Réka Forrai / "Obscuritas" in Medieval and Humanist Translation Theories 157
Päivi M. Mehtonen / The Darkness Within: First-person Speakers and the Unrepresentable 172
Contributors 190
Index nominum 194
Index rerum 197

Citation preview

Obscurity in Medieval Texts

MEDIUM AEVUM QUOTIDIANUM SONDERBAND XXX

Obscurity in Medieval Texts edited by Lucie Doležalová, Jeff Rider, and Alessandro Zironi

Krems 2013

Reviewed by Tamás Visi and Myriam White-Le Goff

Cover designed by Petr Doležal with the use of a photo of the interior of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem (photo Lucie Doležalová) GEDRUCKT MIT UNTERSTÜTZUNG DER

CHARLES UNIVERSITY RESEARCH DEVELOPMENT PROGRAMS “UNIVERSITY CENTRE FOR THE STUDY OF ANCIENT AND MEDIEVAL INTELLECTUAL TRADITIONS”

UND “PHENOMENOLOGY AND SEMIOTICS” (PRVOUK 18) BOTH AT THE FACULTY OF HUMANITIES, CHARLES UNIVERSITY IN PRAGUE UND DER

CZECH SCIENCE FOUNDATION

WITHIN THE RESEARCH PROJECT “INTERPRETING AND APPROPRIATING OBSCURITY IN MEDIEVAL MANUSCRIPT CULTURE”

(GAČR P405/10/P112)

Alle Rechte vorbehalten – ISBN 978-3-901094-32-6

Herausgeber: Medium Aevum Quotidianum. Gesellschaft zur Erforschung der materiellen Kultur des Mittelalters, Körnermarkt 13, 3500 Krems, Österreich. Für den Inhalt verantwortlich zeichnet die Autorin, ohne deren ausdrückliche Zustimmung jeglicher Nachdruck, auch in Auszügen, nicht gestattet ist. Druck: KOPITU Ges. m. b. H., Wiedner Hauptstraße 8-10, 1050 Wien, Österreich.

Acknowledgements

Table of Contents

List of Figures

Textual Obscurity in the Middle Ages (Introduction) Lucie Doležalová, Jeff Rider, and Alessandro Zironi

“Clarifications” of Obscurity: Conditions for Proclus’s Allegorical Reading of Plato’s Parmenides Florin George Călian

Lucifica nigris tunc nuntio regna figuris. Poétique textuelle de l’obscuritas dans les recueils d’énigmes latines du Haut moyen Age (VIIe-VIIIe s.) Christiane Veyrard-Cosme The Enigmatic Style in Twelfth-Century French Literature Jeff Rider Mise en abyme in Marie de France’s “Laüstic” Susan Small

Perturbations of the Soul: Alexander of Ashby and Aegidius of Paris on Understanding Biblical Obscuritas Greti Dinkova-Bruun Versus obscuri nella poesia didascalica grammaticale del XIII sec. Carla Piccone Disclosing Secrets: Virgil in Middle High German Poems Alessandro Zironi

1 15 32

49 63 75 87

110

Obscuritas legum: Traditional Law, Learned Jurisprudence, and Territorial Legislation (The Example of Sachsenspiegel and Ius Municipale Maideburgense) 124 Hiram Kümper To Be Born (Again) from God: Scriptural Obscurity as a Theological Way Out for Cornelius Agrippa Noel Putnik

145

The Darkness Within: First-person Speakers and the Unrepresentable Päivi M. Mehtonen

172

Obscuritas in Medieval and Humanist Translation Theories Réka Forrai Contributors Index nominum Index rerum

157

190 194 197

Acknowledgements

This volume grew out of a conference held in Prague in October 6-8, 2011. The conference and the book were supported by a post-doctoral research grant from the Grant Agency of the Czech Republic, “Interpreting and Appropriating Obscurity in Medieval Manuscript Culture” no. P405/10/ P112 undertaken at the Faculty of Arts at the Charles University in Prague, by The Ministry of Education, Youth and Sports through Institutional Support for Longterm Development of Research Organizations to the Faculty of Humanities of the same university (PRVOUK 18 and UNCE 204002), and by the European Research Council under the European Community’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007-2013) / ERC grant agreement No. 263672. We are much grateful to these institutions. Further thanks goes to the individual contributors to this volume who have been very quick and patient during the process, as well as to Petr Doležal for the cover design and Adéla Nováková for the index.

List of Figures

Figure 1: Scene from one of the Saxon Mirror’s codices picturati (Wolfenbüttel, HerzogAugust-Bibliothek, Cod. Guelf. 3.1. Aug. 2o, fol. 34r).

Figure 2: Index for a manuscript of the Richtsteig Landrecht (Göttweig, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. 364rot, fol. 526r). Figure 3: Printed text of a Saxon Mirror with Gloss (Christian Zobel, Leipzig, 1569).

Figure 4: A remissorium from a Saxon Mirror edited in 1536 by Chistoph Zobel (Leipzig)

Figure 5: Editorial report for a Saxon Mirror printed in 1545 by Nikolaus Wolrab (Leipzig)

Figure 6: Sebastian Stelbagius, Epitome sive summa universae doctrinae iusticiae legalis (Bautzen, 1564).

Figures 7 and 8: Melchior Kling, Das Gantze Sechsisch Landrecht mit Text und Gloß in eine richtige Ordnung gebracht (Leipzig 1572).

Textual Obscurity in the Middle Ages

Lucie Doležalová, Jeff Rider, and Alessandro Zironi

When one has “figured out” the meaning of a dream, one has lost touch with the aliveness and elusiveness of the experience of dreaming; in its place one has created a flat, bloodless decoded message. 1

Obscurity has been recognized as a component or aspect, a possibility, of discourse since the very beginnings of European culture. The word has numerous connotations, some of which contradict one another, and perhaps refers to a set of ideas rather than to a single idea. Nevertheless, as this volume shows, the notion is crucial for the overall conception of reality and its exploration reveals new features of medieval life and thought. ***

The English word “obscurity” belongs to an ancient semantic field that is particularly multifaceted in the Sanskrit language, for example, where the metaphorical meanings of the words for “obscurity” fall into three different groups which expand in various directions the concrete sense of darkness: 1) Obscurity as suffering 2) Obscurity as a burden 3) Obscurity as a secret The first group focuses on the idea of suffering, torment and hopelessness in connection with a situation of obscurity. Sanskrit klistatva “obscurity (of a text)” is an apt example. It is derived from the main form klishta, which means “being distressed, tormented” and, used rhetorically, “not easily intelligible.” The word comes from an Indo-European root *kleik- “to pull with pain” connected to the Slavonic root *kliša “pliers, scissors.” In other words, the obscurity of a text expressed by the 1

Thomas H. Ogden, “The Dialectically Constituted/Decentered Subject of Psychoanalysis. I. The Freudian Subject,” The International Journal of Psychoanalysis 73 (1992): 521.

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word klistatva is something that causes pain and torment, an uneasiness which provokes suffering. 2 The same sense of deprivation and ignorance of wisdom can be discovered in the Sanskrit word támas “darkness, gloom, obscurity,” which can be used to refer to mental darkness and ignorance. Its negative meaning is reinforced by the idea that támas is one of the three constituents of the creation, the one that causes heaviness, ignorance and, in general, all irrational states of mind (pride, lust, etc.). The word is also used for the obscuration, the movement from light into darkness, of the sun or moon in eclipses. The word does not derive from the Indo-European root *tem(ə)-, temes- “darkness,” which can be compared, for example, with Latin tenebrae and Old High German demar “darkness,” or German Dämmerung.3 The second group into which the metaphorical meanings of the words for “obscurity” in Sanskrit fall is connected with the idea of something overwhelming and oppressive. This is the case of Sanskrit atibhāra, which means “excessive burden, excessive obscurity (of a sentence).” Since -bhara comes from an Indo-European root *bher- “to bring” (compare Latin ferō or Gothic baíran) and the Sanskrit prefix atiis used with nouns and adjectives to add the sense of “excessive, extraordinary,” the ultimate connotation for obscurity in the form atibhara is clear. When atibhara is used in a rhetorical context connected with language, the obscurity of a sentence is perceived in a negative way as bringing with it an overwhelming burden. 4 A similar semantic context can be proposed for the Sanskrit term andhátāmisra, which is used to refer to the complete darkness of the soul. The term is connected to the word-root andhá “darkness, turbid water” and derives from the IndoEuropean root *andho- “blind, obscure,” whose meaning is suggested by the Latin word andabata―which Varro and Cicero considered a loan2

3

4

Monier Monier-Williams, A Sanskrit – English Dictionary Etymologically and Philologically Arranged (Dehli: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers, 1995) [first ed. 1899], 324; Julius Pokorny, Indogermanisches Etymologisches Wörterbuch, I (Tübingen: Francke, 20024) [first ed. 1959], 602. Monier-Williams, A Sanskrit, 438; Pokorny, Indogermanisches, 1063; Friedrich Kluge, Etymologisches Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache (Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, 197521) [first ed. 1884], 120; Alois Walde and Johann Baptist Hoffmann, Lateinisches Etymologisches Wörterbuch (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 19383) [first ed. 1906], 664. Monier-Williams, A Sanskrit, 12; Pokorny, Indogermanisches, 128; Winfred Lehmann, A Gothic Etymological Dictionary (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 57.

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word from Gallican―which refers to a gladiator who fights without eyeslits in his helm. 5 The third and last group into which the metaphorical meanings of the words for “obscurity” in Sanskrit fall is represented by the Sanskrit word gūdhâtva “obscurity of sense.” It derives from the main word gūdhá “covered, hidden, invisible, secret, a secret place or mystery,” and is related to the derivative form gūdhârtha “the hidden of mystic sense, having a hidden meaning.” The word gūdhá comes from an Indo-European root *gheugh-, *ghugh- “to hide; to do something in secret,” and is related to the Avestic guz- “to hide” or Old Danish gyg “someone who lives (hidden) in the underworld.”6 The metaphorical meanings of the words for “obscurity” in Sanskrit thus suggest that obscurity is a negative aspect of communication which causes suffering or is considered a burden but is also a complex of knowledge shared and maintained in secrecy by a selected group. This connection with something secret and mysterious is represented in ancient Greek by the verb κρύπτω “to hide,” which derives from the Indo-European root *krā[u]-, *krəu-, *krŭ- “to hide.”7 From the Greek κρύπτω comes the substantive κρυφιότης “obscurity, secrecy.” The other Greek word for “obscurity” is σκοτεινός, σκοτεινότης. The Indo-European root of these words is *skot- “shadow” (Gothic skadus, Old English sceadu), which shows its fundamental connection with an optical context,8 and it can be used figuratively to refer to something that obstructs the discernment of knowledge and thus creates anxiety and fear. The main word, σκότος, is always used in connection with communication expressing a negative feeling; it underlines obscurity due to the lack of clarity in the communication or in the speaker but also due to the absence of knowledge. The semantic field for “obscurity” in other Indo-European languages is based on words that have a chromatic connection to the colors brown or black or that derive from words connected with smoke or mist. Latin obscurus, for example, derives from Indo-European *(s)kew-, *skewə, *skū- “to cover” and can be understood to mean what is covered or hid5 6 7 8

Monier-Williams, A Sanskrit, 44; Pokorny, Indogermanisches: 41; Walde and Hoffmann, Lateinisches, 46. Monier-Williams, A Sanskrit, 360–61; Pokorny, Indogermanisches, 450. Pierre Chantraine, Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque. Histoire des mots (Paris: Klicksieck, 1968), 589; Pokorny, Indogermanisches, 617. Chantraine, Dictionnaire étymologique, 1022; Pokorny, Indogermanisches, 957; Lehmann, A Gothic, 307.

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den by darkness. Latin obscuritas thus means something which is protected or hidden. ***

Any text may be obscure (or a source of suffering, a burden, or a secret―in the other meanings of the word) depending on the context, the interpretative framework in which it is placed. Consequently, clarifications of obscurity also depend on contexts and interpretative frameworks: the explanation or solution puts an end to the enigma, turns the obscurity into clarity―but only within the particular environment in which it was perceived as obscure in the first place. The question of what constitutes a successful interpretation or solution to an obscurity is, again, dependent on the context: must the solution produce general consent, or is it enough to find one that simply pleases the interpreter himself or herself? Must it take into account as many aspects of the text as possible, or is it enough to address its most troubling feature? One interpretative community may be puzzled by different features of a text from another, and thus the same text may be obscure in different communities for different reasons. Texts that were clear in their original contexts, that is, texts that operated smoothly in their original community, are liable to become obscure when transported into a new community, one with different rules and expectations. Obscurity is in fact a violation of expectations, rules, or order within a particular framework. This is especially apparent when one deals with texts from the past: they all tend to seem obscure and in need of explanation to us. Of course, some texts are generally perceived as more obscure than others because some expectations are more generally shared than others. For example, if a text violates the grammatical rules of a language, it will strike more readers as obscure than if it violates semantic rules or simply does not follow the current stylistic trends. The solutions to obscurities depend on the available tools and competencies and dealing with obscurity may transform the community that does so. If it lacks the tools and competences to solve the enigma, the community may appropriate it, actualize it, or establish new rules that will accommodate it. In this way, either the enigma itself or the interpretive framework in which it is set is transformed in order to produce a solution. Thus, obscurity is very productive of change. Obscurity may, from another point of view, be seen as the normal state of affairs: this world is in fact naturally obscure and ambiguous.

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The human desire to impose order and system on it results inevitably in only partial and temporary solutions. Every system produces only partial order and leaves part of reality unexplained and obscure. Attempts to explain the obscure leftovers bring about new systems which will inevitably fail to explain yet other aspects of reality. Reality is thus a dynamic space on which we impose changing concepts of what is normal and what is exceptional, what is clear and what is obscure, what is central and what is marginal, and our focus regularly shifts between the center―the canon―and the margins. The history of the perception and treatment of a textual obscurity can tell us a great deal about the interpretative communities through which texts move. The texts that a community deemed worthy of interpretation were surely not those that simply seemed the most obscure. They were those that were considered both obscure and meaningful, that is, interpretable; those whose obscurity could be clarified and made useful in a particular environment. The appropriation of the obscure text aimed at achieving something and eventually gaining some power in the community. It is thus worthwhile to study what texts were considered obscure under what conditions, and in what ways their obscurity was treated. Some texts seem to have presented a continuous challenge to interpretation while others were explained once and the explanation was accepted. Is it possible to identify what constitutes clarity―what makes an interpretation acceptable—at least within a given community? Is it possible to specify the origin of the feeling that a particular aspect of a text is significant and needs to be interpreted? Why were some texts more likely to be chosen for interpretation than others? Modern Western readers of medieval texts often find them obscure. Some of this obscurity is accidental and inevitable and is due to the historical and cultural distance that separates them from medieval authors. It comes from the disappearance of the material and social contexts in which these works were written, the loss of their linguistic contexts, the loss of sources, our ignorance of certain codes that may have governed their production, the vagaries of the transmission of these texts over the centuries, and so on. Some of this accidental obscurity would, of course, have rendered medieval texts obscure for medieval readers as well. A poorly transmitted, twelfth-century French text might, that is, have been even more obscure to a fifteenth-century Polish reader than it is to a modern French one. Even when allowances have been made for the historical and cultural distance between modern readers and medieval authors, however,

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many medieval texts seem to be willfully and frustratingly obscure. Some of this frustration, at least, is due to significant differences between modern readers’ attitudes towards textual obscurity and those of medieval readers and authors, who appear to have had a higher tolerance for textual obscurity than we do. They even seem to have viewed obscurity as desirable and a virtue in certain texts and certain contexts. Textual obscurity, that is, was an accepted and inherent part of mainstream medieval “high” culture. Even though obscurity had been recognized as a component or possibility of discourse long before the Middle Ages, the tolerance of and even taste for obscurity in medieval literary circles was new and remarkable. It seems to have had three principle sources: the obscurity of the Bible for medieval readers; a rhetorical and literary tradition of obscure composition; and a lack of linguistic authority. As the history of biblical exegesis and its importance in medieval culture show, the Bible was an obscure text for medieval readers. Given that communications of supramundane origin seem to have been traditionally and habitually obscure throughout human history (perhaps as a sign of the incommensurability of the mundane and supramundane), their obscurity was in fact a guarantee of their divine origin: the more obscure a passage was, the more pregnant it seemed to be with divine meaning. Biblical obscurity was thus a promise and a challenge for medieval exegetes and led them to develop both intricate schemes of textual interpretation and intricate theories of obscure signification. Primarily because of the Bible and the discourse surrounding it, obscurity was also understood to be a part of objective reality. God’s other “books,” the created universe and history, were likewise felt to be full of obscure and inexhaustible meaning. God was understood to have expressed himself obscurely in order to subdue human pride, exercise the human intellect, and associate the pleasure of discovery with the revelation of his intentions. The Church Fathers had, however, already established that communication between God and mankind had broken down after the Fall of Adam and Eve. As Augustine and Gregory of Nyssa explain, human beings are unable to understand plain messages from God because of their corrupted nature. God thus has to employ oblique means of communication when addressing them in order to accommodate his

INTRODUCTION

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message to the imperfection of human intellect. 9 In fact, the source of obscurity in the Bible is often the surprising character of divine speech. On the one hand, there was a universal expectation that the Bible be perfect since it is the word of God. On the other hand, however, medieval readers could not fail to see certain “imperfections” in the Bible. Since these imperfections ran contrary to their expectation, they perceived the “imperfect” passages to be obscure: Why did God bother to record so many little details concerning the lives of the patriarchs or the prophets? Why are biblical heroes sometimes praised for apparently immoral behavior? Why is Jesus sometimes depicted as if he had doubts, when he was God and God cannot have doubts? The literal meaning of these passages was clear but the reasons for including them in a sacred and perfect book were obscure. Why would God include in his revelation so many banal details, or, as in the case of the Song of Songs, erotic scenes? These were important cases of obscurity to the medieval mind, and the usual explanations for them argued that God intentionally concealed his own divine nature and used human modes of communication in order to get closer to the human intellect. Thus, for example, Jesus pretends to have doubts in order to bring his message closer to his disciples, or inessential little details of a biblical story allude to divine mysteries which cannot be communicated directly. In any case, attempts to interpret the Bible, the universe and history were praiseworthy activities bringing one closer to God. The interpretation of biblical obscurity also revitalized this old text composed in and for a radically different culture and made it relevant to medieval life and preoccupations. And once the machine of textual exegesis had been built and was running smoothly, its methods of adjusting and recuperating an old text in new contexts through the interpretation of its obscurities could be applied to a wide array of obscure or “unacceptable”―ancient and pagan―texts, bringing them into the reservoir of medieval culture and enlarging it. These methods made even the unintentional creation of obscurity culturally productive, as when, for example, obscurity produced by an “author’s” conceiving of himself as a mere copyist led to subsequent “clarifications” and further “corruptions.” Obscurity also had a distinct and established role in the rhetorical and poetic traditions the Middle Ages inherited from Antiquity. In these 9

Gillian Rosemary Evans, The Language and Logic of the Bible: The Earlier Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 1–8.

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traditions, discourse was understood to consist of a play between clarity and obscurity, which was something to be actively employed as a particular way of encoding a message. Its use was recommended, at least occasionally, as a refreshing strategy to draw attention to one’s discourse, to make it more memorable, and to increase the audience’s pleasure of understanding by delaying it and making it work for it, although rhetors and authors were also warned against using it too much or too often. Created obscurity was also used as a pedagogical tool, “to establish,” as Virgilius Maro put it, “students’ acuteness of perception” (sagacitatem discentium adprobare). 10 It could be used in a related way to make a discourse’s meaning less accessible to the uneducated crowds. It thus created an additional source of social pleasure for, an elite subaudience of people who could understand it. Obscurity operated as an “added value,” separable from the message, making it more accessible to some than to others. Created obscurity could similarly be made to serve political ends by veiling a subversive or contestatory discourse reserved for a group of initiates. It was thus always suspect to some degree and viewed as a potential challenge to the clarity produced by established order. The play between obscurity and clarity thus also involved, or was an allegory for, a play between the margin and the center, the refused and the accepted, the unknown and the known, anarchy and order, heresy and orthodoxy. The opposite of obscurity was in fact less clarity than the order, the authority that produces clarity. A clear discourse can be combined easily with other clear discourses to produce a totalizing or encyclopedic one, a single grand discourse of which the many individual discourses are but parts. Medieval audiences schooled in these traditions appreciated even unresolvable obscurity in moderation, which suggests that they did not always find it necessary to understand a discourse to enjoy it. These traditions permitted and in some ways encouraged a linguistic creator to lose himself or herself in language; to develop a metaphor or an etymology until it broke the bars of received knowledge and developed new, unforeseen meanings that expanded existing epistemological 10

Epitome 10, Johannes Huemer, ed., Virgilii Maronis Grammatici opera (Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1886), 76; Giovanni Polara, trans., L. Caruso and G. Polara, eds., Virgilius Maro Grammaticus, Epitomi ed Epistole, Nuovo medioevo 9 (Naples: Liguori, 1979), 128.

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possibilities; to talk or write even when one had nothing to say, for the pleasure of talking or writing, or to provoke a reaction. Obscure discourse could, that is, be an inventive, leisure activity, a form of pure pleasure and pure research. The tolerance and even taste for obscurity in medieval literary circles was also in part the result of a lack of linguistic authority. Obscurity is always relative, is obscure only from the point of view of some norm or canon: the stronger the norm, the more different kinds of discourse will appear obscure in relation to it. In the Middle Ages, however, literary languages were still ill-defined and ill-regulated. Even the leading literary language, Latin, had no clear spelling guidelines and no settled grammatical rules, while most of the “vulgar” languages were, so to speak, uncultivated wildernesses―or absolute democracies. Many medieval texts that seem quite obscure to modern scholars were often fully integrated into the mainstream culture; their obscurity was not considered striking or unusual. The medieval approach to texts was fuzzy and approximate rather than clearly definable, distinguishable, and articulate. Medieval audiences were simply more ready to tolerate obscurity because it formed an integral part of their world. Sometimes they did pursue the objectives of system, order, and efficiency but rarely in a systematic, orderly, and efficient manner: they did not believe that obscurity could ever be eradicated. They were not scared of the indescribable, undividable, and ungraspable; they accepted reality as complex and ultimately unintelligible. Obscurity was not simply a riddle to be solved. It was a source of wonder, questioning and a search for meaning. Whatever its source, whether created or accidental, obscurity was also a source of change in the Middle Ages. What entered the culture as obscure might very quickly become the norm, pushing what was originally clear to the obscure peripheries. And there were always admirers of the margins as well as of the center. Obscurity itself went in and out of fashion during the Middle Ages. It was more normal, more tolerated, more desirable at some times than others. One might suggest, for example, that the exegetical triumphs of the eleventh century led to the flowering of obscurantism in the twelfth, which led in turn to the encyclopedism of the thirteenth, which led to the obscure flamboyance of the later Middle Ages. The study of medieval attitudes towards, and uses of obscurity, is, finally, an important form of self-reflection that can teach us much about our own attitudes towards obscure texts, including those of the Middle

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Ages, and our own desires to understand and thus recuperate those texts, both past and present. ***

The essays collected in this volume present “partial successes:” interpretations of particular obscurities in which, however, a certain degree of obscurity persists. For example, biblical exegesis, which can never be completely “satisfactory” (since the Bible cannot be fully comprehended in this life), or interpretations that do not meet with universal consent or that are built of strange associations and suspicious links and seem obscure in themselves. This “persistent obscurity” is of two kinds. One is an enigma which seems to have been created in order to remain enigmatic as a means to provoke interpretation. Greti Dinkova-Bruun and Noel Putnik discuss this kind of obscurity in the Bible, while Florin George Călian focuses on provocative enigmas in Plato and Jeff Rider on those of twelfth-century French literature. The second kind of persistent obscureity is found in texts that were probably not meant to be enigmatic but became obscure when transferred to a new community, and have been transmitted without any fixed interpretation attached to them. These obscure texts continued to be handed down perhaps through inertia or because of the authority attached to them. They were often strikingly “successful,” that is widely copied and read, as Hiram Kümper shows. The essays are presented here in a rough chronological order but this is not intended to suggest any development in the perception, use, or interpretation of obscurity. There are subjects that reappear in the essays across the volume, such as discussions of the deliberate creation of obscurities within particular communities (Veyrard-Cosme, Rider, Piccone), the (often obscure) medieval strategies for interpreting obscurities (Călian, Dinkova-Bruun, Forrai, Putnik, Kümper), or the contemporary interpretations of medieval obscurities (Zironi, Small, Mehtonen). ***

Florin George Călian discusses an example of interpreting obscurity which seems rather obscure in itself: interpreting Plato allegorically in a neoplatonic context. Based on his analysis of Proclus’s interpretation of Plato’s Parmenides, Călian explores allegory as a philosophical device rather than a literary mechanism, and asks why someone would read a philosophical text allegorically, and what conditions allowed allegory to

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be included in a philosophical inquiry. In this case, he suggests that they were the authority of the author (Plato’s texts were believed to be both coherent organisms with a hidden meaning, and divinely inspired), and the belief of the neoplatonic interpretive community in the principle “panta en pasin,” that is, the interconnectedness of reality whose elements can thus be used to explain each other.11 Christiane Veyrard-Cosme analyzes Latin collections of riddles from the seventh and the eighth centuries (dominated by the works of Aldhelm) and the nature of the textual poetics created within the insular monastic environment. Veyrard-Cosme argues that obscurity, linked to brevity, was perceived within this environment as an inherent part of the created order and an important tool for spiritual instruction: the collections of enigmas were intended to be microcosmic representations of the universe, and their enigmatic qualities reflected the enigmas of the world. The riddles imitated God’s creation both by their order and by their obscurity. Their poetic form initiated the reader to the pursuit of higher meaning and proved the reality of a higher level of existence. Thus, the same interpretative framework was to be applied to solving the riddles and to understanding the created world. Jeff Rider, too, addresses the deliberate creation of enigma in a particular social environment. He argues that when French literature emerged in the twelfth century it did so from and against a clerical―ecclesiastical, learned and Latinate―background. Its authors had been trained in clerical schools or at least in the clerical tradition and the literature they created was in some sense Latinate literature for people who did not know Latin, had not been to school, and were used to oral entertainments. The literature that evolved from this encounter welcomed some obscurity as a provocation to interpretation and resulted in an enigmatic style in the works of twelfth-century court poets like Marie de France and Chrétien de Troyes, who sought first and foremost to entertain their audiences. They also embraced the enigmatic style in order to endow the aristocratic life portrayed in their works with its own spiritual dimension, a mysterious, quasi-allegorical aura, suggesting they had a hidden higher meaning for those who have ears to hear. The audience 11

In spite of the obvious similarities, this is a different theoretical model of obscurity than the mainstream Christian ideas about the obscurity of the Bible. E.g. there is no notion of the original sin, no idea of God taking on human form and accommodating his message to human imperfection in neoplatonism, and in Christianity there is no principle “panta en pasin.”

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for works in French had changed significantly by the mid-thirteenth century, however, and the French literary tradition had grown increasingly independent of the Latin one. The enigmatic style gave way to a more “realistic” and often ironic style anchored more clearly in secular concerns and reflecting more clearly worldly attitudes. Susan Small’s essay explores the ways in which the hermeneutic device of “mise en abyme,” or infinite regress, serves to organize and elucidate the semiotic structures underlying Marie de France’s twelfthcentury “Lay of the Nightingale.” Tracing the complex interplay of mirror-image symmetry and kaleidoscopic refraction in “Laüstic,” the essay finds its center in the figure of the dead nightingale, wrapped in an embroidered shroud and enclosed in a jeweled casket at what T.S. Eliot might term the inert, ambiguous, and endlessly reflective “still point of the turning world.” Greti Dinkova-Bruun’s contribution introduces the treatment of biblical obscurity in an educational context. Alexander of Ashby and Aegidius of Paris, both writing at the beginning of the thirteenth century, propose two different views about the perplexing nature of the biblical narrative for the sake of students. In the prologue to his biblical versification, the Breuisssima Comprehensio historiarum, Alexander outlines three main turbationes that confuse the carnal soul when it attempts to understand scripture: obscuritas significationis, uarietas expositionis, and mutatio personarum. Being a preacher and a teacher, Alexander then goes on to explain these difficulties and to give practical advice to his readers on how to deal with them. Aegidius takes a much more mystical approach. In his prose prologue to Peter Riga’s Evangelium, he links the obscurity of the Bible to the Book of Revelation and the seven seals mentioned in it. Scripture is sealed by God with signacula and enigmata which can be understood only by those who know how to unlock their secrets. Despite their differences, both Alexander and Aegidius exemplify scholastic methods of study and strive to bring order and clarity to the vast field of theological thought inherited from previous centuries in order to make it useful in the classroom. Carla Piccone also deals with thirteenth-century didactics, but she introduces us to the practice of teaching Latin grammar. She draws our attention to examples of widely diffused grammatical didactic poetry (Alexander de Villa Dei’s Doctrinale puerorum, Eberhard of Béthune’s Grecismus, and Conradus de Mure’s Novus Grecismus) that are, upon a first uncontextualized reading, very obscure because they are highly condensed, eliptic, and closely connected to longer textbooks (e.g., Pris-

INTRODUCTION

13

cian’s Latin grammar) with which one has to be familiar in order to understand them. They are highly condensed in order to be more easily memorized and were intended to be accompanied by the oral instruction of the master, which made them clear and useful. For those who were instructed on the correct use of these verses, they are clear. Brevitas leads to firmior memoria and facilior acceptio. Obscura brevitas is a vice; brevitas should always be lucida. In the way they operate, these verses are similar to versus memoriales and differentiales, which address the subject of equivoca, homophones, or exceptions to a particular grammatical rule, often in a very cryptic manner. The fact that these verses were already frequently glossed in medieval manuscripts suggests that they often already seemed obscure then. Alessandro Zironi’s essay discusses the role and reception of the Latin poet Virgil in Middle High German literature during the thirteenth century. According to a so-called Liber Maronis, Virgil was himself an obscure figure who cryptically transmitted forbidden arts, specifically the ars notoria. The representation of Virgil as a magician and / or necromancer probably originated in Naples, but thanks to British and German intellectuals like Gervase of Tilbury and Konrad von Querfurt, it rapidly spread throughout Western Europe, and to Germany in particular. When the stories about Virgil reached Germany, they were incorporated into poems like Zabulons Buch and Reinfried von Braunschweig, and thus became popular among a courtly public. In this case study, we thus witness the productive force of obscurity as the obscure figure of Virgil produces a variety of new meanings and associations. Hiram Kümper discusses the obscurity that arises through the process of transmission and reception, and focuses on the practices within a community of later readers who strive to use texts that have become unintelligible but still possess great authority. Using the examples of traditional Saxon legal texts, the Saxon Mirror and the Magdeburg Law (Weichbildrecht), he discusses the various attempts of changing audiences to understand these highly authoritative yet increasingly obscure texts and make them useful. Noel Putnik examines some examples of the ways the Renaissance Neoplatonist Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535) reinterpreted some of the standard doctrines of Christian orthodoxy by dwelling on the obscurities and ambivalences of Scripture. He argues that Agrippa’s aim in doing so was to legitimize his theological synthesis by grounding it in the Bible. One of the cases in question is Agrippa’s treatment of the Johannine and Pauline notions of spiritual rebirth. For example, by ap-

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plying his exegetical methods to 1 John 3: 9, Agrippa apparently changed the basic theological meaning of the passage and attributed an aura of orthodoxy to an otherwise highly heterodoxical idea―that of spiritual rebirth as understood in the late antique Corpus Hermeticum. However, the basic theological sense of the notion was itself unclear, thus enabling Agrippa to build it into his Platonic-Hermetic paradigm of spirituality. Putnik demonstrates that reinterpreting obscurities in Scripture was a deliberate rhetorical and literary strategy for Agrippa that served an important goal: to apologize for his synthesis and increase its persuasive power. Reka Forrai traces the lineage of the concept of obscuritas in translation theories from Antiquity to the Renaissance. She argues that medieval and humanist translation practices were based on two different understandings of obscurity. Medieval translation practice focused mostly on philosophical and theological texts, and used a philosophical concept of obscurity. Obscurity in this practice was not a negative result of an unskillful translation, but a characteristic of the original text which had to be respected and taken into account. Humanists, on the other hand, considered obscurity from the point of view of rhetoric, and tended to see it as a shortcoming to be avoided, the opposite of clarity. One should therefore not judge the achievements of the medieval translators according to humanist (or for that matter, modern) criteria, but instead try to reconstruct the value system according to which these translations were produced. Päivi M. Mehtonen explores the links between first-person speech and obscure language in medieval historical and mystical texts as well as in later fiction that emulates such pre-modern forms. Mystical firstperson speakers often emphasize the obscurity of the experiences that they and they alone have had, or the limits of their ability to understand them. Starting from the medieval reception of Cicero’s doctrine of the genus obscurum and the modern notion of auto-communication, the essay discusses cases of first-person literature that alternate between narrative and non-narrative forms (e.g., meditative essays, “descriptions” of an inner state as well as medieval and modern fiction that adopts such forms). This final chapter aptly illustrates that part of our experience always remains obscure and surpasses our ability to articulate it. Thus, however difficult it is to grasp and communicate, obscurity forms a natural part of everyday life.

“Clarifications” of Obscurity: Conditions for Proclus’s Allegorical Reading of Plato’s Parmenides Florin George Călian

Exegetical work on philosophical systems requires not only that one give an account of the structure of a system’s assumptions and arguments, but also of its forms, such as the form of expression (or genre: dialogue, poem, aphorisms, and so on), or its form of argumentation (clear cut discursive exposition, logical formalization, metaphorical, allegorical discourse, and so forth). These formal considerations may seem to be secondary, merely ornamental issues, but they can raise unexpected questions. The literal reading of a text has its counter-part in allegorical interpretation. This way of reading, which must have started with the first readers of Homer and found a fertile ground in Philo’s allegorical commentaries on the Bible, was amazingly natural for Proclus (c. 411– 485), whose writings and commentaries represent the last phases of late antique philosophy, and particularly of the relation between philosophy and rhetoric. Proclus was a major systemic philosopher of late Neoplatonism. Beside his fame as one of the last notable heads of the Platonic Academy, he was also known in his youth as a rhetorician with a profound curiosity about divination and theurgy. He was a practitioner of magic and it is said that he knew how to bring rain and that, through a particular rite, he saved Attica from a dreadful drought. 1 Proclus was devoted to the Greek gods, especially Athena, whom he invokes at the beginning of his commentary on the Parmenides: 1

2

I pray to all the gods and goddesses to guide my mind . . . to kindle in me a shining light of truth . . . to open the gates of my soul to receive the inspired guidance of Plato. 2

Marinus, Vita Procli, 28. See Marinus, Proclus ou Sur le Bonheur, ed. and French trans. Henri-Dominique Saffrey and Alain Philippe Segonds (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2001), 33. Vita Procli, a hagiographical biography written by his pupil, Marinus, is the main source of information that we have about Proclus. Glenn R. Morrow and John M. Dillon, Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 19. See also Proclus, Théologie pla-

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He consistently opposed Christianity and supported the dying old religions, and, paradoxically, he influenced medieval Christian philosophy to a considerable degree, through Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite’s “plagiarism” of his work. 3 Proclus used the allegorical method at length in his philosophical commentaries on Plato’s dialogues and developed a substantial allegorical technique, even in his commentary on the Parmenides, a dialogue which would, at first glance, hardly seem likely to inspire an allegorical reading, given its technicalities and aridity.4 His efforts to charge the text with heavy allegorical meaning challenge both the literary critic and the philosopher to clarify what he was doing. Some tenets of Proclus’s commentary on Plato’s Parmenides will thus be scrutinized as a case study in the present article, in an attempt to delineate and to discuss the main suppositions of the Proclean allegorical reading. My hypothesis is that allegory is a philosophical rather than a literary mechanism and bears for Proclus philosophical implications as one of his main methodological devices. The main question addressed here is: Why would someone question allegorically a philosophical text? Or, in other words: What are the prerequisites for using allegory as part of a philosophical inquiry? I wish to focus on why one would read a philosophical text allegorically rather than how such a reading was done (discovered, invented, transmitted through a certain tradition, etc.)

3

4

tonicienne I, 1, 2, 4, ed. and French trans. L. G. Westerink and H. D. Saffrey (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1968), 7–8, 17–18. For a comparative reading of the invocations from the Parmenides and Platonic Theology see Robbert Maarten van den Berg, Proclus’ Hymns: Essays, Translations, Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 225–26. A consistent overview of the hidden presence of Proclean philosophy in medieval thinking is provided in Proclus, The Elements of Theology: A Revised Text with Translation, Introduction, and Commentary, ed. E. R. Dodds, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). Pseudo-Dionysius’s plagiarism of Proclus was massive: “he followed Proclus slavishly in many of the details of his doctrine” (Dodds in Proclus, The Elements of Theology, xxvii-xxviii). See also Egbert P. Bos and P. A. Meijer, eds., On Proclus and His Influence in Medieval Philosophy (Leiden: Brill, 1991). The most studied allegorical commentaries of Proclus are those that focus on Homer. See Oiva Kuisma, Proclus’ Defence of Homer (Helsinki: Societas Scientiarum Fennica, 1996); Anne D. R. Sheppard, Studies on the 5th [fifth] and 6th [sixth] Essays of Proclus’ Commentary on the Republic (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980); and Robert Lamberton, Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the Growth of the Epic Tradition (London: University of California Press, 1989).

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Opacity and Clarity

A philosophical discourse is not always a model of clear speech, clear argumentation, or clear ideas. On the contrary, it is frequently full of obscure concepts and follows an obscure paradigm, or may be expressed in such obscure language and rhetoric that it verges on gratuitous meaninglessness. For late antique philosophy, the tension between nonfigurative speech and rhetorical speech, which could be found in Plato’s dialogues (the tension between logos and mythos, or between philosophy and poetry), was a means for finding further layers of meanings. Like the Christian exegesis of the Bible, Platonist commentators tried to clarify and make sense of the rhetorical and decorative features of Plato’s dialogues. Far from reading Plato literally, the Neoplatonists followed the principle that Plato’s texts always require more than a prima facie reading, both where the text is obscure philosophically (because of unclear argumentation) and where the text is not at all philosophical, but merely a kind of rhetorical exposition (a captatio benevolentiae). In his Commentary on Aristotle’s Categories (6.33), Simplicius notes that Aristotle did not use myths or symbolic enigmas in the way some of his predecessors did [Pythagoras and Plato], but […] preferred obscurity of formulation to every other form of concealment. 5

It was thus natural to charge philosophers with using intentionally obscure language,6 and Aristotle is thought, according to Simplicius, to have had a preference for it.7 How was it possible that the language of philoso5

6

7

Cited in Proclus, A Commentary on the First Book of Euclid’s Elements, tr. G. R. Morrow (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), xxiv. The formulation is very unclear. Why is “myth” or “symbolic enigma” an alternative to “obscurity of formulation”? Is Aristotle deliberate in his obscurity? Simplicius is perhaps referring to the so-called esoteric writings as opposed to the exoteric ones. Aristotle’s obscurity was a subject of study for the ancient reader as well as for the modern one. Bishop Hippolytus thinks that Aristotle’s account of the soul is obscure, while Atticus affirms that he is seeking to avoid criticism by using “obscure language.” See Jonathan Barnes, “Metacommentary,” in Jonathan Barnes, Method and Metaphysics: Essays in Ancient Philosophy I, ed. Maddalena Bonelli (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 195. Simplicius made a similar claim in the Commentary on Aristotle’s Physics (8. 18– 20): Aristotle practiced “obscurity, thereby discouraging the more idle students” (Barnes, “Metacommentary,” 197).

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phy, which, according to modern ideas, should avoid obscurity, was perceived as intentionally obscure? It seems that for ancient philosophers one had to use an obscure discourse to discuss the intelligible world. For example, in a passage from his commentary on the first book of Euclid’s Elements (11), Proclus notes that in the Republic (533d), Plato observes that Socrates describes the knowledge of the understandable as being more obscure than the highest science, but clearer than the judgments of opinion. 8

In contrast to Aristotle’s obscurity, which was supposed to be intentional, the obscurity of Plato’s language was perceived as being, in a sense, natural, that is, necessary. However, there are passages in the Platonic corpus that are so obscure that one cannot be sure that the reason for this lack of clarity is precisely a “higher science,” which cannot be expressed by unambiguous speech. Throughout his prose and in curious ways at times, Plato was an enigmatic writer. Two small examples may illustrate the nature of some of the puzzles Plato’s writings pose. In Phaedo, the dialogue which presents the last hours of Socrates, Plato writes, surprisingly, that he was sick and absent from the scene. It is the only self-referential passage of all the Platonic dialogues and it has intrigued scholars for a long time: why does Plato mention himself only here as a dramatis persona – indeed, as an absent dramatis persona? Again, the same dialogue offers the riddling last words of the dying Socrates: “Crito, we owe a cock to Asclepius: please pay the debt, and don’t neglect it.”9 Moreover, why did Plato choose to write philosophy in the form of dialogues? Can one ignore the literary form, the narrative frame, and focus solely on the ideas it contains? Why did he choose the specific characters he did and not other ones? Why do some characters appear more 8 9

Proclus, A Commentary on the First Book of Euclid’s Elements, 10. Plato, Phaedo 118, 7–8, trans. David Gallop (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 72. This is not the only type of intentional obscurity to be found in Plato’s dialogues; there are several. For example, the passage in the Republic in which Plato speaks about a eugenic number, the so called, “nuptial number,” became notorious for its obscurity (Republic, VIII, 546b). Comparing a riddle of Atticus with Plato’s description of the “nuptial number,” Cicero exclaims: “Your enigma of the juicemerchants from Velia has simply defeated me, it’s darker than the Platonic Number” (“Aenigma succonum ex Velia plane non intellexi; est enim numero Platonis obscurius”; Letters to Atticus VII, 13. 5, ed. and trans. D. R. Shackleton-Bailey [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004], 16–17).

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frequently than others? These dialogues are full of conflicting remarks and uncertain claims. The puzzling passages―which still puzzle scholars nowadays and which elude philosophical elucidation as well as other sorts of interpretations (e.g. historical-critical ones)―are abundant in all dialogues and are present at different narrative layers. There was thus disagreement about the interpretation of Plato’s writings almost immediately after his death. Speusippus reformulated Plato’s philosophy in terms of mathematics. Xenocrates followed the same line of interpretation. Aristotle attributed to Plato ideas that can hardly be found in his dialogues; and so on. All these interpretations―each of them with its peculiarities―were a natural consequence of the fact that Plato was by no means a clear author. For Proclus, a philosophical text’s resistance to clear interpretation led to a suspicion that it might be read allegorically. As John Dillon remarked in the introduction to the first book of Proclus’s commentary on the Parmenides, allegorical exegesis uses such “apparent contradiction in the text to reveal a higher truth.”10 Thus allegory is a way to unify a text and make it meaningful even when it lacks any obvious unity or clear meaning.

Allegorizing Plato’s Parmenides

Proclus’s learned commentary on the Parmenides is not, however, an allegorical interpretation of the entire dialogue. It attempts, rather, to elucidate allegorically some of the apparently unintelligible passages of the introduction of the Parmenides that sets the stage for the philosophical discussion that follows, passages that could easily be overlooked by the modern reader since, in the economy of the dialogue, the introduction might not be considered part of the argument. Thus, Proclus’s allegorical method of interpretation actually discovers, or creates, further “obscurities” in the dialogue. The transmission of the original conversation, the characters, their determinations and other details, like, for example, the place of the conversation, are shown to function as mythical and eternal archetypes. This allegorical interpretation of the introduction raises the narrative frame to the level of mythical story. 10

See Morrow and Dillon, “Introduction” to Book I in Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, 14.

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The Parmenides11 starts with the arrival at Athens of the narrator of the dialogue, an unknown character named Cephalus of Klazomenae, along with his countrymen, who are genuinely interested in philosophy. Adeimantus welcomes them and they ask him to take them to Plato’s half-brother, Antiphon, whom they ask to talk about a discussion that took place a long time ago between a young Socrates and two Eleatics: Zeno (who was then in his forties) and Parmenides (who was then about sixty-five). Antiphon tells them that he heard and learned by heart a description of the discussion from Pythodorus (a student of Zeno), who had been present at the original dialogue which had taken place in his house, and then begins his narrative.12 Unlike the narrator of most Platonic dialogues, the raconteur of the Parmenides was not present at the original talk. With the exception of the Symposium, the Parmenides is the only other text in Plato’s corpus in which the information that lies at the core of the dialogue has been transmitted through three successive stages (the original discussion is retold by Pythodorous, then by Antiphon, and finally by Cephalus).13 There are some scholars who think that this manner of telling the story 11

12

13

It is surprising to learn that the Neoplatonists thought that Plato’s Parmenides, a dialogue that others have always considered a model and a masterpiece of philosophical obscurity, contained the clearest presentation of Plato’s theological program and was the key to understanding all the other dialogues and all of Plato’s other mythologies and philosophical programs. The second part of the dialogue, which seems to be more of a logical exercise, was the starting point for the construction of a mystical metaphysics by Neoplatonic philosophers. Cephalus, who memorized the whole discussion from Antiphon, starts narrating the original conversation ex abrupto to an unknown audience and in an unknown place. Interestingly, he is able to recount the entire conversation, but starts with the confession that he is unable to remember the name of Adeimantus’s halfbrother (126b): “Your half brother on your mother’s side – what was his name? I’ve forgotten” (Plato, Complete Works, ed. John Madison Cooper and D. S. Hutchinson, trans. Mary Louise Gill and Paul Ryan [Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1997], 360). It remains unclear why Plato introduced the apparently unnecessary intermediaries between Cephalus, the final narrator, and Pythodorus, the initial narrator. See also Reginald E. Allen, Plato’s Parmenides (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 69–72. Something similar can be seen in a passage from the Timaeus, where the myth of Atlantis is learned from a fifth generation narrator: Plato narrates an account he heard from Critias, who heard it from an old man, who heard it from Solon, who heard it from an Egyptian priest.

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is principally decorative, while others believe that “this complex narrative scheme is not accidental”14 and suggest that the more one reads Plato, the more one becomes aware that the literary elements, such as setting, character, prologue, and epilogue, are carefully chosen to give an aesthetic statement about the entire dialogue’s structure and intention. 15

Proclus pays as close attention to the dramatic qualities of the dialogues as he does to their main arguments. Accordingly, Proclus does not think that either Plato’s choice of characters or the way in which he constructs the sequence of transmission of the original discussion is accidental. These features may seem to be rather insignificant details for the modern reader, 16 but for Proclus they provide additional meaning to the entire dialogue.17 For the modern reader, the prologue of the dialogue may not seem to contribute to the philosophical argument developed in it, but for Proclus it is a genuine philosophical language that resembles metaphysics. For an exegete like Proclus, the effect of the mise-en-scène goes beyond pure esthetics and touches metaphysical principles. He believes that it is impossible to understand Plato’s complete philosophical program in this dialogue without paying close attention to the sequence of narrators. The layers of communication are necessary and indicate that one cannot have direct access to Platonic forms. The prologue and the core content of the dialogue therefore cannot be separated. In his commentary on the Alcibiades, Proclus says this plainly: The introductions to the dialogues of Plato accord with their overall aims and have not been invented by Plato for the sake of dramatic charm . . . nor do they aim at mere accurate narrative, as some have considered . . . these circumstances depend on the general purpose of the dialogues. 18

14 15 16

17

18

Allen, Plato’s Parmenides, 69. Robert Sherrick Brumbaugh, Plato on the One: The Hypotheses in the Parmenides (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1961), 26. Tarrant remarks that “to the modern reader Proclus’ ingenuity will probably seem like a reduction ad absurdum of the view that prologues are significant” (Harold Tarrant, Plato’s First Interpreters [Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000], 40). Reading a dialogue as a whole in which each feature has its meaning is specific to the Neoplatonists and is a late development: “the significance of each detail of the text is plainly a principle of post-Iamblichean allegorizing” (Dillon, “Introduction,” in Proclus' Commentary on Plato's Parmenides, 13). Proclus, In Alcibiadem 18.13–19.10, trans. W. O’Neill, in Proclus: Alcibiades I: A Translation and Commentary (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1971), 11–12. See

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In his commentary on the Parmenides, furthermore, Proclus says:

studying any Platonic dialogue we must look especially at the matters that are its subject and see how the details of the prologue prefigure them. 19

Proclus’s way of interpreting suggests that it is inappropriate to ask if the exposition is fictive or historical. Proclus interprets the prologue as a chronicle of metaphysical principles, neither historical nor fictive, which describes plastically how the forms enter the world. He allegorizes everything he can. For example, being “outside the city walls” signifies the transcendence of the gods. He also allegorizes the transmission of the initial conversation, the characters, and the origin of the characters, as follows: Allegorization of the narrative transmission. 20 Proclus interprets the various stages in the transmission of the original conversation as the progression of the forms into matter, as a chain of ontological levels: Cephalus’s audience represents the primordial material (hypodoche) in which the Demiurge, according to the Timaeus, impresses the forms; Antiphon’s speech to Cephalus represents the progression of the forms into physikai ousiai; Pythodorus’s description of the conversation to Antiphon stands for the progression of the forms into souls (Antiphon’s interest in horses is related to the image of the soul in Plato’s Phaedrus); the conversation itself stands for the Nous and the intelligible world of the forms. Allegorization of the characters.21 According to Proclus, Parmenides is an analogon for the unparticipated and divine Intellect (Nous); Zeno is an analogon for the participated Intellect (nous); and Socrates represents (eoike) the particular intellect. Proclus discovers other kinds of analogia as well: Parmenides is the symbol of Being, Zeno that of Life, Socrates that of Intellect; Pythodorus stands for the angels, Aristoteles for individual souls (the fact that he becomes one of the thirty tyrants signifies the keenness of the souls to descend into the tyranny of the passions), Pythodorus for the “divine Soul” (he uncovers the intelligible world and receives logoi from it), Antiphon for the “demonic soul” (his association with horsemanship hints that he desires to rule the physical world), Cephalus for the “individual soul.” These allegorizations allow Proclus to 19 20 21

also James A. Coulter, The Literary Microcosm: Theories of Interpretation of the Later Neoplatonists (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 84–85. Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides 659, p. 47. Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides 626–27, p. 25–26. Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides 628–30, p. 27–28.

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further allegorize the phases of the initial discussion. For example, he interprets Socrates’s turning from Zeno towards Parmenides as the return of the Nous through Life towards Being. 22 Allegorization of the origin of the characters. 23 Unexpectedly, Proclus interprets even the origins of the main characters. With respect to the first lemma―“When we arrived in Athens from our home in Clazomenae, we encountered Adeimantus and Glaucon in agora” (126a)―Proclus identifies the city Clazomenae with the Ionian school, which is a symbol of Nature, and Parmenides and Zeno with the Italian school, a symbol of the intellectual being: let us take Ionia as a symbol (symbolon) of nature, Italy as a symbol of intellectual being, and Athens as the intermediary that provides a way up for the souls who are aroused to move from nature to Intellect.

Arriving from Clazomenae “expresses the activity of gods which transcend the reason-principles in nature,” while meeting with Glaucon and Adeimantus “indicates the sovereignty of the dyad in the unified plurality.” As a consequence, he writes: 22

23 24

But these things, as I said, bear the likeness (eikon) of gods themselves and make it very easy for those who wish to follow the analogy (analogia). 24

Dillon rightly asks how one should comprehend the characters: as eikones or symbola? He concludes that since they represent a “higher” truth, they should be taken as symbola. On the other hand, as Dillon observes, the arrangement of the three passive listeners in the Timaeus (I 9) is understood as an eikon. Later on (I 198), the arrangement of speeches is understood as symbolon for the creation of the Universe (John Dillon, “Image, Symbol and Analogy: Three Basic Concepts of Neoplatonic Allegorical Exegesis,” in The Significance of Neoplatonism, ed. R. Baine Harris [Norfolk, Virginia: International Society for Neoplatonic Studies, 1976], 253). Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides 660–64, p. 48–51. Proclus' Commentary on Plato's Parmenides 662, p. 49. This last elucidation creates some technical problems. Analogy is here understood as a way of establishing relations between the apparent meaning of the text and the transcendent realm. It assumes a theory of correspondence in which each semantic element corresponds to a metaphysical one, and the term retains the sense of “geometrical proportion” from its mathematical uses. In this context “it signifies the correspondence between the surface meaning of the text (or of the characters, things and actions mentioned in text) and the metaphysical truths of which it, or they, are the expressions” (Dillon, “Image, Symbol and Analogy,” 255). According to Dillon, Proclus’s interpretations show that he did not distinguish between symbolon and eikon. Some Neoplatonists used a more specific meaning of symbolon to mean “any object or any message capable of a double level of interpretation,” although this meaning was, as Luc Brisson puts it, “reserved to a small

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Conditions for Allegory and Likeness

The attempt to explain allegorically philosophical obscurity (Plato’s reasons, for example, for choosing a specific storyline) was familiar to the late antique reader and student of philosophy. Neoplatonic philosophers were especially open to the allegorical interpretation of Plato’s works because they believed (1) that nothing in Plato’s corpus is unintended or there by chance (2) that his writings were divinely inspired (3) in the principle “panta en pasin” These interrelated beliefs are necessary conditions for the allegorical interpretation of Plato’s work. The third is in fact more than a condition; it is one of the foundational Neoplatonic metaphysical principles. Let us, therefore, look at each of them more closely. (1) The belief that nothing in Plato’s corpus is unintended or there by chance. In the In Alcibiadem (10.3), Proclus asserts that the dialogues must possess what the whole cosmos possesses; and an analogous part must be assigned therein to the good, part to the intellect, part to the soul, part to the form and part to the underlying nature itself. 25

And indeed the late Platonists understood the dialogue as a cosmos, and the cosmos as a dialogue. The Anonymous Prolegomena to Platonic Philosophy thus describes the virtues of the dialogue form in the following manner: For in the same way that a dialogue has different personages each speaking in character, so does the universe comprise existences of various natures expressing themselves in various ways; for the utterance of each is according to

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number of initiates” (Luc Brisson, How Philosophers Saved Myths: Allegorical Interpretation and Classical Mythology [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008], 58). Additionally, it seems that the ancient allegorists did not distinguish between symbol and allegory, “but used the terms as synonyms” (Peter T. Struck, “Allegory and Ascent in Neoplatonism,” in The Cambridge Companion to Allegory, ed. Rita Copeland and Peter T. Struck [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010], 69). The key notion in the above commentary is analogia, which seems indistinguishable from allegoria. As Dillon puts it, Proclus’s analogia is the heart of his allegorical interpretation, but he provides “no clue as to what precise rules are to be followed in fixing the analogiai.” Indeed, adds Dillon, “there were in fact none that could be formulated,” although this does not mean that “the resulting allegory is arbitrary” (Dillon, “Image, Symbol and Analogy,” 256). O’Neil, Proclus: Alcibiades I, 6–7.

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its nature. It was in imitation, then, of God’s creation, the cosmos, that he did this. Either this is the reason, or it is that the cosmos is a kind of dialogue. 26

This way of thinking was reinforced by the belief that “the dialogues as a whole constituted a well-ordered arrangement, or cosmos, of interconnected conversations.” 27 The dialogue is a microcosm of the cosmos; it is understood “as a microcosmic organism, and as a corollary, its creator as microcosmic demiurge.” 28 Moreover, in speaking about the functions of Plato’s prologues in the In Alcibiadem (19), Proclus insists that: on the one hand, the subject matter in fact or word is adapted to the immediate aim, while on the other hand what is wanting to the completion of the topic under discussion is supplied; but all together, as in an initiation, have reference to the overall achievement of the objects of enquiry. 29

Each element is necessary and none can be ignored lest the puzzle remain incomplete. This holistic view is yet another condition for a correct allegorical interpretation. In fact, Proclus’s ideas on this subject resemble ideas in the Phaidros (246c), where Plato concludes that: Every speech must be put together like a living creature, with a body of its own; it must be neither without head nor without legs; and it must have middle and extremities that are fitting both to one another and to the whole work. 30

A dialogue thus presents itself to the commentator as a complex riddle whose every part can say or suggest something about another part.31 Like the parts of the cosmos, each of which resonates with the whole, the parts of a dialogue resonate with the whole of the dialogue, with its 26 27 28 29 30 31

Anonymous Prolegomena to Platonic Philosophy 15, ed. and trans. Leendert Gerrit Westerink (Amsterdam: North-Holland Publishing Co., 1962), 28. Jacob Howland, “Re-Reading Plato: The Problem of Platonic Chronology,” Phoenix 45.3 (1991): 194. Coulter, The Literary Microcosm, 102. O’Neil, Proclus: Alcibiades I, 12. See also Coulter, The Literary Microcosm, 85. Plato, Phaedrus (246c), trans. Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1995), 62. The ancient commentator (both the Neoplatonist and the Christian one) struggles to go beyond the text, but does not specify explicitly his method of forcing the text to say something else. In this regard, Lamberton remarks that the goal of the commentator “is to find the hidden meanings, the correspondences that carry the thrust of the text beyond the explicit. Once he has asserted their existence, he rarely feels the need to provide a theoretical substructure for his claims” (Lamberton, Homer the Theologian, 20).

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skopos.32 A dialogue thus needs a solution and Proclus’s interpretation functions as a cipher. Through the allegorical method he decodes the hidden message. In the case of the Parmenides, Proclus offers the key to understanding the text in the chain of transmission depicted in the prologue: metaphysical hierarchy is depicted as narrative hierarchy. (2) The belief that Plato’s writings were divinely inspired. Plato’s Neoplatonic commentators considered his dialogues to have been “divinely inspired.”33 This is why each text is a whole with multiple layers of meaning. Coulter considers that, for the Neoplatonists, Plato “was, in a very real sense, a god and far above criticism.” 34 Proclus himself writes in his Platonic Theology (I, 1) that Plato was the only man through whom secret theological knowledge was made public, while in the beginning of the commentary on the Parmenides (617–618), he assumes that his elucidation of this specific dialogue is like “the initiation into a mystery cult,”35 praying “all the orders of the divine beings help . . . to share in this most illuminating and mystical vision that Plato reveals to us in the Parmenides.” 36 (3) The belief in the principle “panta en pasin.” Late antique philosophers found likenesses between philosophical systems and religious beliefs, between philosophical texts and religious scriptures, between the 32

33

34 35 36

The strong unity of each dialogue justifies the commentator’s “meticulous examination of every word in the text. . . There can be no purely extraneous elements in the dialogue, nor any unit of meaning so small that it plays no role in the overall plan of the work.” The unity of the dialogues “often took the form of allegorical readings of the text” (Dirk Baltzly and Harold Tarrant, “General Introduction to the Commentary,” in Tarrant, Proclus: Commentary on Plato's Timaeus, vol. I [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007], 17). In both traditions, the exegete must make sense of the obscurities that could be turned into an occasion for pleasing and explaining. At least, in the case of Augustine it can be said that “the purpose of allegory is two-fold: to please and to explain (what cannot be expressed or understood directly). For Augustine, these purposes are complementary, not contradictory” (Frederick Van Fleteren, “Principles of Augustine’s Hermeneutic: An Overview,” in Augustine: Biblical Exegete, ed. F. Van Fleteren and J. C. Schnaubelt [New York: Peter Lang, 2001], 9). Coulter, The Literary Microcosm, 46. Van Den Berg, Proclus’ Hymns: Essays, Translations, Commentary, 226. Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides 659, p. 19. Not surprisingly, PseudoDionysius the Areopagite substitutes Jesus for Plato in his plagiaristic paraphrase of Platonic Theology. For textual correspondences see Istvan Perczel, “Pseudo-Dionysius and the Platonic Theology: A Preliminary Study,” in A. P. Segonds and C. Steel, eds., Proclus et la théologie platonicienne (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2000), 500–01.

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text as microcosms and the texture of the universe. 37 The formal structure and the content of Platonic texts thus imitated those of the universe and similar tools were needed to read the book of nature and a Platonic text. Nothing, moreover, obliged a reader to limit a Platonic text to only one meaning. The different layers of meaning a reader can discover in a Platonic text depend on his erudition and intention, and all the meanings one can discover in a text are interrelated according to the doctrine panta en pasin.38 Given these beliefs, and given the correspondences between the physical and intelligible worlds, allegorizing a text is a very natural philosophical and religious behavior. A religious attitude toward a text and a meta-textual reading are simply two of the consequences of these beliefs. These beliefs do not explain Proclus’s ideas about how to perform an allegorical reading or why he preferred one allegorical reading to another one, but they do show that his allegorical reading was part of a continuum, an expected consequence of his conception of the world. Plato himself was one of the first philosophers who thought that it was inadmissible to take ad litteram the words of Homer, which, at first 37

38

The links between the structures of the text and metaphysical principles are assured by the same principles that make theurgy possible. Theurgy confers authority on allegorical analysis, and it is worth noting that Proclus, unlike Porphyry, believed that theurgy is superior to all human wisdom (Platonic Theology, I, 25 ). Theurgical beliefs imply that material things share divinity: a statue is not an imitation of divinity; it is a divinity (since it replicates divine features). For the language of theurgy, and that of mysteries as well, as used in allegory see Sheppard, “Allegory, Symbols and Mysteries,” in Studies on the 5th [fifth] and 6th [sixth] Essays of Proclus’ Commentary on the Republic, 145–61. The conviction that everything is related to everything seems to be a common place for late antique thinking. Proclus uses the principle of panta en pasin explicitly in his Commentary on Plato's Parmenides, 627, and he formulates it in proposition 103 of his The Elements of Theology (Proclus, The Elements of Theology, 92–93). Talking about the unity of everything, Proclus differentiates also between “a hidden unity, in which everything is everything,” and a “differentiated unity, in which all things partake of one another” (Commentary on Plato's Parmenides, 627, p. 128). The panta en pasin principle has a long history: Syrianus ascribed it to the Pythagoreans, and Iamblichus to Numenius (Proclus, Elements of Theology, 93, 254). See also Cristina d’Ancona Costa, “Les Sentences de Porphyre entre les Ennéades de Plotin et les Éléments de théologie de Proclus,” in Porphyre, Sentences I, ed. Luc Brisson (Paris: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, 2005), 189–92.

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glance, were an affront to the gods.39 Proclus’s solution to this problem was to discover allegories of philosophical principles in myths and poetic stories and he thus dismissed the platonic interdiction on poetry in the philosophical polis. Poetry’s affront to the gods became a pretext for allegorizing, which became a modus operandi for Neoplatonism. 40 If, for Plato, poetry is just a copy of a copy, for the Neoplatonists, and especially for Proclus, imitation is significant, indicative of other layers of meaning. Especially in the sixth essay of the commentary on the Republic, Proclus claims that the mimetic layer is surpassed by that of the didactic, which is in turn exceeded by the symbolic.41 Plato would have dismissed such allegorical reading.42 There is a trace of reserve in Proclus’s enterprise as well. His interpretations are neither true nor false. They are rather meditations in the margin of the 39

40

41 42

It is worth noticing that Augustine (De Civitate Dei, II, 7) is sympathetic with Plato: “Once all worshippers of such gods are motivated by… ‘lust imbued with the heat of poison’ they [some philosophers] prefer to investigate the doings of Jupiter rather than Plato’s teachings” (See Augustine, City of God Books I & II, tr. P. G. Walsh [Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005], 115). In this respect, Dillon rightly observes that the “‘scandal’ of immoral stories had been used ever since the beginnings of allegory as a compelling reason why these stories must be allegorized” (Dillon, “Image, Symbol and Analogy,” 252). Indeed, Marinus (Vita Procli, 22) testifies ardently that for Proclus myth is a bearer of truth: Proclus “learned with ease all of Greek and non-Greek theology and also that truth which had been hidden in the form of myths; he explained all these in a very enthusiastic manner to all who wished and were able to understand, and brought them into harmony” (See “Marianus’ Life of Proclus,” in L. J. Rosán, The Philosophy of Proclus: The Final Phase of Ancient Thought [New York: Cosmos, 1949], 25). Nevertheless, Plato, in the Republic II (378 a–e), rejects stories in the polis, even if they are allegorical: “we won’t admit stories into our city―whether allegorical or not”, since “the young can’t distinguish what is allegorical from what isn’t” (tr. G. Grube, rev. C. Reeve in Plato, Complete Works, 1017). Proclus, Commentaire sur la République 191.25–193, trans. André-Jean Festugière (Paris: Librairie Philosophique Vrin, 1970), 209–10. What looks like a secondary trope in Plato, but was used sometimes as a philosophical tool (e.g., the “allegory of the cave” from the beginning of the book vii of the Republic), was taken as a way, if not the way, of doing philosophy in late Neoplatonism. However, the Middle Platonists resisted using allegory as a tool, at least to some degree, and criticized the practice of allegorical interpretation as an alteration of the text; in this respect, Plutarch notes that “Some commentators forcibly distorted the stories [i.e. myths] through what used to be termed ‘deeper meanings’ but are nowadays called ‘allegorical interpretations’” (Brisson, How Philosophers Saved Myths, 58).

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text.43 The text is a pretext for what seems to be a theological exercise. Distancing himself both from Plato and from his own commentary, Proclus says: In general these analogies should not be taken as unimportant, especially if we believe Plato, who said that nothing else is so beneficial to the soul as what draws it from phenomena to being, freeing us from the former and making it easy for us to imagine immaterial nature with the help of these. 44

He points out that it is more important to have a meta-textual reading than a literal one. Even if the accuracy of a text’s content is hard to establish, the effort of interpreting it allegorically will ultimately elevate the soul. Proclus further adds: So that even if Plato himself did not formulate these matters in this way it would be beneficial for us to do so. For it is a good exercise for a well endowed soul which is capable of moving from images to their archetypes and delights in observing these all-pervading analogies. 45

In this passage one can see the Platonic theory in action: every structure in the phenomenal world corresponds to its intelligible archetype; there is no such thing as a non-archetypal structure in the world, since all things have a divine model. Plato’s text itself is a perfect copy of its intelligible archetype and it can transport the reader from the phenomenal to the intelligible world.

Conclusion

For Proclus, the prologues, the characters, and the main speakers of Plato’s dialogues are not gratuitous, but full of significance and cannot be neglected in the economy of philosophical argumentation. The dialogues’ plain, non-philosophical features stand for metaphysical realities. His reading is a philosophical exegesis with elements that resemble religious practices. By the fifth century, his method of interpretation had become an established tool of late Platonism, existing alongside and, to some degree, in competition with the interpretational practices of Alexandrian Christians with respect to biblical texts (especially Philo’s reading of the 43

44 45

Proclus’s use of hypothetical formulations―for example, “If we should be required to give a likely analogy” (Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides 628, p. 27)―gives the impression that he is aware that his technique and his allegorical commentary provide a model of allegorical interpretation. Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides 675, p. 59. Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides 675–76, p. 59.

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Book of Genesis, or Augustine’s quest for an allegorical reading of biblical books). Even if Proclus was hostile to Christianity, he shared with these Christians a taste for and a pleasure in meta-meaning. Like deconstruction or structuralism in recent decades, allegorical interpretation in the late antique world was a means of “clarifying” obscurities by an even more obscure discourse (since one can figure out the conditions for allegorical reading, but not the internal reason for allegorizing in one manner and not in another). The allegorical method clarifies the obscurity―or, in other words, clarifies the apparent gratuity of the rhetoric―in philosophical discourse. Proclus creates the frame for an analysis that is neither true nor false, but is rather a sort of a game for which the rules are to some extent flexible (the most undeniable rule being the sacred nature of the text) and which is potentially endless (depending on the abilities of the interpreter). 46 Proclus’s commentaries show that allegorical readings of Plato created a specialized jargon for the philosophy of the fifth century. The purpose of his allegorical commentaries was to initiate readers into the multiple layers of Plato’s text and presupposed that “the author intended that the reader seek beneath the surface some second or indirect meaning.”47 Proclus’s introductive commentary on the Parmenides, which was most probably a handbook for his students, can be taken as an example of how to interpret allegorically, i.e., how to elevate one’s comprehension beyond the literal level of a text. The extravagance of his commentary should in fact secure him a place in the history of religion,48 rather than in that of literary criticism, 49 since his attitude towards the text turns 46

47 48

49

This taste for unpacking layers of meanings would subsequently have an impressive role in the theological discourse and its multi-layered reading of the Bible and, even later, in understanding the language of nature, in which each physical event can be interpreted through otherwise analysis. Coulter, The Literary Microcosm, 25. See, for example, Donald Andrew Russell, Criticism in Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 95, where allegory is said to “have to do more with the history of religion and ethics than with that of literary criticism,” or Peter T. Struck, Birth of the Symbol (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), 7: “The allegorists’ interpretive exuberances, of course, fall outside of literary criticism as Aristotle defined it, so one is more likely to see allegorism classified as speculative philosophy, naive science, or theology.” I am inclined to think that Coulter’s remark that Proclus “surely merits a more secure place in the history of literary criticism” (Coulter, The Literary Microcosm, vii) is a bad-turn in understanding the function and purpose of allegory in the case of the Neoplatonists.

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Plato’s dialogue into a fetish and comes close to magical thinking, divination, or theurgy.

Lucifica nigris tunc nuntio regna figuris. 1 Poétique textuelle de l’obscuritas dans les recueils d’énigmes latines du Haut moyen Age (VIIe–VIIIe s.) Christiane Veyrard-Cosme

Il dit “feu,” il dit “foudre,” il dit “montagnes,” il dit “cieux”; et la seule chose voulue par toutes ces choses est d’annoncer le Seigneur Sauveur. Cette figure est appelée énigme, c’est-à-dire une phrase obscure, où on dit une chose et veut qu’une autre soit comprise. 2

La recherche ne s’intéresse que depuis peu à un champ de la latinité haut-médiévale qui s’enracine dans des traditions antiques et offre aux littératures vernaculaires des siècles suivants matière à composition et production, celui des recueils d’énigmes latines. 3 Dans le cadre d’une enquête sur l’obscuritas au Moyen Age, 4 notre étude, pour proposer une 1 2

3

4

“J’annonce le royaume de lumière en de noires figures,” in Aenigmata Laureshamensia, éd. François Glorie, CCSL, CXXXIII (Turnout: Brepols, 1968), 358. “Dixit ‘ignem,’ dixit ‘fulgura,’ dixit ‘montes,’ dixit ‘caelos’; et per haec omnia unum uotum est annuntiare Dominum Saluatorem. Quod schema dicitur aenigma, id est obscura sententia, quando aliud dicit et aliud uult intellegi” (Cassiodore, In Psalm. 96.6; texte cité par Manuela Bergamin, dans son article “I ‘Mirabilia’ negli Aenigmata Symposii,” in Mirabilia. Conceptions et représentations de l’extraordinaire dans le monde antique. Actes du colloque international, Lausanne, 20–22 mars 2003, éd. Philippe Mudry, Olivier Bianchi et Olivier Thévenaz [Bern: Peter Lang, 2004], 140). Cf. l’article fondamentale de Wolfgang Schultz, “Rätsel,” Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft I A 1 (Stuttgart: J. B. Metzlersche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1914), 62–125. Cf. aussi le panorama de Giovanni Polara, “Aenigmata,” in Lo Spazio letterario del medioevo 1. Il medioevo latino, vol. I. la produzione del testo, tome II, ed. Guglielmo Cavallo, Claudio Leonardi, Enrico Menestò (Rome: Salerno Editrice, 1993), 197–216. Voir également, sur le site www.psychanalyse.lu, l’article stimulant de X. Papais, “La voix nouée de l’énigme,” 1–8. Voir sur les énigmes d’Aldhelm, notre article, sous presse, “Procédés et enjeux des énigmes latines du Haut moyen Age. Les Aenigmata Aldhelmi (VIIe–VIIIe s.),” Revue des Etudes Latines (2012): 250–63. Qu’il nous soit permis de remercier ici bien vivement Mme Lucie Doležalová et l’Université Charles de Prague pour leur accueil si chaleureux et l’organisation d’un colloque qui fut un véritable temps d’échanges et de découvertes.

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définition du terme, se fondera spécifiquement sur les énigmes en vers du monde haut médiéval dans l’Occident latin des VIIe–VIIIe siècles, prenant forme assertive―négative ou positive―et constituées en recueil placé sous le nom d’un auteur ou d’une collection. 5 Après avoir évoqué, dans un premier temps, le corpus étudié et signalé quelques éléments de métapoétique présents dans l’énigme latine du haut moyen-âge, nous aborderons des points de poétique textuelle de l’énigme qui servent l’obscuritas, avant de nous interroger, pour finir, sur le lien entre obscuritas et cheminement spirituel dans un univers chrétien.

I. Enigme médiolatine et éléments métapoétiques sur l’obscuritas

Les recueils d’aenigmata se présentent comme des collections de poèmes de longueur variable, le plus souvent, cependant, de pièces courtes, portant une marque énonciative à la première personne. Un seul de ces recueils, celui que l’on doit à Aldhelm (640–709), premier anglosaxon à avoir écrit un grand nombre d’œuvres en langue latine, avance explicitement des remarques proprement métapoétiques, dans la préface et le prologue qu’il compose pour ses énigmes. Les cinq autres collections de notre corpus sont, elles, dépourvues de ces paratextes, sources pourtant fondamentales de réflexions génériques. C’est davantage au cœur même de l’écriture de ces énigmes que l’on peut, parfois, déceler une amorce de définition, comme nous le verrons. 6 5

6

Les recueils pris en compte ici sont au nombre de six: Aenigmata Tatuini, éd. François Glorie, CCSL, CXXXIII (Turnhout: Brepols, 1968), 167–208 ; Aenigmata Eusebii, éd. François Glorie, ibid., 209–71; Aenigmata Bonifacii, éd. François Glorie, ibid., 279–343; Aenigmata Laureshamensia, ibid., 345–58; Aenigmata Aldhelmi, éd. Marie De Marco, ibid., 360–540; Aenigmata in Dei nomine Tullii seu Aenigmata quaestionum artis rhetoricae (Aenigmata Bernensia), éd. François Glorie, CCSL, CXXXIIIA (Turnhout: Brepols, 1968), 541–610. Signalons les jalons antiques ayant cherché à produire une définition de l’énigme: si Cicéron dans son Sur l’orateur III, 167, ne propose qu’une définition en creux de l’énigme, la prenant comme contre-point du bon style de l’oratio, d’autres auteurs comme Aristote (Poétique 22, 1458 A), ou Quintilien (Institution Oratoire VIII, 6, 52) qui voit en l’énigme “cette allégorie qui est très obscure” (“haec allegoria quae est obscurior”), usant ici de la valeur intensive du comparatif, proposent des formules de caractérisation opératoires. Ce sont en fait les grammairiens de la tardo-antiquité, qui, à l’image de Sacerdos ou Diomède, classent l’énigme dans les Vitia orationis en la prenant comme forme d’obscurité.

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I.1 Six recueils médiévaux pour un genre d’écriture anciennement attesté

Le corpus que nous avons délimité comprend, en premier lieu, une collection intitulée Aenigmata quaestionum artis rhetoricae, également désignée par les titres Aenigmata Bernensia, ou Aenigmata Tullii. Parmi les neuf manuscrits, allant du VIIIe au XIVe siècles, qui nous la transmettent, le témoin le plus ancien est le manuscrit 661 de Bern (fol. 73–80v), datant de la première moitié du VIIIe siècle, qui, toutefois, propose seulement vingt-huit de l’ensemble des soixante-deux énigmes de cinq hexamètres rythmiques que semble avoir totalisées la collection ellemême. Cette collection, rassemblée par un moine irlandais de Bobbio, concerne des items consacrés à des objets donnant d’eux-mêmes une description à la première personne qui ne manque point d’évoquer également leurs père et mère. En témoigne l’exemple ci-dessous, dont la solution est “la tablette de cire:” Dissemblable à elle-même, ma mère me mit bas, sans semence virile, je suis créée et produite. Naissant de moi-même, je suis arrachée par le fer au ventre, ma mère, toute coupée qu’elle soit, est en vie, moi, les flammes me brûlent. Tant que je suis brillante, je ne puis concéder de plainte, mais j’apporte grand profit, si je modifie ma noire physionomie. 7

7

Ainsi pour Diomède (§ 449–50): “Les défauts de style sont de trois sortes: ce qui est obscure, ce qui manque d’ornement, ce qui est barbare. Les formes d’obscurité sont au nombre de huit: acyrologie, pléonasme, périssologie, macrologie, amphibologie, tautologie, ellipse, énigme“ (“Vitia orationis generalia sunt tria, obscurum inornatum barbarum. Obscuritatis species sunt octo, acyrologia pleonasmos perissologia macrologia amphibolia tautologia ellipsis aenigma”). Puis il définit ainsi l’énigme (§ 450): “L’énigme est une phrase sens dessus dessous en raison d’éléments incroyables” (“aenigma est per incredibilia confusa sententia”). Sacerdos, lui, en VI, 427 et sq., explique: “Sur l’énigme: l’énigme, ou griphus, est une parole obscure, un problème simple, mais une allégorie difficile, avant qu’on ne la saisisse, puis, une fois saisie, qui porte à sourire, comme par exemple ‘Ma mère m’a donné naissance, puis, elle tire son origine de moi’, à propos de la glace, qui est issue de l’eau et, une fois dissoute, donne de l’eau; ou le charbon né de la flamme qui donne une flamme” (“De aenigmate. Aenigma uel griphus est dictio obscura, quaestio uulgaris, allegoria difficilis, antequam fuerit intellecta, postea ridicula, ut est ‘mater me genuit, eadem mox gignitur ex me’, de glacie, quae de aqua procreata aquam soluta parit; uel carbo de flamma natus [flammam] gignit”). Les références empruntées aux grammairiens latins sont à lire dans l’édition de Heinrich Keil, Grammatici Latini (Hildesheim: Olms, 1857–64). “Dissimilem sibi me mater concipit infra / Et nullo uirili creta de semine fundor. / Dum nascor sponte, gladio diuellor a uentre, / Caesa uiuit mater, ego nam flam-

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Si l’on se fonde sur les données stylistiques et le contenu de chaque énigme, on relève nombre d’objets d’écriture, et des paires constituées comme suit: herbe et épices, vin et miel, astres et ciel, lumière et ombre. Signalons cependant l’ordonnancement fluctuant des énigmes selon les témoins manuscrits. L’ordre des items dans le manuscrit de Bern fournit ainsi la séquence de thèmes suivante: la lampe, le sel, la table, le calice, l’oeuf, la farine, le grain, la vigne, le bateau, l’olivier, la palme, le crible, le balais, la tablette de cire, le miel, l’abeille, le mouton, l’étincelle de feu, le parchemin, les lettres de l’alphabet, la graine de moutarde, le papyrus, le miroir, le poisson, l’éponge, la rose, le lys, le crocus. Ce manuscrit, selon Bernhard Bischoff, fut écrit dans l’Est de la France au VIIIe siècle. Il a la particularité de transmettre également un glossaire.8 Nous sommes donc en milieu monastique et dans un univers de grammairiens, ce qui n’est guère étonnant dans un contexte influencé par le monde insulaire. 9 On doit ensuite à Aldhelm, né aux alentours de 640 et mort vers 709, des aenigmata écrites à la fin du VIIe siècle. Lettré rompu à l’étude de l’hébreu, du grec et du latin, celui qui devait devenir abbé de Malmesbury en 675, avant d’être le premier évêque de Sherborne (Salisbury) en 705, choisit d’insérer dans une lettre qu’il adresse au roi Ealdfrith sur les mystères du mètre et de la scansion, une introduction au genre de l’énigme proprement dit. Puis c’est Boniface (675–754), évangélisateur de la Germanie bien connu, épistolier fameux, mais aussi passeur et inventeur de systèmes de cryptographie, qui, en l’an 722, compose, pour sa correspondante et 8 9

mis aduror. / Nullum clara manens possum concedere quaestum; / plurem fero lucrum, nigro si corpore mutor” (Aenigmata Tullii, XIX, 565). Bernhard Bischoff, Katalog der festländischen Handschriften des neunten Jahrhunderts (mit Ausnahme der wisigotischen). Teil I: Aachen-Lambach (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1998), ici no. 609A, p. 131. Sur cette influence de la grammaire, voir également Martin Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture. Grammatica and Literary Theory, 350–1100 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), en particulier dans les pages 1–2 et 8, qui soulignent l’importance de la grammaire dans la mise en place d’un modèle d’apprentissage, d’interprétation, de connaissance. Jouant un rôle dans le cadrage de l’approche littéraire, la grammaire dans le monde du haut moyen âge, loin de se cantonner à la description de phénomènes, s’avère aussi productive. Notons que Martin Irvine classe en p. 11 les énigmes dans la catégorie “Carolingian poetry Aenigmata collections (Boniface, Aldhelm, etc).” Cf. également María Pilar Cuartero Sancho, “Las colecciones de Luis de Escobar y Juan Gonzalez de la Torre en la tradición clasica, medieval y humanistica de las colecciones de enigmas,” Criticon 56 (1992): 53–79, en particulier pp. 59–64, sur le haut moyen âge.

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parente Lioba, un corpus de vingt énigmes réunies sous le titre De uirtutibus et uitiis10; la particularité de ces quelque cent quatre-vingthuit hexamètres est de fournir la solution en transparence, dans la mesure où le recours à l’acrostiche permet au poète d’exercer un contrôle strict sur l’interprétation de chaque item, mesure d’autant plus pédagogique que ces énigmes sont volontiers d’usage en milieu monastique pour instruire les pueri. C’est ainsi qu’on peut trouver l’exemple suivant qui aboutit à la formule “Neglegentia ait” qu’on peut lire en axe vertical: Non, sur terre, il n’est point de vierge plus folle que moi En négligence l’emportant sur toutes les autres. Grâces, à mon Seigneur, je dédaigne de rendre dignement, pour La manière dont la limpide lumière parcourt la terre Et dont les astres, au ciel, font une belle parure, à Lui qui, du Genre humain est Seigneur et Créateur, Et de quelle matière Il a voulu façonner la forme des différentes créatures. N’ignorant point, dans ma vie, le mal, sans savoir le bien, enfreignant Tant de lois humaines, et les commandements très hauts du Christ, Je les méprise toujours et toujours refuse de rechercher ce que l’ Arbitre de la terre enjoint aux êtres mortels. Ah, je ne désire pas ce qui est ardu, sans craindre pour autant l’abîme des profondeurs. Insensible sur terre à la peur de la mort, de vivre je n’ai cure Tandis que mes excès me valent le nom de “vierge folle.” 11

Le corpus compte également, en quatrième et cinquième places, les énigmes d’Eusèbe et de Tatwine, qui ont vécu peu de temps après Boniface. Deux manuscrits seulement transmettent ces recueils, et les transmettent dans un ordre qu’a curieusement interverti l’éditeur Glorie, 10 11

Aenigmata Bonifacii, 312. Notre traduction a voulu respecter l’acrostiche, mais l’acrostiche latin, au prix d’une légère distorsion graphique et syntaxique, de ce poème qu’on trouve dans l’édition de François Glorie déjà citée, en p. 311 (nous préparons actuellement, en vue de publication, la traduction des recueils d’énigmes éditées par ce chercheur): “Non est in terris me uirgo stultior ulla, / Existens cunctis neglectu audacior una. / Grates dedignor domino persoluere dignas, / Limpida quoque modo perlustrent lumina terras, / Et caeli speciem depingent sidera pulchram, / Gentis humanae aut dominus quis conditor esset, / Ex qua re uarias uoluisset fingere formas ; / Non ignara mali, recti sed nescia uiuens, / Tot hominum leges et iussa altissima Christi, / Infringens semper spernendo querere nolo, / Aut quid praeciperet mortalibus arbiter orbis. / Ardua non cupio, uereor non ima profundi. / In terra mortem timeo, non uiuere curo, / Talibus exuberans dicor ‘stultissima uirgo’.”

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puisque l’édition commence par donner le texte de Tatwine, avant de proposer celui du moine Eusèbe-Hwaetberth, alors que les témoins manuscrits offrent tout deux l’ordre inverse. 12 Toujours est-il que les manuscrits proposent les soixante énigmes d’Eusèbe, suivies des quarante composées par l’archevêque de Cantorbéry Tatwine, soit un total de cent items, qui est le nombre des pièces composées par Symphosius, poète tardo-antique modèle de ces moines insulaires du Haut Moyen Age qui voient en lui le père fondateur de l’écriture énigmatique, comme le souligne Aldhelm. 13 Eusèbe offre, en ouverture de ses soixante énigmes en vers, un De Deo, fermant son recueil sur un De bubone et une note sépulcrale que nous commenterons plus avant; il évoque le monde animal, l’astronomie, la liturgie et l’univers de l’étude dans une approche métapoétique, en présentant notamment le matériel d’écriture, les alphabets grec et latin. Quant à celui qui lui succède dans les manuscrits, Tatwine (mort en 734), il est passé à la postérité pour avoir rédigé une Grammaire, et pour avoir composé quarante énigmes en hexamètres qui s’ouvrent sur un De philosophia et s’achèvent sur un De radiis solis. Etayant son recueil sur l’apport de Symphosius, il montre une attention toute particulière aux instruments d’écriture, offrant ainsi une mise en abyme du travail de l’écrivain: parchemin, plume, encre sont convoqués. Joignant la théorie à la pratique, le poète achève son recueil sur une proposition ludique faite au lectorat auquel il propose de procéder à une seconde lecture, en prenant soin toutefois de relever la première lettre du premier vers des quarante énigmes, pour trouver l’hexamètre qu’elles forment une fois mises bout à bout, et, ensuite, de noter, de même, les dernières lettres des mêmes vers pour découvrir un second hexamètre, et de pouvoir enfin lire l’énoncé suivant: “En tordant de manière différente et variée les brins des quatre fois dix énigmes que voici / Celui qui les a échafaudées 12

13

Il s’agit de deux manuscrits du début du XIe siècle, Cambridge, University Library, Gg. V. 35 (fol. 370–374v) et London, British Library, Regius 12. C. XXIII (fol. 113v– 121v) pour le texte d’Eusèbe et Cambridge, University Library, Gg. V. 35 (fol. 374v–377v) et London, British Library, Regius 12. C. XXIII (fol. 121v–127) pour le texte de Tatwine. Aenigmata Tatuini, 167–208; Aenigmata Eusebii, 209–71. Sur Symphosius, voir Aenigmata Symphosii, éd. François Glorie, CCSL, CXXXIIIA (Turnhout: Brepols, 1968), 611–741, et Manuela Bergamin, Aenigmata Symposii: la fondazione dell’enigmistica come genere poetico (Firenze: SISMEL edizioni del Galluzzo, 2005).

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les a tissées et tressées au fil de ses vers.” 14 La solution demande donc, pour être trouvée, de revenir sur le parcours de la lecture, de laborieusement et soigneusement relever les indices. Le cheminement aboutit à un résultat, tout comme l’agencement interne des items énigmatiques relève d’une progression voulue comme quête du sens et de la vraie sagesse, celle qu’octroie le Soleil de la dernière énigme, qui renvoie, en clausule de ce corpus, au Dieu de la première énigme transmise par ces deux manuscrits. Le sixième et dernier recueil avance douze énigmes, qu’on désigne comme étant les Aenigmata Laureshamensia. Un seul manuscrit, datant du IXe siècle, actuellement à la Bibliothèque Apostolique Vaticane, provenant de Saint-Nazaire de Lorsch, transmet cet ensemble de dimensions modestes.15 Dans ces items qui commencent par un De homine suivi d’un De anima, le lecteur découvre plantes et animaux, objets d’usage courant et matériel d’étude, puisque la liste des items décline outre les deux premiers, eau, glace, coupe de vin, neige, châtaigne, embryon, plume, luminaire, taureau et encre. Le dernier item lance fièrement le vers dont nous avons fait le titre du présent article, vers auquel le mot figura, terme propre à la géométrie, la rhétorique et l’art figuré, donne son épaisseur, et une clé d’interprétation sans doute pour l’intégralité du recueil: “J’annonce le royaume de lumière en de noires figures.” Oeuvres monastiques, ayant eu une diffusion relativement modeste, ces aenigmata organisées en collection ont donc pour point commun de naître en zones insulaires, ou fortement marquées par l’apport insulaire, et sont destinées à un public restreint de lettrés, moines (ou moniales, pour le texte de Boniface) adorateurs du Verbe, mais habiles, eux aussi, à interpréter les textes et les mystères du verbe humain. I.2 L’approche aldhelmienne de l’aenigma

Nous avons tout récemment eu l’occasion d’examiner l’écriture énigmatique aldhelmienne, si bien que nous nous contenterons de signaler les principaux aperçus de l’approche de cette écriture dans cette sous-partie, en renvoyant notre lecteur à notre article.16

14 15 16

“Sub deno quater haec diuerse enigmata torquens / Stamine metrorum exstructor conserta retexit” (Aenigmata Tatuini, 167). Il s’agit du manuscrit Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Palatinus Latinus 1753 (fol. 115r/v–117r/v). Voir Aenigmata Laureshamensia, 345–58. Cf. article cité en n. 3.

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Le prologue qu’il rédige “Super Enigmata” commence par le nom du poète Simfosius (Symphosius) pour le domaine latin, en tant que praticien de l’énigme, avant de mentionner, pour le domaine grec, celui d’Aristote, pris comme théoricien. Réservant ses plus longs développements au poète latin, Aldhelm accorde de fait à Symphosius non seulement une place prééminente mais également une fonction d’auctor, de garant de sa propre écriture énigmatique. L’énigme est occulta propositio si l’on en croit sa présentation et semble étroitement liée à la technicité d’une langue poétique: A ce qu’on lit, le poète Symphosius, versificateur doté d’une grande habileté dans l’art métrique, composa d’obscures énoncés énigmatiques sous un énoncé très mince en des lignes ludiques et donna chacune des formules proposées en trois vers. Et Aristote lui aussi, le plus pénétrant des philosophes, fournit des énigmes en prose, en rien moins complexes, fort de son éloquence. 17

Ainsi, pour lui, l’énoncé de l’énigme se distingue des autres par un contenu renfermé et caché, secret et enclos: “une énigme est une sorte de proposition secrète et cachée.”18 A l’image de l’acception des termes qui désignent l’énigme, empruntés au règne végétal, comme griphus ou scirpus, l’univers métaphorique d’Aldhelm est fait de végétation enchevêtrée, de ramifications qui prolifèrent, en des bois qui se signalent par leur obscurité et leur épaisseur opaque: Dans la forêt si dense de la latinité tout entière dans les fourrés boisés des syllabes où l’antique tradition des anciens déclare qu’ont proliféré les ramifications multiples des règles (métriques) parties de chacune des racines des mots, cette tâche ne se laisse pas facilement appréhender des ignorants, tout particulièrement de ceux qui n’ont aucun savoir de la métrique. 19

Poète, dont Bède le Vénérable admirait profondément le style éclatant en 17

18 19

“Simfosius poeta, uersificus metricae artis peritia praeditus, occultas enigmatum propositiones exili materia sumpta ludibundis apicibus legitur cecinisse et singulas quasque propositionum formulas tribus uersiculis terminasse; sed et Aristoteles philosophorum acerrimus, perplexa nihilominus enigmata prosae locutionis facundia fretus argumentatur” (Aenigmata Aldhelmi, 371). “enigma clanculum et latens propositio componitur” (Aenigmata Aldhelmi, 372). “in tam densa totius latinitatis silua et nemorosis sillabarum saltibus, ubi de singulis uerborum radicibus multiplices regularum ramusculos pullulasse antiqua ueterum traditio declarat, rudibus non facile negotium deprehenditur et praesertim metricae artis disciplina carentibus” (Aenigmata Aldhelmi, 373).

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le définissant comme un écrivain “brillant par son style,” 20 Aldhelm choisit de recourir aux vocables les plus rares et, souvent, les plus abscons pour avertir son lecteur, le royal disciple auquel il s’adresse, mais par delà, tout lecteur potentiel, du but auquel doit tendre tout homme qui entend résoudre une énigme et qui consiste à ramener l’ordre au sein du chaos verbal: afin qu’une fois clairement distingués ces éléments, il n’y ait plus de chaos dû à l’explosion et à la collision (de termes) ni de sombre abîme dû au fracas de la synalèphe pour masquer la lumière à qui mène la scansion ou pour obscurcir la vision du lecteur. 21

Les termes employés soulignent l’étroite interrelation entre obstacle, obscurité et abîme, chaos et ténèbres, la claire vision étant réservée à celui qui saura “perspicere,” c’est-à-dire parvenir à percer et mettre à jour ce qui s’interpose entre le texte et lui. La valeur intensive du préverbe per- permet ici de traduire l’effort à consentir pour mener à son terme la quête du sens. Toutefois, dès cet extrait en prose, se pose la question du rôle des sonorités, allitérations, assonances, et des figures de style ou de sens, dans la difficulté du cheminement du sens. Or, dans l’écriture énigmatique du haut moyen âge, la poésie est la forme par essence du vecteur du message obscure qui se livre dans un chaos délibérément recherché.

II. Poésie et sens

La forme poétique choisie par l’auteur du recueil d’énigmes ne semble point anodine: alors que la prose latine, même d’art, repose sur un principe par essence cognitif, puisque son langage a la particularité d’être référentiel et d’engager la délivrance d’une information, la poésie, elle, ne semble guère avoir pour objet premier la transitivité du message: informer de manière immédiate n’est pas la préoccupation première du poète.22 Dès lors, comment poser la question du sens de l’énigme sans s’interroger au préalable sur les caractéristiques du medium utilisé? 20 21 22

“sermone nitidus” (Bède, Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum, ed. B. Colgrave, R.A.B. Mynors [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969], V, 18). “quatenus his perspectis nullum deinceps explosae collisionis chaos et latebrosum confractae sinaliphae baratrum lucem scandentis confundat aciemque legentis obtundat” (Aenigmata Aldhelmi, 376). Cf. sur ces points Catherine Fromilhague et Anne Sancier-Chateau, Analyses stylistiques. Formes et genres (Paris: Nathan, 2000), 6.

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II.1 Le langage poétique de l’énigme: la brièveté enclose

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Soumis à des codes et à des lois, l’unité poétique qu’est l’énigme―le poème qu’elle constitue―met en avant les voies qu’elle emprunte et redessine volontiers. Ciselant le profil sonore, phonétique, des mots qui sont la matière première que travaille le verbe du poète, le poème énigmatique recourt au jeu d’associations sonores pour mettre en correspondance tabulaire, verticale, des signifiants dont le caractère est souligné par différents procédés que nous étudierons infra. Objet donné à voir, lire, entendre, recopier, l’énigme obéit à une disposition graphique précise, et se donne comme une unité autonome, délimitée graphiquement, close. Sémiotiquement complexe, le poème énigmatique se signale dans sa fonction poétique qui est faite de règles et de codes, ceux de la métrique. Le corps global du poème est donc immédiatement perceptible dans son cadre, comme symétrie achevée. Mais le contenu, lui, repose sur la recherche de l’obscuriloquium, selon la formule isidorienne. Cette caractéristique repose sur deux stratégies, l’une qui est une esthétique de la breuitas, ou brièveté, l’autre qui est la mise en oeuvre de différents procédés qui viennent faire obstacle, en conformité avec le sens du préfixe ob- du mot obscuritas, ou assombrissement, en lien avec l’acception commune du terme latin. La forme poétique est l’instrument rêvé pour induire la breuitas, terme qu’on entendra ici au sens de rapport interne à la parole, le minimum étant lié par essence au maximum, et la concision, définie ici comme résidant dans le rapport entre élément donné et sens à dégager.23 La brièveté est alors moins ce qui est court, par opposition à ce qui est long, que ce qui vise à créer la densité du propos. Dans une telle configuration, l’espace du poème est contraignant, au plan graphique, tout autant que les règles qui président à sa composition sont un carcan, répondant, au plan interne, à un énoncé qui est lui-même contraint à la concision, selon plusieurs voies, comme, par exemple, l’allusion, la litote, l’ellipse et la métaphore. Cette brièveté obtenue par différents stratagèmes d’écriture est stratégie de dévoilement initiatique: l’énigme met en avant dans le vocabulaire, notamment en se 23

Cf. Catherine Croizy-Naquet, Laurence Harf-Lancner, et Michelle Szkilnik, éds., Faire court. L’esthétique de la brièveté dans la littérature du Moyen Age (Paris: Presses de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, 2011), et la formule qu’on trouve dans leur Préface, p. 14: “la brièveté est un art de l’allusion et l’auditeur doit saisir spontanément tout ce que contient la forme condensée.”

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fondant sur l’adjectif mirus, mira, mirum et ses dérivés, l’étonnement que fait naître tout ce qui est en dehors de la sphère ordinaire, comme le thauma dans la philosophie des Anciens précédait nécessairement le cheminement sur la voie de la sagesse. Chaque énigme souligne l’extraordinaire, comme en témoigne l’exemple suivant, le crocus: Dans ma petitesse, je me cache et me dissimule dans les ombres de l’été Et, tout enseveli que je sois, mes membres, sous la terre, sont en vie. Les froids frimas de l’automne, je m’y plie volontiers Et à l’approche de la brume, je donne alors des fleurs merveilleuses Belle est ma demeure, mais plus beau encore, moi, sous terre, Malgré la petite taille qu’offre mon apparence, je triomphe des aromates. 24

On le voit également à travers cet autre exemple, qui évoque le ciel: De jour en jour, je montre mon visage connu, auréolé, Et souvent je rends beau celui qui, toujours, semblait laid. Innombrables sont les biens qu’à tous j’apporte, et admirables, Sans être, sous le poids considérable de ces biens, aucunement chargé. J’ai beau n’avoir pas de dos, tous admirent ma face, Les bons et les méchants, sous mon ombre, je prends. 25

II.2 Stratégies rhétoriques de l’obscuritas énigmatique

L’énonciation à la première personne ancre l’énoncé énigmatique dans une tradition étrusco-romaine, celle de l’objet parlant: comme le vase qui proclame “j’appartiens à un tel” dans l’inscription gravée sur ses flancs, comme la coupe pleine qu’il faut vider jusqu’à la lie pour découvrir en son fond le message incisé dans le métal à la première personne, 26 le poème est objet qui miroite sous les yeux du lecteur ou à l’oreille de l’auditeur. Mais l’énonciation à la première personne est une fiction monologique:27 sous le je, ce n’est pas le je lyrique qu’il faut entendre, ce 24

25

26 27

“Paruulus aestiuas latens abscondor in umbras / Et sepulto mihi membra sub tellore uiuunt. / Frigidas autumni libens adsuesco pruinas / Et bruma propinqua miros sic profero flores. / Pulchra mihi domus manet sed pulchrior infra / Modicus in forma clausus aromata uinco” (Aenigmata Tulli, XXXVI, 582). “Promiscuo per diem uultu dum reddor amictus, / Pulchrum saepe reddo, turpis qui semper habetur. / Innumeras ego res cunctis fero mirandas, / Pondere sub magno rerum nec grauor onustus. / Nullus mihi dorsum, faciem sed cuncti mirantur. / Et me cum bonis malos recipio tecto” (Aenigmata Tulli, LX, 607). Sur l’objet parlant dans l’antiquité romaine, cf. Emmanuelle Valette-Cagnac, La lecture à Rome (Paris: Belin, 1997). Sur la perspective énonciative de la poésie lyrique, cf. Fromilhague et SancierChateau, Analyses stylistiques, 6–7.

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n’est pas le sujet unique d’une expérience, c’est un je qui se laisse investir par d’autres voix que celle de l’objet qu’il semble représenter. Le lecteur de l’énigme, appelé, à son tour, à dire je en prononçant le poème, est un porte-voix qui a ceci de particulier qu’il donne de l’ampleur au message tout en démultipliant la source de l’énonciation: ce je s’incarne dans le corps du lecteur et de l’auditeur qui reçoit le poème, permettant au “verbe” du poète de “prendre chair,” l’espace de la lecture. La réception est, alors, en partie diffractée, brouillée, et le sens du message est, davantage encore, mis à distance. A cette confusion extra-textuelle, correspond une confusion intratextuelle, verbale, qui repose sur un ensemble de stratagèmes destinés à entretenir l’obscurité du propos. Les stratagèmes relèvent majoritairement des tropes, qui “tournent” le vers en le tordant et le complexifiant. Il serait vain de prétendre proposer un panorama de ces procédés. Nous nous contenterons ici d’en mettre en avant quelques uns qui sont représentatifs des moyens utilisés par les auteurs de ces recueils. Chiasme, épanadiplose sont des stratégies de clôture stylistique de l’énoncé, lui-même enclos dans le cadre métrique. Polyptote et variations permettent d’enrichir les procédés d’itération qu’on observe dans l’anaphore et ses variantes. La répétition de la négation permet de souligner l’illogisme apparent de l’énoncé, tandis que le recours à des vocables opposés, à des séries d’antonymes, instaurent au creux du texte une impossibilité et donnent au poème une caractéristique paradoxale, celle de reposer sur l’indicible, l’ineffable, tout en se faisant énoncé incapable de dire. Examinons l’énigme du poivre. Elle repose sur l’énantiose et dessine une boucle chiasmatique: Je n’ai nulle puissance, si, intact, je demeure à jamais: Je suis fort si je suis brisé, cassé j’ai grand pouvoir Je mords qui me mord de ma morsure, sans pourtant le blesser de ma dent. 28

Quant à l’énigme de la glace, elle utilise allitérations, assonances pour souligner l’illogique du propos:

28

Formée d’un corps plein qui me vient d’un père tout petit, Je ne suis point portée par ma mère, c’est elle qui est portée. Moi, naître, je ne puis, si je ne suis d’abord engendrée par mon père Et venue au monde, de nouveau, moi, je conçois ma mère. L’hiver je sers, dans la dépendance, les parents que j’ai conçus

“Nulla mihi uirtus sospes si mansero semper / Vigeo nam caesus, confractus ualeo multum / Mordeo mordentem morsu, nec uulnero dente” (Aenigmata Tulli, XXXVII, 583).

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Et l’été de nouveau, je les livre, à ses feux, pour en être recuits. 29

Parfois, certaines énigmes se font restriction verbale, devenant obscures par condensation de l’énoncé. Ainsi trouve-t-on dans les Enigmes de Lorsch cet exemple, qui joue sur les syllabes du mot châtaigne “casta/nea:” Un produit des forêts s’écrit en huit lettres. Si l’on ôte en même temps les trois dernières, On a bien du mal à en trouver une seule, au beau milieu de mille. 30

III. Enjeux de l’obscuritas énigmatique

L’énoncé du poème énigmatique a fonction d’indice. Il est comme l’index, qui permet de désigner du doigt une direction, un ailleurs du sens. Il dit, non le signifié, mais le sens, la voie à emprunter. Il est invitation au voyage, cheminement et initiation par degrés. Et la voie qu’il désigne est celle de la Vie, qu’il annonce en multipliant les références à la mort et à l’obscurité du monde chtonien. Si l’obscuritas de l’énigme est retard apporté à la progression, elle est également passage nécessaire, par l’effort qu’elle demande au lecteur qui cherche à l’interpréter, pour instaurer à nouveau une forme de lumière et de révélation. III.1 Vertu ordonnatrice de l’obscuritas

Le réagencement du monde passe par la sortie du chaos, grâce au verbe poétique, qui, à l’image du verbe divin appelant à la lumière le monde, propose un ordre correspondant aux valeurs du groupe auquel appartient le poète, l’Eglise qui voit le monde avec un regard qui lui est propre et qui est proposé aux contemporains. Ce regard propose de voir en l’univers créé par l’entité divine un tout qui fait sens, et, par l’admiration qu’il suscite, dit la grandeur du Créateur et la nécessité pour les hommes de le louer dans sa création, pour les moines la nécessité de prendre en charge l’initiation des lecteurs à ce monde de mirabilia qui, une fois dé-

29

30

“Corpore formata pleno de paruulo patre / Nec a matre feror, nisi feratur et ipsa. / Nasci uetor ego, si non genuero patrem, / Et cretam rursus ego concipio matrem. / Hieme conceptos pendens meos seruo parentes / Et aestiuo rursus ignibus trado coquendos” (Aenigma Tulli, XXXVIII, 584). “Scribitur octono siluarum grammate lignum / Vltima terna simul tuleris si grammata demens, / Milibus in multis uix postea cernitur una” (Aenigmata Laureshamensia, VII, 353).

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couvert, doit susciter la louange du verbe humain devant la puissance du Logos créateur. Or le statut rhétorique de l’énigme, ce qu’on appelle également son régime, est d’offrir non point un poème isolé mais un recueil ou une collection d’items. L’énigme n’est point insérée dans un texte englobant, elle est texte mis en série. Le discours du recueil énigmatique se dit donc en pointillés; il adopte une forme discontinue. 31 La brièveté et l’obscurité sont ici celles des fragments qui jalonnent le manuscrit et dont il convient de se demander s’ils se prêtent ou non à la mise en œuvre d’un agencement particulier, qui coifferait en quelque sorte l’ensemble des items de chaque recueil. De fait, comme on l’a déjà signalé dans la présentation du corpus, plusieurs de ces recueils semblent placer en ouverture et en fin de collection des énigmes significatives, De Deo, De animo, De caelo. . . . Est-ce à dire que les poètes attendent de leurs lecteurs une interrogation ultime, sur le sens de l’agencement des fragments, et laissent des indices susceptibles de conduire ces mêmes lecteurs sur la piste d’un sens ultime? Si tel est le cas, comment alors ne pas remarquer que les cent énigmes d’Aldhelm proposent en énigme 50 un poème dont la solution est le Millefeuilles, plante aux ramifications naturelles en éventail, qui masque sans doute une métonymie manifestant la complexité du manuscrit comportant le recueil énigmatique? Dans la langue des Grecs tout comme dans la langue latine Je suis appelé le millefeuille né de l’herbe fraiche. C’est pour cette raison que j’aurai dix fois cent noms, Fleurissante autrefois dans des petites tiges de telle façon que nulle herbe ne germe Par d’innombrables sillons au sentier de terre. 32

Cet énoncé renferme une clé de lecture donnée grâce à la tmèse “mille. . . folium” du deuxième vers; mais il insiste bien davantage encore sur la pluralité des noms qu’il contient, c’est à dire sans doute sur les innombrables objets auxquels font allusion les nombreuses énigmes qui composent le recueil “millefeuille.” Dès lors, la question posée est celle 31 32

Sur ces points, cf. Bernard Roukhomovsky, Lire les formes brèves (Paris: Nathan Université, 2001). “Prorsus Achiuorum lingua pariterque Latina / M i l le uocor uiridi f o l i u m de cespite natum. / Idcirco d e c i e s ce n t e n u m nomen habebo, / Cauliculis florens quondam sic nulla frutescit / Herba per innumeros telluris limite sulcos” (Aenigmata Aldhelmi, L, 437). Nous renvoyons, pour l’analyse détaillée de ce texte métapoétique, à notre article de la Revue des Etudes Latines.

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du rôle laissé au lecteur: ce dernier a pour ainsi dire la mission de terminer le processus d’interprétation, en lisant et surtout relisant―on l’a vu avec le jeu proposé par Tatwine au terme de son recueil―des énigmes qu’il s’agit de soumettre à d’autres investigations. En désignant son lecteur comme étant un uates, Tatwine lui confie une tâche imposante et lourde de significations: 33 si l’on se fonde sur les sens, attestés dès l’Antiquité pour ce terme, de “prophète” ou de “devin,” voire de “poète inspiré,”34 le lecteur-uates devient, par conséquent, non seulement relais herméneutique, mais se doit aussi de porter à un degré supérieur l’interprétation première. L’obscuritas est donc défi lancé à la capacité herméneutique d’un public par ailleurs rompu aux différents sens de l’Ecriture sainte et à l’exégèse allégorisante.

III.2 Obscuritas et écriture ultime

A) De l’énigme au tombeau, du tombeau à la vie Si la forme poétique a déjà en soi bien des points en commun avec la forme épigrammatique, l’inscription, le genre de l’épitaphe, aspects que nous avons eu l’occasion d’étudier ailleurs, la forme poétique de l’énigme semble liée à une initiation à une forme d’Au-delà, comme si l’au-delà du sens premier (l’énigme, étant une forme de métaphore, se fait passage vers l’ailleurs) avait pour mission d’annoncer l’Au-Delà auxquels les moines qui composent ces énigmes espèrent accéder. Nombre d’énigmes déploient des champs sémantiques mettant en avant la thématique de la cachette et de l’élément caché, l’univers sous terre, l’ombre et le froid, l’ensevelissement et la sépulture. Or, dans le bestiaire des énigmes surgit le paon, symbole christique fameux, qui, pourtant, nous est présenté par Aldhelm sans la moindre allusion au christianisme, alors même que l’intertextualité permet d’identifier, sur la base de repérages déjà effectués par l’éditeur, Paulin 33

34

“(Le poète) salue maintenant à bon droit en ses vers tressés le lecteur prophète / L’invitant à joindre les premières lettres au tout début des premiers vers / Et de la même façon les dernières, celles qui sont rubriquées. / Qu’arrivé au terme, il fasse demi-tour et parcoure de nouveau son chemin jusqu’au bout !” (“Versibus intextis uatem nunc iure salutat / Litterulas summa capitum hortans iungere primas / Versibus extremas hisdem, ex minio coloratas ; / Conuersus gradiens rursum perscandat ab imo!” Aenigmata Tatuini, Conclusio poetae de supra dictis aenigmatibus, 208). Cf. sur ce point, Danielle Molinari, “Problématique du ‘uates’ chez Horace,” Noesis 4 (2000): 197–98.

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de Nole, Augustin (qui, dans son De Ciuitate Dei, XXII, 4 en fait le symbole de l’immortalité) ou Isidore. Je suis remarquable d’apparence, admirable sur toute la terre, Fait d’os, de nerfs, de rouge sang. Tant que la vie est ma compagne, il n’est point de forme en or Qui ait plus d’éclat rougeoyant que moi et au moment de ma mort, ma chair ne pourrit jamais. 35

La salamandre, chez Aldhelm, succède à l’énigme du paon. Et, tout en parallélisme antithétiques, l’énoncé du poème met en exergue le phénomène qui semble présenter comme un adynaton, une impossibilité majeure, ou un phénomène allant au rebours des lois naturelles, être dans la flamme sans brûler: Au beau milieu du feu, en vie, je ne sens pas les flammes Je cause le malheur du bûcher et m’en ris Et malgré le foyer crépitant, l’étincelle scintillante, Brûler, je ne puis: les flammes, à l’ardeur dévorante, se font tiédeur. 36

Quant à l’énigme des folios de parchemin, qu’offre le recueil d’Eusèbe, elle montre comment la lettre de l’énigme peut être indice du sens du monde, par translatio de vérité. Ne s’achève-t-elle point sur l’affirmation “responsum mortua famur”? Avant par notre intermédiaire nul son, nul mot ne résonnait Mais aujourd’hui distincts, nous émettons, sans voix, des mots Tandis que champs vierges, nous brillons de mille figures sombres Vivants, nous ne parlons pas; morts, nous disons la réponse. 37

B) Du tombeau au Monument littéraire Si la parole du poète est confusion recherchée, l’inscription de son nom est souvent soulignée:

35 36 37

Ah, toi qui tout ensemble tiens en ton empire céleste le sceptre Le lumineux tribunal du royaume des cieux, Dotant cet illustre royaume, que tu gouvernes, de lois éternelles―ainsi les Horribles membres de Behemoth, tu les tordis, pour sa peine, En le précipitant jadis de l'altière citadelle dans l'étendue livide, toi

“Sum namque excellens specie, mirandus in orbe, / Ossibus ac neruis ac rubro sanguine cretus. / Cum mihi uita comes fuerit, nihil aurea forma / Plus rubet et moriens mea numquam pulpa putrescit” (Aenigmata Aldhelmi, XIV, 397). “Ignibus in mediis uiuens non sentio flammas, / Sed detrimenta rogi penitus ludibria faxo. / Nec crepitante foco nec scintillante fauilla / Ardeo, sed flammae flagranti torre tepescunt” (Aenigmata Aldhelmi, XV, 397). “Antea per nos uox resonabat uerba nequaquam / Distincta sine nunc uoce edere uerba solemus; / Candida sed cum arua lustramur milibus atris; / Viua nihil loquimur, responsum mortua famur” (Aenigmata Eusebii, XXXII, 242).

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Le maître de celui qui compose ces vers et poèmes, Maintenant accorde-moi ta lumière en récompense, à moi qui puis en mes rudes Vers dévoiler les énigmes secrètes du monde; Seigneur Dieu, ainsi, tu accordes, à qui n'en est point digne, gratuitement ta grâce. 38

Ainsi commence la Préface d’Aldhelm. Acrostiche et téléstiche permettent de dresser une stèle qui, tout en chantant le Dieu Arbiter, le Créateur, dans l’axe horizontal du poème, propose en axe vertical l’inscription du poète Aldhelmus. Le poème est à la croisée de ces ordonnées. L’homme poète fait monter vers l’entité divine une psalmodie énigmatique qui dit Dieu dans le jeu des contraires et des paradoxes. Le recueil est monumentum, inscrivant la célébration divine et le nom humain. Les moines qui composèrent ces recueils étaient des grammairiens, habitués à manipuler les outils de connaissance de la langue, à reconnaître les différentes figures de mots et de sens qui faisaient l’ornement d’un énoncé. Grammairiens pour lesquels l’interprétation des textes n’avait pas de secret, ils étaient aussi des exégètes accomplis, rompus à une forme d’exégèse, la symbolisation, qui était un mode de lecture des Ecritures, mais pouvait également se faire mode d’écriture: l’énigme, dans son obscuritas, montre comment l’exégèse peut aussi produire des symboles et comment les tentatives d’explication du monde pouvaient emprunter voie (uia) et voix (uox) obscures pour aller vers la Lumière. Dans l’enclos des monastères, et l’enclos des manuscrits, les collections d’énigmes du Haut moyen Age entendaient sans nul doute offrir un monde en miniature qui disait l’Incommensurable. Toutefois, la Renaissance carolingienne, fondée sur une volonté de clarification et de lisibilité, a sans doute constitué un temps d’arrêt dans la production des énigmes latines en recueil, se contentant d’accorder quelque place aux jeux lettrés et aux inflexions énigmatiques de l’écriture de cour. Désormais, pour nombre de potentes de ce monde carolingien, l’obscuritas devenait la marque de l’insoumission religieuse ou politique et devait, en tant que telle, être avant tout contenue. 38

“Arbiter, aethereo iugiter qui regmine sceptrA / Lucifluumque simul caeli regale tribunaL / Disponis moderans aeternis legibus illuD, / Horrida nam multans torsisti membra VehemotH, / Ex alta quondam rueret dum luridus arcE, / Limpida dictanti metrorum carmina praesuL / Munera nunc largire, rudis quo pandere reruM / Versibus enigmata queam clandistina fatV: / Sic, Deus, indignis tua gratis dona rependiS” (Aenigmata Aldhelmi, Praefatio, 377).

The Enigmatic Style in Twelfth-Century French Literature Jeff Rider

At one point in his commentary on Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, after interpreting the myth of Orpheus, the twelfth-century grammarian, William of Conches (1120–1154), breaks off to comment: No one should criticize our interpretation of this fable just because he finds another interpretation of it while reading Fulgentius, for one can come up with various interpretations of the same thing depending on how one looks at it. This variety of interpretations is a cause for rejoicing rather than concern, as long as each explanation is free from contradictions. 1

In the third quarter of the twelfth century, Marie de France wrote something similar in a much-discussed passage in the prologue to her Lais: It was the custom of the old authors, as Priscian testifies, to speak somewhat obscurely in their books so that those who were to come after them and had to study their books might gloss the letters they found written there and use their own judgment to fill out the meaning. These philosophers knew, they understood from their own experience, that as time went on people’s judgment would become more subtle and they would be better able to keep for themselves part of that in their works which might be lost. 2

Towards the end of the century, moreover, Chrétien de Troyes began his Story of the Grail by writing that

1

2

“[S]i aliquis legens Fulgentium aliter hanc fabulam exponi videat, idcirco hanc nostram non vituperet, quia de eadem re secundum diversam considerationem diverse inveniuntur expositiones. Sed non est curandum de diversitate expositionum, immo gaudendum, sed de contrarietate si in expositione esset” (cited in Edouard Jeauneau, “L’usage de la notion d’integumentum à travers les gloses de Guillaume de Conches,” Archives d’Histoire Doctrinale et Littéraire du Moyen Âge 24 [1957]: 47). All translations are mine unless otherwise noted. “Custume fu as anciëns, / Ceo testimoine Preciëns, / Es livres ke jadis feseient, / Assez oscurement diseient / Pur ceus ki a venir esteient / E ki aprendre les deveient, / K’i peüssent gloser la lettre / E de lur sen le surplus mettre. / Li philosophe le saveient, / Par eus meïsmes l’entendeient, / Cum plus trespassereit li tens, / Plus serreient sutil de sens / E plus se savreient garder / De ceo k’i ert a trespasser” (Marie de France, Lais, Prologue 9–22, ed. Jean Rychner [Paris: Champion, 1971], 1–2).

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Whoever sows sparingly, reaps sparingly, but he who wishes to reap plentifully casts his seed on ground that will bear him fruit a hundredfold; for good seed withers and dies in worthless soil. Chrétien sows and casts the seed of a romance that he is beginning and sows it in such a good place that he cannot fail to profit greatly from it for he does it for the worthiest man in the Empire of Rome, that is, Count Philip of Flanders. 3

As I have shown elsewhere, this passage is more complicated than it might at first seem, but the core metaphor is clear. Writing a romance is like sowing a seed and that seed grows more or less well depending on the soil―which is to say the listener or reader―in which it is sown. In a poor listener or reader, the seed will wither and die; in a good one, it will bear fruit―which is to say meaning―a hundredfold. 4 Common to all three authors is the notion that a text’s meanings are produced by hearers or readers whose capacities, interests and concerns determine what the text means to them. A text’s meanings are not fixed, are not something transmitted from the author to the hearer or reader, and, in the case of a secular, poetic text, are not even subject to the blinders of orthodoxy; they are, rather, something the hearers or readers imagine while hearing or reading the text. “The word comes to the ears like whistling wind,” Chrétien writes at the beginning of The Knight with the Lion,

3

4

“Qui petit seime petit quiaut / Et qui auques recoillir viaut / En tel leu sa semence espande / Que fruit a cent doble li rande, / Car en terre qui rien ne vaut / Bone semence seiche et faut. / Crestïens seime et fait semence / D’un romanz que il encommence / Et si lo seime en sin bon leu / Qu’il ne puet ester sanz grant preu. / Il le fait por lo plus prodome / Qui soit en l’empire de Rome, / C’est li cuens Felipes de Flandres” (Chrétien de Troyes, Le Conte du graal 1–13, ed. Charles Méla [Paris: Livre de Poche, 1990], 26; The Story of the Grail [Perceval], in Chrétien de Troyes, Arthurian Romances, trans. William Kibler [Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991], 381 [trans. modified]). See Jeff Rider, “Wild Oats: The Parable of the Sower in the Prologue to Chrétien de Troyes’ Conte du graal,” in Philologies Old and New: Essays in Honor of Peter Florian Dembowski, ed. Carol Chase and Joan Tasker Grimbert (Princeton, NJ: Edward C. Armstrong Monographs, 2001), 251–66. For another reflection on these authors’ use of obscurity, see Carlo Donà, “Oscurità ed enigma in Marie de France e Chrétien de Troyes,” in Obscuritas: Retorica e poetica dell’oscuro. Atti del XXVII Convegno Interuniversitario di Bressanone (12–15 Iuglio 2001), ed. Francesco Zambon and Giosuè Lachin (Trento: Editrice Università degli Studi di Trento, 2004), 103–15.

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but doesn’t stop or linger there; instead it quickly leaves if the heart is not alert and ready to grasp it, for the heart can grasp and enclose and retain it when it comes. 5

A second notion, which is common to both Marie and Chrétien at least―who were writers rather than interpreters―and is, indeed, illustrated in the passages cited above in which they set it forth, is that given that meaning is not communicated from the author to hearers or readers, but is instead produced by them, the best way for a writer to ensure that his or her work will continue to be read and will bear meaning a hundredfold is to write “somewhat obscurely.” The “somewhat” is important. If one writes too obscurely, one will not be read. If one writes too clearly, one limits both the meaningfulness and the potential audience of one’s work by binding it too closely to a single context. By writing somewhat obscurely, one gives one’s work the best chance of being endlessly meaningful, of provoking meaning for many people at many times in many places.6 What we find reflected in these three passages is what I will call a taste for, an aesthetic of, enigma, which was a central part of the twelfthcentury French literary tradition. Although the concept of enigma is pre5

6

“As oreilles vient le parole, / Aussi comme li vens qui vole, / Mais n’i arreste ne demore, / Ains s’en part en mout petit d’ore, / Se li cuers n’est si estilliés / C’a prendre soit appareilliés; / Que chil le puet en son venir / Prendre et enclorre et retenir” (Chrétien de Troyes, Le Chevalier au lion 158–64, ed. and French trans. David Hult [Paris: Livre de Poche, 1994], 60; The Knight with the Lion [Yvain], in Chrétien de Troyes, Arthurian Romances, 297 [trans. modified]). This anticipates, from a productive or rhetorical point of view, Paul Riceour’s hermeneutics of appropriation, which is founded on the fact that a text’s reference changes as it is handed on over time. “In my view,” writes Ricoeur, “the text is much more than a particular case of intersubjective communication: it is the paradigm of distanciation in communication. As such, it displays a fundamental characteristic of the very historicity of human experience, namely that it is communication in and through distance. . . . An essential characteristic of a literary work, and of a work of art in general, is that it transcends its own psycho-sociological conditions of production and thereby opens itself to an unlimited series of readings, themselves situated in different socio-cultural conditions. In short, the text must be able, from the sociological as well as the psychological point of view, to ‘decontextualize’ itself in such a way that it can be ‘recontextualised’ in a new situation – as accomplished, precisely, by the act of reading” (“The Hermeneutical Function of Distanciation,” in Paul Riceour, Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences, ed. and trans. John B. Thompson [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; Paris: Editions de la Maison de Sciences de l’Homme, 1981], 131, 139; cf. Ricoeur, “Appropriation,” in Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences, 182–93).

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sent at the very beginning of the classical rhetorical tradition and is discussed, notably, by Aristotle and Cicero, Quintilian gives it the place it holds in all subsequent treatises on rhetoric and grammar: among the tropes, as a species of allegory. In his Institutio oratoria, Quintilian defines a trope as “the artistic alteration of a word or a phrase from its proper meaning to another” and writes that metaphor is the most common and best of tropes. Allegory is a continuous series of metaphors which “either presents one thing in words and another in meaning, or else something absolutely opposed to the meaning of the words.” He subsequently identifies this second type of allegory, where what is meant is absolutely opposed to what is said, as irony. “When, however, an allegory is too obscure,” he writes, “we call it an enigma.” Enigma, in other words, is a species of allegory, a continuous series of metaphors whose meaning is ambiguous and obscure. 7 The particular value of enigma, according to Classical rhetorical treatises, is the pleasure it procures the audience by means of its metaphoric nature. The treatises agree that metaphor is an important device, perhaps an orator’s most useful tool, and is a source of great pleasure for an audience. As Cicero’s orator Crassus observes, everybody derives more pleasure from words used metaphorically and not in their proper sense than from the proper names belonging to the objects. . . . even in cases where there are plenty of proper words available, words not used in their proper sense give people much more pleasure, if the metaphor is a good one.

The seductiveness of metaphor is so great, in fact, that Crassus feels obliged to admonish his interlocutors that “only such metaphors should be used as either make the meaning clearer . . . or such as better convey the whole meaning of the matter.” The danger is that the pleasure procured by metaphor will become the goal of the discourse, rather than the transmission of meaning: the desire to please the audience through the use of metaphor may overcome the obligation to instruct them and this will lead to obscurity. Cicero thus recognizes both a value and a danger in the use of metaphor. “There is,” he writes, “no mode of speech more effective in the case of single words, and none that adds more brilliance 7

“[V]erbi vel sermonis a propria significatione in aliam cum virtute mutatio. . . . aut aliud verbis aliud sensu ostendit aut etiam interim contrarium. . . . Sed allegoria, quae est obscurior, aenigma dicitur” (Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 8.6.1, 44, 52; trans. H. E. Butler, 4 vols., Loeb Classical Library [London: Heineman; New York: Putnam’s Sons, 1920–22], 3: 300–01, 326–27, 330–31).

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to the style,” but he also realizes that the pleasure afforded by metaphor may become the only reason for its use.8 Cicero writes that allegory, like the metaphors of which it is made up, is “a valuable stylistic ornament.” But here too there is a danger: when one uses allegory, Cicero warns, “care must be taken to avoid obscurity―and in fact it is usually the way in which what are called enigmas are made.” 9 Allegory, in other words, is a continuous use of metaphor which still serves to convey the intended meaning; in the case of enigma, the meaning is obscure and the discourse serves principally to amuse. An enigmatic discourse pleases immensely, that is, but it does not instruct insofar as its meaning is obscure. It is a sort of metaphoric inebriation, where metaphor is used principally for the pleasure it procures. Noteworthy evidence of the entertaining pleasure provided by enigma is to be found in Aulus Gellius’s Attic Nights, where he relates that he and some fellow Roman students in Athens used to meet for dinner during the Saturnalia and spend the evening very merrily yet temperately, not “relaxing our minds,” as the saying is―for, as Musonius asserts, to relax the mind is like losing it―but diverting our minds a little and relieving them by the delights of pleasant and improving conversation:

the host would pose a series of enigmas and obscure questions (of which Gellius gives seven examples) and a guest who solved an enigma or answered a question received a prize and a laurel crown. Quintilian also testifies to the pleasure to be derived from enigma by first mentioning it, not in the part of the Institutio devoted to tropes, but in a discussion of “the sources from which laughter may be legitimately derived or the topics where it may be naturally employed.” Pompeius similarly defines enigma as “that game which children play amongst themselves when they ask each other little questions which none can understand,” while 8

9

“[E]a transferri oportet quae aut clariorem faciunt rem . . . aut quo significatur magis res tota . . . omnes translates et alienis magis delectantur verbis quam propriis et suis . . . sed in suorum verborum maxima copia tamen homines aliena multo magis, si sunt ratione translate, delectant. . . . Modus autem nullus est florentior in singulis verbis nec qui plus luminis afferat orationi” (Cicero, De Oratore 3.39.157–3.40.159, 3.41.166; trans. E. W. Sutton and H. Rackham, 2 vols., Loeb Classical Library [London: Heineman; Cambridge: Harvard, 1942], 2: 122–25, 130–31 [trans. modified]). “[M]agnum ornamentum orationis. In quo obscuritas fugienda est: etenim ex hoc genere fiunt ea quae dicuntur aenigmata” (De Oratore 3.42.167, 2: 131).

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Gervase of Melkley, in the thirteenth century, writes that “enigma is any obscure proposition testing one’s talent for guessing.” 10 The identification of enigma as obscure allegory passed from the classical textbook to the medieval textbook without interruption or significant modification, and by the middle of the fourth century the exposition of the concept had achieved the form it would retain throughout the Middle Ages. “An enigma,” writes Donatus in his Ars maior (c. 340– 360), “is an obscure proposition which is composed by means of a hidden resemblance between things.”11 Even Augustine’s concept of enigma, which he perceives to be one of God’s principal means of revelation and examples of which he finds in Scripture and the soul, is nonetheless the simple, traditional grammatical concept. In his treatise On the Trinity, he launches his commentary on Paul’s use of the words “in enigma” by writing:

10

11 12

these words are altogether unintelligible to those who have never had those basic lessons in which is taught a certain doctrine concerning modes of speaking which the Greeks call tropes, which Greek word we also use in Latin. . . . There are, however, several species of this trope, that is of allegory, among which there is indeed one called enigma . . . so that every enigma is an allegory, but not every allegory is an enigma. What, therefore, is allegory if not that trope where one thing is to be understood by means of another thing . . . . Enigma, I can briefly explain, is an obscure allegory. 12

“[H]ilare prorsum ac modeste, non, ut dicitur, ‘remittentes animum’ – nam ‘remittere,’ inquit Musonius, ‘animum quasi amittere est’ –, sed demulcentes eum paulum atque laxantes iucundis honestisque sermonum inlectationibus” (Aulus Gellius, Attic Nights 18.2, trans. John C. Rolfe, 3 vols., Loeb Classical Library [London: Heinemann; New York: Putnam’s Sons, 1927–28], 3: 297–303:); “unde autem concilietur risus et quibus locis peti soleat” (Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 6.3.35, 51; 2: 456–57, 464–65); “aenigma est, quo ludunt etiam parvuli inter se, quando sibi proponent quaestiunculas, quas nullus intelleget” (Pompeius, Commentum artis Donati, in Grammatici latini, vol. 5: Artium scriptores minores, ed. Heinrich Keil [Leipzig: Teubner, 1868], 311); “Enigma est quelibet obscura sententia probans ingenium divinandi” (Gervase of Melkley, Ars poetica, ed. HansJürgen Gräbener, Forschungen zur Romanischen Philologie 17 [Münster: Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1965], 149). “Aenigma est obscura sententia per occultam similitudinem rerum” (Aelius Donatus, Ars maior, ed. Louis Holtz, in Louis Holz, Donat et la tradition de l’enseignement grammatical [Paris: CNRS, 1981], 672). “[M]ultis hoc incognitum est qui eas litteras nesciunt, in quibus est doctrina quaedam de locutionem modus, quos Graeci tropos vocant, eoque graeco vocabulo etiam nos utimur pro latino. . . . Hujus autem tropi, id est allegoriae, plures sunt species, in quibus est etiam quod dicitur aenigma. . . . ita omne aenigma allegoria est, non omnis allegoria aenigma est. Quid ergo est allegoria, nisi tropus ubi

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The examples of enigma with which Augustine illustrates the just-cited passage are all drawn from the Bible, but he also recognizes the existence of enigmas in secular texts. In his Seven Questions Concerning the Heptateuch, in the course of a commentary on a passage from Numbers, he explains the unusual word “enigmatisters” by noting that they seem to be composing a song. He therefore concludes that it is not incredible to think that those whom we call poets were then called enigmatisters, for it is the habit and the license of poets to mix the enigmas of fables with their songs, by which they are understood to signify something. Indeed, enigmas were probably then nothing other than that tropical locution which must be broken if that which lies hidden in the enigma is to be understood. 13

The passage shows that Augustine considered the enigmas of secular poets to be comparable to the enigmas of the divinely inspired biblical ones.

13

ex alio aliud intellegitur . . . . Aenigma est autem, ut breviter explicem, obscura allegoria” (Augustine, La Trinité 15.9.15, in Oeuvres de Saint Augustin, vols. 15– 16, ed. and French trans. M. Mellet and Th. Camelot [Paris: Desclée De Brouwer, 1955], 2:458–60). On this passage in particular and enigma in the classical and medieval rhetorical tradition in general, see Eleanor Cook, “The Figure of Enigma: Rhetoric, History, Poetry,” Rhetorica: A Journal of the History of Rhetoric 19 (2001): 349–78; on the sources and treatment of obscurity in this tradition more generally, see Jan Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity in the Latin Tradition,” Mediaevalia: A Journal of Medieval Studies 19 (1996 for 1993): 101–70; and Irène Rosier-Catach, ed., L’Ambiguïté; cinq études historiques (Lille: Presses Universitaires de Lille, 1988). “[N]on incredibiliter putantur isti aenigmatistae sic tunc appellati, quos poetas nos appellamus, eo quo poetarum sit consuetudo atque licentia miscere carminibus suis aenigmata fabularum, quibus aliquid significare intellegantur. Non enim aliter essent aenigmata, nisi esset illic tropica locutio, qua discussa perueniretur ad intellectum qui in aenigmate latitaret” (Augustine, Quaestionum in Heptateuchum libri VIII Quaest. 45, ed. J. Fraipont, Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina 33 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1958], 263–64). I would like to thank Tamás Visi for pointing out to me that Augustine’s word “enigmatisters” (“aenigmatistae”) is based on the Septuagint version of the Old Testament, which translates a Hebrew word meaning “those who speak parables/proverbs” as “αίνιγματισταί” (“enigmatisters”). The Hebrew word is from the same root as the Hebrew title of the book Proverbs. The phrase in which the word is used (Num. 21:27) introduces a citation from an ancient poem and many modern translators render the Hebrew phrase as “poets”: modern scholars, in sum, have reached the same conclusion as Augustine. Compare Origen, Homily XIII on Numbers, 2.1.

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The definition of enigma as an obscure allegory is repeated by essentially every grammarian in the Middle Ages. “An enigma,” writes Isidore of Seville, is an obscure question which is difficult to understand, unless it is explained . . . The difference between allegory and enigma is that the power of allegory is double and indicates one thing figuratively beneath another; enigma, however, has a meaning which is most obscure and adumbrated through certain semblances. 14

“An enigma,” writes Hugh of Saint Victor, copying Donatus word for word, “is an obscure proposition which is composed by means of a hidden resemblance between things.”15 “An enigma,” echoes Mathew of Vendôme, “is an obscurity in propositions which is hidden by a certain covering of words.” 16 Enigma thus had a well-defined place in the remarkably stable medieval rhetorical and grammatical tradition and was taught in the schools along with the rest of that tradition. Within this tradition, the composition of an enigmatic text was altogether comparable to the composition of an allegorical or ironic one. As Karl F. Morrison puts it, enigma was considered “an expository strategy” or “a deliberate strategy of thought” which locates closure, not in the text, but, if at all, in the mind of the reader or spectator . . . according to principles entirely unanticipated by the author. 17

Medieval scholars, moreover, discovered enigmas in every form of discourse. Does one not read, asked Aldhelm of Malmesbury (c. 650–709), that “the poet Simphosius . . . sang the hidden propositions of enigmas, raising slight matter to the heights of playfulness?” Did not “Aristotle, the most penetrating of the philosophers, likewise produce difficult enigmas in eloquent prose as proofs?” Does one not find enigmas “inserted 14

15

16 17

“Aenigma est quaestio obscura quae difficile intellegitur, nisi aperiatur . . . . Inter allegoriam autem et aenigma hoc interest, quod allegoriae vis gemina est et sub res aliud figuraliter indicat; aenigma vero sensus tantum obscurus est, et per quasdam imagines adumbrates” (Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae, ed. W. M. Lindsay, 2 vols. [Oxford: Clarendon, 1911], 1.37.26). “Enigma est obscura sententia per occultam similitudinem rerum” (Hugh of Saint Victor, De grammatica, ed. Jean Leclercq, in Jean Leclercq, “Le ‘De grammatica’ de Hugues de Saint Victor,” Archives d’Histoire Doctrinale et Littéraire du Moyen Age 14 [1943/45], 321). “Aenigma est sententiarum obscuritas quodam verborum involucro occultata” (Mathew of Vendôme, Ars Versificatoria 3.44, ed. Edmond Faral, in Edmond Faral, Les Arts poétiques du XIIe et du XIIIe siècle [Paris: Champion, 1924], 177). Karl F. Morrison, “Hermeneutics and Enigma: Bernard of Clairvaux’s De consideratione,” Viator 19 (1988): 129–51.

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throughout the sacred heights of literature?” 18 Poetry, philosophy, Scripture: all three could be enigmatic, and enigma was used as an expository strategy by such twelfth-century writers as Abelard, Bernardus Silvestris, Gratian, Anselm of Havelberg, Gerhoch of Reichersberg and Bernard of Clairvaux. 19 Unlike the classical rhetoricians, however, medieval scholars did not view discursive obscurity as a fault to be avoided. The warnings against the dangers of obscurity which accompany the discussion of enigma in the classical textbooks tend to disappear from the medieval textbooks. An enigmatic discourse’s fruitful ability to provoke multiple interpretations was, on the contrary, recognized and lauded throughout the Middle Ages. 20 Encountering an obscure passage in the Bible, for example, Augustine writes: Perhaps it has been set down the more darkly, in order that it might generate many meanings, and that men might come away from it the more enriched, finding something enclosed that could be opened in many ways, more than if they had found it, already open, in one way only. 21

Abelard writes similarly that

the holy prophets, too, when the Spirit speaks through them, do not understand all the meanings towards which their words are directed, but often are aware of only one meaning, even though the Spirit speaking through them

18

19 20

21

“Simfosius poeta . . . . occultas enigmatum propositiones exili materia sumpta ludibundis apicibus . . . cecinisse . . . Aristoteles, philosophorum acerrimus, perplexa nihilominus enigmata e prosae locutionis facundia fretus argumentatur. . . . in sacris litterarum apicibus insertum” (Aldhelm of Malmesbury, De metris et enigmatibus ac pedum regulis 6–7, in Opera, ed. Rudolf Ehwald, MGH AA 15 [Berlin: Weidmann, 1919], 75–76). Abelard likewise thought that philosophers, poets and prophets “use language in essentially the same, ‘veiled’ way” (Peter Dronke, Fabula: Explorations into the Uses of Myth in Medieval Platonism, Mittellateinische Studien und Texte 9 [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1974], 61–64). See Morrison and, for Bernardus Silvestris, Dronke, Fabula, 134–35. Winthrop Wetherbee, Platonism and Poetry in the Twelfth Century: The Literary Influence of the School of Chartres (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972), 255–57; Donà, “Oscurità ed enigma,” 104–05; and Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity,” 130–33, 138–53, all likewise draw attention to this shift in attitude towards the enigmatic between the classical period and the Middle Ages. “Ideo enim forte obscurius positum est, ut multus intellectus generet, et ditiores discedant homines, quia clausum inuenerunt quod multis modis aperiretur, quam si uno modo apertum inuenirent” (Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos CXXVI.11, ed. Eligius Dekkers and J. Fraipont, 3 vols. Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina 38–40 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1990], 3:1865; trans. Dronke, Fabula, 57 n. 2 [cont. from 56]).

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foresees many meanings there, so that later he may inspire some interpretations in some interpreters and other in others. 22

Writing a deliberately enigmatic text was thus very much a possibility within the literary tradition in which Marie de France, Chrétien de Troyes and other twelfth-century French authors were formed and thus part of the nascent French literature that emerged in the twelfth century. Preoccupied by legal and political concerns, Classical forensic rhetoricians were, as we have seen, wary of the inebriating pleasure that comes from such texts. One can understand, however, why twelfth-century court poets like Marie and Chrétien, who sought first and foremost to entertain their audiences, embraced the enigmatic style. I think they also did so because another of their goals was to endow the aristocratic life portrayed in their works with its own spiritual dimension, a secular aristocratic spirituality independent of contemporary mainstream Catholic spirituality. And one way to do so was to endow their works with a mysterious, quasi-allegorical aura, suggesting they had a hidden higher meaning for those who have ears to hear. 23 While enigmatic texts did not suddenly cease to be written in French in the thirteenth century, they do seem to have become less frequent and less popular from that time on. The great anti-enigmatic romance, the Quest of the Holy Grail, was written about 1225 and we find in it a striking exposition of a new aesthetic and hermeneutic model that would become increasingly influential in Western culture and is probably still the most influential model today. When Eve picked the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in the garden of Eden, the author of the Quest writes, she broke “off as she did so a twig of the tree itself, as it often happens that the twig adheres to the gathered fruit.” Eve broke off the twig when she gave the fruit to Adam, but kept it absentmindedly in her hand and indeed still had it in her hand when they were expelled from the garden. “When . . . ,” writes the author, 22

23

Theologia Christiana 1.117, in Petri Abaelardi Opera Theologica, ed. Eligius M. Buytaert, 3 vols., Corpus Christianorum 11–13 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1969–87), 2:121, trans. Dronke, Fabula, 63–64: “et sancti prophetae, cum aliqua Spiritus Sanctus per eos loquitur, non omnes sententias ad quas se habent uerba sua intelligent; sed saepe unam tantum in eis habent, cum Spiritus ipse qui per eos loquitur multas ibi prouideat, quarum postmodum alias aliis expositoribus et alias aliis inspirat.” See Jeff Rider, “Marvels and the Marvelous,” in The Arthurian Encyclopedia, ed. Norris J. Lacy, 2 ed. (New York: Garland, 1991), 311–13.

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she saw the twig, it caught her eye because it was still as fresh and green as if it had just been picked. She knew that the tree from which it had been broken was the cause of her exile and her misery. So she said then that, in remembrance of the cruel loss she had suffered through that tree, she would keep the branch for as long as she could, where it would often be before her eyes to remind her of her great misfortune. Then Eve bethought herself that she had neither casket nor any other box in which to house it, for no such things as yet existed. So she thrust it into the ground, so that it stood erect, saying that in this way it would often catch her eye. . . . This branch which the first sinner brought with her out of Paradise was charged with meaning. In that she held it in her hand it betokened a great happiness, as though she were speaking to her heirs that were to follow her . . ., and saying to them through the medium of this twig: “Be not dismayed if we are banished from our inheritance: it is not lost to us eternally; see here a sign of our return hereafter.” 24

This twig, eternally fresh and green, charged with meaning, transmits Eve’s voice and unchanging message down the centuries to her heirs. It is a promise, a legal or contractual message, and Eve’s first impulse is to place it in a box or casket for safe-keeping, although she cannot do so because such things have not yet been invented. This tale evokes what I will call the box-model of hermeneutics, according to which an author puts meaning in a text, just as Eve would have liked to put the twig in a box. The author’s voice survives down the centuries, eternally fresh and green, closed in a box-like text which readers must open in order to hear that voice and its message. All authority in this model belongs to the au24

“[E]le cueilli . . . de l’arbre meismes .i. rainsel auvec le fruit, si com l’avient sovent que li rains s’en vient auvec le fruit com l’en le quelt. . . . Lors s’aperçut et voit le rainsel bel et verdoiant come celui qui mainte[nant] avoit esté cueilli, si sot que li arbres dont li fruiz avoit esté estoit acheson de son deseritement et de sa mesaise. Lors dist Eve que en remenbrance de sa grant perte qui par cel arbre li estoir avenue, garderoit elle le rainsel tant com ele le porroit plus et si le metroit en tel leu que ele le verroit sovent. Et lors s’apensa qu’ele n’avait ne huche ne autre [estui] en quoi ele le peust estoier, car encores au tens de lors n’estoit nuls tel chose. Si le ficha dedenz terre, si qu’il se tint tout droiz, et dist que einsi le verroit ele assez sovent. . . . Icil rains que la premiere pecherresse aporta [de] paradis si fu pleins de [molt] grant senefiance. Car einsi com ele le portoit en sa main senefioit il une grant leece, tot aussi come se ele parlast a ses oirs qui encore estoient a venir . . . et li rains senefia tot aussi com s’ele lor deist: ‘Ne vos esmaiez mie se nos somes jeté hors de nostre heritaje: car nos ne l’avons mie perdu a toz jorz ; vez ici les enseignes que encore i serons’” (La Quête du Saint Graal 11.253–54, ed. Fanni Bogdanow, French trans. Anne Berrie [Paris: Livre de Poche, 2006], 516–20; The Quest of the Holy Grail, trans. P. M. Matarasso [Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969], 222–23).

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thor. The meaning is entirely his or hers. The reader’s job, indeed the reader’s obligation, is to open the textbox and hear the author’s message. This is the model of promissory texts and contracts, the kind of text that was dear to the growing medieval patrician class. It is a binding, authoritarian model that banishes all obscurity―and all hints of a secular spirituality―and grounds meaning in a clear set of references.25 This model is diametrically opposite to the seed-model of hermeneutics shared by Guillaume de Conches, Abelard, Marie de France and Chrétien. For them, the text is a seed that grows differently, produces different meanings, in each reader, in which each reader produces meanings appropriate to his or her capacities, interests and situation, and in which “this variety of interpretations is a cause for rejoicing rather than concern.” This model―which emerged from a clerical synthesis of Classical rhetoric and biblical hermeneutics―does not bind readers, locates the authority for determining meaning in them, and welcomes some obscurity as a provocation to interpretation. 26 25

26

The avowed purpose of the author of the Quest is “to bring to a close the adventures of the Holy Grail (a achever les aventures del [Saint] Graal)” (La Quête 1.11, 96; The Quest, 37) and he declares that “just as folly and error fled at His [Christ’s] advent and truth stood revealed, even so has Our Lord chosen you [the Quest’s hero, Galahad] from among all other knights to ride abroad through many lands to put an end to the hazards that afflict them and make their meaning and their causes plain (tot einsi com l’error et la folie s’en foï par la venue de lui et la verité fu adonc [aparanz et] manifeste, ausi vos a Nostre Sires esleu sor toz chevaliers por envoier par les estranges terres por abatre les greveuses aventures et a fere conoistre coment eles sont avenues)” (La Quête 2.43, 158; The Quest, 64). In more modern terms, one might say that the author of the Quest wanted to put an end to the obscurity surrounding the grail and the Arthurian world (and to Arthurian narratives in general) and teach his readers how to interpret what they read correctly, which is to say, in an edifying and doctrinally acceptable manner, but he fails in some very interesting ways and his story gets away from him even as he tells it. In the midst of the above-cited passage in which he sets forth the box-model of hermeneutics, for example, he tells us that when Eve stuck the twig into the ground, “it quickened and took root in the soil and grew (crut et reprist en la terre [et enracina])” (La Quête 11.254, 518; The Quest, 223). This twig eventually grew into a large white tree, then turned green and produced numerous green saplings, and then later turned red and produced numerous red saplings. Despite the author’s intentions and efforts, Eve’s message grows and changes with time and circumstance, recalling Chrétien’s seed metaphor. “Augustine and other allegorizing exegetes,” writes Ziolkowski, “had opened the door . . . to allegorical and obscure writing – to writing that demanded an allegorical mode of thought, to writing that encouraged readers and listeners to

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When French literature emerged in the twelfth century it did so from and against a clerical, that is, ecclesiastical, learned and Latinate, background.27 Its authors had been trained in clerical schools or at least in the clerical tradition and the literature they created was in some sense Latinate literature for people who did not know Latin, had not been to school, and were used to oral entertainments. It was a literature that had to please an unschooled audience but whose authors nonetheless wanted to write sophisticated literature and thus had to teach their audience to enjoy such literature as well as entertaining it. The world had changed considerably by the time the Quest of the Holy Grail was composed around 1225. The clerical tradition, on the one hand, was becoming more scholastic and encyclopedic, which led it to prefer an allegorical style to an enigmatic one.28 Buoyed by growing wealth, the

27 28

speculate upon its opacity. Their work led to an acceptance among a variety of authors that obscurity had a valid place even outside the Bible and that it could enable all manners of writings to attain the most sublime heights. The multiple interpretations that an obscure style could enable held the potential of elevating poetry alongside theology, and this was a potential that poets on the order of Alan of Lille and Dante [and, I would add, Marie de France and Chrétien de Troyes] could ill afford to leave untried” (152–53). See also Jacqueline Cerquiligni, “Polysémie, ambiguïté et équivoque dans la théorie et la pratique poétiques du Moyen Age français,” in Rosier, ed., L’Ambiguïté, 167–80. It is still useful, in this connection, to read Edmond Faral, Recherches sur les sources latines des contes et romans courtois du moyen âge (Paris: Champion, 1913). See also Wetherbee, Platonism and Poetry, 220–41. This new attitude is apparent in Aquinas’s explanation of Aristotle’s critique of Plato: “Having introduced Plato’s view, Aristotle here rejects it. In this connection it is important to realize that very often, when Aristotle rejects Plato’s views, he is rejecting them not with respect to Plato’s intention but with respect to how his words sound. Aristotle acts in this way because Plato had a faulty manner of teaching: he says everything figuratively and teaches through symbols, intending through his words something different from how they themselves sound. (Thus he said that soul is a circle.) So, to prevent someone from falling into error on account of these words, Aristotle argues against Plato with respect to how his words sound” (“Posita opinione Platonis, hic Aristoteles reprobat eam. Ubi notandum est quod plerumque quando reprobat opiniones Platonis, non reprobat eas quantum ad intentionem Platonis, sed quantum ad sonum uerborum eius; quod ideo facit quia Plato habuit malum modum docendi: omnia enim figurate dicit, et per simbola docet, intendens aliud per uerba quam sonent ipsa verba, sicut quod dixit animam esse circulum; et ideo ne aliquis propter ipsa uerba incidat in errorem, Aristotiles disputat contra eum quantum ad id quod uerba eius sonant”) (Thomas Aquinas, Sentencia libri De anima 1.8, in Opera Omnia, vol. 45.1 [Rome: Commissio Leonina; Paris: Vrin, 1984], 38.407a2; A

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secular audience for literary entertainments, on the other hand, had become significantly larger and more varied and secular literature had begun to develop its own tradition, distinct from the clerical one. Anchored more clearly in secular concerns and reflecting more clearly worldly attitudes, it favored a “realistic” and often ironic style to an enigmatic one. For French literature at least, the twelfth century thus seems to me to be the heyday of the seed-model of hermeneutics and of what one might call the enigmatic style.

Commentary on Aristotle’s De anima, trans. Robert Pasnau [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999], 62–63). This passage was brought to my attention by reading Alessandro Zironi, “Il Libro di Zabulon fra astronomia e occultismo,” in Obscuritas, ed. Zambon and Lachin, 202. On Aquinas’s preference for allegory over enigma and the effect of such a preference on literary creation, see also Cook, “The Figure of Enigma,” 370.

Mise en abyme in Marie de France’s “Laüstic” Susan Small

Mise en abyme, or infinite regress, is a hermeneutic device which produces meaning through the juxtaposition of analogous structures. Its use is perhaps most prevalent in literature, although it has important parallels in other disciplines, most notably that of visual arts, where replication draws the eye to the isomorphism and infinite interconnectivity of spatial configurations. The introduction of the term “mise en abyme” in a literary context is generally attributed to the late-nineteenth-century French writer, André Gide, who borrowed it from the field of heraldry; the notion of a “text-within-a-text” was, said Gide, similar to the relation which obtained between an object placed at the center point (the “abyme”) of a heraldic shield and the shield itself; both devices operated by means of an analogy between one structure and the structure which contained it.1 Meaning was produced through the interaction (or, more specifically, mirroring) of similar structures, each reflecting and thereby complicating and interrogating the other. Given its focus on specularity, it would seem inevitable that mise en abyme should emerge, some half a century later, as the sine qua non of the French Nouveau Roman [New Novel], with its focus on metafictional reflexivity. Within the kaleidoscopic detail of a text (literary or other), mise en abyme acts both as a filter and a catalyst, bringing into focus systems of semiotic relations whose analogous structures can be seen to reflect, and reflect upon, each other. It is in this way that it functions as a hermeneutic device, revealing intricate webs of symmetric semiosis underlying and supporting the surface of the text. 1

Cf. Lucien Dällenbach, “André Gide’s shields,” in Lucien Dällenbach, The Mirror in the Text, trans. Jeremy Whitely with Emma Hughes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 7–19, esp. 7–8. Originally Le récit spéculaire: essai sur la mise en abyme (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1977) ; and André Gide, Journal 1889–1939 (Paris: Gallimard, Pléiade, 1948), 41, cf. Journals 1889–1949, trans. J. O’Brien (London: Penguin, 1984), 30–31.

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If the use of the term mise en abyme is modern, however, the concept itself is not. In his study of mirror imagery in medieval and renaissance texts, Herbert Grabes observes a parallel between similarity, analogy, and the classical principle of imitatio, in which the world is conceptualized throughout the period as an “increasingly complex fabric of analogies,” each strand of which can be seen and, therefore, interpreted in terms of the others. 2 Within this world of echoes, asymmetry (and the complementary notions of absence, silence, dislocation, refraction, erasure and loss) can be seen as a rent in the “fabric of analogies.” Moreover, as Lucien Dällenbach observes in The Mirror in the Text, the placement of one object en abyme in another produces a hole or lacuna at the center of the object in which it is placed, altering its identity and initiating “[a]n infinite illusion . . . or an unlimited interplay of substitutions.” 3 This interplay is strikingly represented in the twelfth-century lay of “Laüstic” [The Nightingale] by Marie de France, which contains a jeweled casket which contains an embroidered cloth which contains a dead nightingale: a structure that clearly replicates Dällenbach’s definition of mise en abyme as “any internal mirror that reflects the whole of the narrative by simple, repeated or ‘specious’ (or paradoxical) duplication.”4 Moreover, the collection of lays containing “Laüstic” itself is preceded by a prologue in which Marie famously declares her writing project: to follow the ancient practice of obscuring the meaning of the text in order that it might be read and interpreted by future generations with the hermeneutic tools at their disposal:

2 3 4 5

It was the custom of the Ancients, As Priscian testifies That in the books that they wrote They would say things quite obscurely So that those who should come after them And wish to learn from them Might gloss the letter And add their own understanding to them. 5

Herbert Grabes, The Mutable Glass: Mirror-imagery in Titles and Texts of the Middle Ages and English Renaissance, trans. Gordon Collier (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 112–13. Dällenbach, Mirror, 111. Dällenbach, Mirror, 36. “Custume fu as ancïens, / Ceo testimoine Precïens, / Es livres ke jadis feseient, / Assez oscurement diseient / Pur ceus ki a venir esteient / E ki aprendre les deveient, / K’I peüssent gloser la letter / E de lur sen le surplus mettre” (Marie de France, Les Lais de Marie de France, trans. Jean Rychner [Paris: Champion, 1983],

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The object of my paper is, therefore, to elucidate the semiotic structure underlying the lay of “Laüstic” in terms of the concept of the mise en abyme. To this end, I will first present a plot summary of “Laüstic,” followed by an analysis of its plot structure. I will argue that the lay has a bi-partite narrative structure: the first part of which is based on the principle of mirror-image symmetry, and the second on the related but more refractory concept of mise en abyme itself. The story can be summarized as follows: Two knights of equal wealth and prowess, equally respected by their peers, live in neighboring houses separated only by a wall. The only apparent difference between the two knights is that one of them is married and one is not. The unmarried knight falls in love with the wife of the married knight. The two lovers engage in an intense, secret platonic love affair from their bedroom windows. One night, the lady’s husband becomes suspicious and asks her why she has been spending so much time at the window. She tells him that she has been listening to the nightingale singing in the garden. The following day, her husband has the bird trapped and brought to him. He summons his wife and, telling her that the nightingale will no longer keep her awake, breaks its neck and flings its bloody body at her. Terrified that her lover will think she no longer loves him, she wraps the nightingale’s body in a cloth on which she has embroidered the story of its tragic death. She gives the body to a messenger, asking him to deliver it to her lover and to tell him what has happened. Her lover, heartbroken, places the body of the nightingale in the embroidered cloth in a jeweled casket which he carries with him forever. In The Mirror in the Text, Dällenbach cites the dead nightingale in “Laüstic” as a classic example of “[t]he paradigms that are used as metaphors for the locus of a metaphysical narrative”6; in “Laüstic,” he explains,

the remains of the bird that is an emblem of love poetry are wrapped in an embroidered silk shroud covered in writing, and kept like a relic in a case which recalls other caskets in literature. 7

6 7

“Prologue,” ll. 11–19). All quotations from the Lais will be taken from this edition. All unattributed English translations will be my own. Dällenbach, Mirror, 180. Dällenbach, Mirror, 181–82. Paul Zumthor poses this same question in terms of the modalities of Greimassian semiotics (A. J. Greimas, Du sens: Essais sémiotiques [Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1970], 168): “The existence of three performers (the Lady, the Lover, and the Husband) and of a single object (love) has to be taken into account; at any given moment the object is substituted by the nightingale in

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In other words, the dead nightingale lies at the bottom of a textual abyss, a sort of memento scribendi, distilling and “deciphering” an originary meta-text. 8 I will further argue that not only does the dead nightingale (as object) constitute the locus of a metaphysical narrative but that the nightingale’s death itself (as act) is the catalyst that converts a pleasing (if somewhat predictable) love story into a profound commentary on the nature of writing and memory. In structural terms, the highly symmetrical (if mobile) mirror structure which characterizes the opening pages of “Laüstic” is fractured by the death of the nightingale, which acts as what one critic terms a “hole in the information-bearing sign system”; its death is a pivotal moment of disequilibrium, throwing the narrative into a tailspin and restructuring it as a mise en abyme. 9 The story opens with a striking representation of mirror-image (or reflection) symmetry: two knights, two houses, two good men. 10 Almost immediately, however, this symmetry is broken down into its component parts; the two knights become “the one” and “the other,” 11 and a previously undisclosed third element (the wife of “the one”) is revealed, effectively transforming the initial mirror-image symmetry relation into a classic love triangle. The lady, in other words, functions as a sort of “dangerous supplement,” introducing the possibility―the quasi-

8 9

10 11

virtue of equivalences taken from courtly love lyric” (Paul Zumthor, Towards a Medieval Poetics, trans. Philip Bennett [Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992], 319). Peter Haidu, who proposes a distinction between the “pure sign, a sign signifying nothing but signification” and “the metonymic, contiguous serious of signs […] that discursively explicate the solitary, polyvalent sign,” observes that “[i]n ‘Laüstic,’ the doubled sign structure forms a mise-en-abyme: the small syntagm that reflects a narrative’s totality.” The dead bird is, for Haidu, the “sign of pure love,” the embroidered shroud its “explicatory narrativization” (Haidu, Subject Medieval / Modern: Text and Governance in the Middle Ages [Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004], 128–29). John. J. White, “The Semiotics of the mise-en-abyme,” in The Motivated Sign: Iconicity in Language and Literature 2, ed. Olga Fischer and Max Nänny (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2000), 34, in reference to Dällenbach, Mirror, 181. Margaret M. Boland locates the structural center of the collection of lays in the tombs of “Yonec,” flanked by the coffins in “Deus Amans” and the reliquary in “Laüstic” (Margaret M. Boland, Architectural Structure in the Lais of Marie de France [New York: Peter Lang, 1995], 62). “[d]ui chevalier” (l. 9), “deus forz maisuns” (l. 10), “la bunté des deus baruns” (l. 11). The Larousse Dictionnaire de l’ancien français defines a “maison fort” as a “manoir fortifié,” a fortified dwelling. “The one has married a lady” (“Li uns aveit femme espusee” [l. 13]); “The other was a bachelor” (“Li autres fu uns bachelers” [l. 17]; my emphasis).

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certainty―of change. Indeed, we are only twenty-three lines into the lay when Marie reveals that the bachelor knight loves the lady, 12 and, only three lines further on, tells us that the lady loves him as well.13 The exclusivity of this “above all else” implies both the reciprocity of the relationship between the bachelor knight and the married woman and the concomitant exclusion of the lady’s husband. Moreover, if we assume (as I think we must) that Marie’s initial representation of the relationship between the two knights occulted not only the presence of the lady but also the existence of an exclusive and reciprocal erotic (or at least sexual) relationship between her and her husband, then what has occurred in the first twenty-three lines of the lay is a complete, but still symmetrical, reconfiguration of the original affective mirror relation. In strictly formal terms, the “binary opposition” between the two actants is maintained; their function has simply been reassigned. The bachelor knight is now to the married lady (and she to him) what her husband was to her (and she to him) before. Any change in the affective relationship between the two knights themselves is left unmentioned and has, in any case, no effect on the formal actantial structure of the lay: two knights, two houses, two good men. The fact that the reader is initially unaware that both knights love the same lady serves only to reinforce the mirror symmetry relation between the two. Interestingly, too, Marie takes the proximity of the two knights’ “two houses” and reformulates it as a sort of architectural aphrodisiac: not only do the bachelor knight and the married woman, she says, fall in love with each other “because he lived close to her,”14 but they are also able to conceal their love from her husband 12 13 14 15

For their dwellings were close Their houses were next to each other As were their rooms and their donjons. 15

“He loved his neighbour’s wife” (“La femme sun veisin ama”). “She loved him above all else” (“ele l’ama sur tute rien”). “pur ceo qu’il iert pres de li” (l. 28). “[k]ar pres esteient lur repere: / Preceines furent lur maisuns / E lur sales e lur dunguns” (ll. 34–36). As Judith P. Shoaf notes in her online translation of this passage (http://www.clas.ufl.edu/users/jshoaf/Marie/laustic.pdf – last accessed January 8, 2013), “propinquity” figured in the “art of courtly love” in the twelfth century: “Lovers who live near together can cure each other of the torments that come from love, can help each other in their common sufferings, and can nourish their love by mutual exchanges and efforts” (“Amantes enim ex propinquo degentes poenarum, quae ex amore procedunt, alternatim sibi possunt esse remedia et in suis se compassionibus adiuvare et suum amoren mutuis vicibus ac

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Despite this fortuitous contiguity, however, the first knight now appears to be entirely absent from the equation. Indeed, his physical absence from his own house is given as the occasion for several encounters between his neighbor and his wife. Of course, in his absence, his function as what the actantial model of structural semantics would term the “obstacle” is taken over by the very literal wall between the two houses: “There was no barrier or obstacle / Except a high wall of grey stone.”16 Moreover, it is at this point in the narrative that even the strict surveillance, which denotes the presence of the lady’s husband, 17 is no obstacle to the intense reciprocity of the relationship between the lady and the other knight. There being no possibility of physical contact, however, their two facing bedchambers (with their erotically suggestive open windows) become the site of an intense exchange of sexual substitutes. The narrative continues: From the chamber where the lady lay, When she went to the window, She could talk with her lover on her part, and he to her, And they could exchange gifts

16

17

laboribus enutrire” (my emphasis); Andreas Capellanus, The Art of Courtly Love, trans. John Jay Parry [New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing, 1941], 98–99; Andreas Capellanus, De amore libri tres I.6.G., “Loquitur nobilior nobili,” Para. 359 [http://www.thelatin library.com/capellanus.html] last accessed January 8, 2013). “N’i aveit bare ne devise / Fors un haut mur de piere bise” (ll. 37–38); I have highlighted the word “except” because it marks, in Old French, not only exception, as here and several lines later, (“They were both very happy / Except….” [“Mut esteient amdui a eise, / Fors….” (ll. 46–47)]), but exclusion as well. It is, moreover, highly significant in terms of Derridean theory of mourning and the erotic, which opposes “introjection,” in which “language acts and makes up for absence by representing, by giving figurative shape to presence,” and “incorporation,” which “creates a typography within the psyche where the beloved is kept” (quoted in Martin Kavka, Jewish Messianism and the History of Philosophy [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004], 200, 199). See also “Fors,” Jacques Derrida’s foreword to Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok’s The Wolf Man's Magic Word: A Cryptonomy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986). This distinction is, as we will see, crucial in the lover’s response to the dead nightingale. Paul Zumthor designates the function of “fors” in lines 47– 57 of “Laüstic” as “restriction (fors que, ‘except’) of previous affirmation, producing retrospective ambiguity” (Zumthor, Poetics, 320). “For the lady was closely guarded / When he [her husband] was in the area” (“Kar la dame ert estreit gardee / Quant cil esteit en la cuntree” [ll. 49–50]).

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By tossing them back and forth to each other. 18

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Of course, it is the lady’s husband, the “sleeping partner” in this erotic game, whose occulted presence will eventually tip the balance in favor of his marriage. For it is he who, in the dark and intimate space of the bedroom he alone shares with the lady, begins to invoke the rules of marriage against those of the game of courtly love, demanding that she account for her absences, becoming angry and asking “why she arose and where she went.”19 Interestingly, the husband is, with respect to his doubts, also playing the role of the courtly lover himself, for, as Andreas Capellanus remarks in the chapter of his Art of Courtly Love entitled “Of the signs of mutual love” the man who notices that his lover is absent more often (“If you see that your lover is missing all sorts of opportunities to be with you”) or comes up with pretexts for not being with him (“or is putting false obstacles in your path”) has good reason to suspect that she is in love with another man.20 Moreover, the lady in “Laüstic” does use what proves to be a highly significant pretext to explain her nightly absences to her husband (“My lord, the lady replied, / He has no joy in this world / Who does not hear the nightingale sing. / It is for that reason that I go there”), 21 and this, too, is a sign of her desire to leave him. It is, therefore, at this precise point―at the virtual midpoint of the narrative (ll. 7-156)―that the nightingale begins to function as the ticking time bomb at the heart of its structure. The device does not immediately explode nor does the structure implode; the duration of time implicit in both the injunction and the narrative (“He thought of one thing only: / He will trap the nightingale”)22 defers the final act and allows for a final reconfiguration of the spatial coordinates involved. For, one line after the nightingale is identified as the husband’s target, the 18 19 20

21 22

“Des chambres u la dame jut, / Quant a la fenestre s’estut, / Poeit parler a sun ami / De l’autre part, e il a li, / E lur aveirs entrechangier / E par geter e par lancier” (ll. 39–44). “[p]ur quei levot e u ala” (l. 82). “Sed si coamantem cognoveris se ultra solitum, ut eam non videas, absentare”; “Si enim videris amantem occasiones in coamantem requirere varias vel falsa impedimenta opponere” (Andreas Capellanus, Courtly Love, 157; Andreas Capellanus, De amore II.5, “De notitia mutui amoris,” 3, 2 [http://www.thelatinlibrary. com/capellanus/capellanus2.html] last accessed January 8, 2013). “Sire, la dame li respunt, / Il nen ad joië en cest mund / Ki n’ot le laüstic chanter. / Pur ceo me vois ici ester” (ll. 83–86). “D’une chose se purpensa: / le laüstic enginnera” (ll. 95–96).

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house is transformed from a dwelling into a center of command and its garden, once an idyllic locus amoenus (“And the garden flowered”),23 into a minefield (“There was not a servant in the house / Who did not make traps, snares or nets / And place them throughout the garden”).24 The servants follow the husband’s orders to take the bird alive and deliver it to him, and suddenly we are back in the lady’s bedroom. The second knight, the lover, whom we might have expected to be the silent witness of the scene that follows, is, presumably, no longer at his window; he must later be told what happened. The lady, too, is once again absent, though no longer at her window, either. It is up to the husband to set the stage and summon the final player: “My lady, he said, where are you? / Come here, speak to me!” 25 Ten lines later, the bird is dead (“And he killed it out of spite: / He broke its neck with his two hands”). 26 I suggested earlier that the point in the narrative at which the husband breaks the bird’s neck is the juncture at which the mirror-image symmetry of the underlying semiotic structure of “Laüstic” is shattered and refracted into the dizzying kaleidoscope image of the mise en abyme. Syntagms from the mirror symmetry structure are reflected in the postapocalyptic narrative as in a distortion or funhouse rear-view mirror. But, as I noted earlier as well, it is the point at which the husband recognizes the bird as the pretext it is that it all begins to fall apart, and this, too, is reflected in layers of functional and syntagmatic distortion; the bedroom with its bedroom window changes from the simple spatial coordinate marking an architectural symmetry (“From the bedroom where the lady lay / When to the window she went”)27 at the beginning of the story to the spot from which the bird as target is first sighted (“She went to be at the window”) 28 and then to the scene of its murder (“He came to the lady’s room”)29; the husband’s “My lady, he said, where are you?” (l. 105) just prior to the bird’s murder is an eerie echo of his earlier “And many times he asked her . . . where she went”30 just prior to its identification; the husband’s injunction to “Come here, speak to me!” (l.106) is a 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

“E li vergier ierent fluri” (l. 59). “Il n’ot vallet en sa meisun / Ne face engin, reis u laçun, / Puis les mettent par le vergier” (ll. 95–97). “Dame, fet-il, u estes vus? / Venez avant, parlez a nus!” (ll. 105–06). “E il l’ocist par engresté: / Le col li rumpt a ses deus meins” (ll. 114–15). “Des chambres u la dame jut / Quant a la fenestre s’estut” (ll. 39–40). “A la fenestre ester veneit” (l. 73). “As chambres a la dame vint” (l. 104). “Et meintefeiz li demanda . . . u ala” (ll. 81–82).

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perversion of the uninhibited love talk between the lady and the other knight: “But their one consolation was that / Be it night or day / They could speak to each other.”31 The corruption in the communication system is not at this point complete, however; for if the conversations between the lady and her lover are intimate exchanges, the husband’s questions to the lady, as intrusive as they might be, do not remain unanswered. It is only when the lady asks her husband to give the nightingale to her that the break is complete, for when the husband, in response, kills the bird and flings its broken body at her (“He threw the body at his wife”), 32 he is staging a bloody, one-sided re-enactment of the gift exchange between his wife and the other man (“And they could exchange gifts / By tossing them back and forth to each other”).33 The resulting bloodstain on the lady’s dress marks, as well, the shift from a linguistic to a brutally graphic code of communication. The death of the nightingale marks as well the beginning of a very literal mise en abyme, a fall into the abyss. The clarity of the mirror-image system of relationships which operated within the lay up to the point at which the lady revealed the bird’s presence has been smeared and then shattered. The song of the nightingale, the love talk, and even the threats 31 32 33

“Mes de tant aveient retur, / U fust par nuit u fust par jur, / Qu’ensemble poeient parler” (ll. 51–53). “Sur la dame le cors geta” (l. 116; my emphasis). “E lur aveirs entrechangier / E par geter e par lancier” (ll. 43–44; my emphasis). The French edition of Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, which devotes two pages to the nightingale, uses the verb “lancer” (“he throws it” [“le lance”]), to describe the way in which the nightingale emits its song (Pline L’Ancien, Histoire naturelle, Livre X, para 43, sec 82, ed. E. de Saint Denis [Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1961], 57). In French slang, the verb lancer (to throw) is a synonym for éjaculer (to ejaculate), the noun lance (lance) for “penis,” rompre une lance (to break a lance) means “to have sex,” as do manier, manipuler and être aux mains (all derived from main [hand]) (see Pierre Giraud, Dictionnaire érotique [Paris: Payot, 1978]). The nightingale of course has, since its appearance in classical Latin literature, been a metaphor for the penis. See Madeleine Jeay, “La cruauté de Philomèle: Métamorphoses médiévales du mythe ovidien,” in Violence et fiction jusqu’à la révolution, ed. Martine Debaisieux and Gabrielle Verdier (Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag, 1998), 111–20, esp. 115. See, for example, Giovanni Boccaccio, Il Decameron, Giornata Quinta, Novella Quarta (Bari: Laterza, 1927), 370. If the lady and the other man in “Laüstic” were engaging in deep erotic play through the intermediary of the nightingale in the garden, the husband, by breaking its neck with his two hands, is not only stopping their game but also playing a solitary sexual game of his own.

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(“It [the nightingale] will keep you awake no more”)34 have been silenced. The houses and gardens have shrunken to the space of a single room. The once luminous symmetry lies in ruins; the husband has walked out, the lover is nowhere to be seen and the lady is alone in her bedchamber with a dead bird. However radiant the storyline, it would seem that it has now come to an end. And yet, this is not the end of the story, for, as Peter Haidu observes, “Marie’s semiosis juxtaposes the dynamics of lithe narrative linearity with the radiating stasis of symbolism.”35 The lady may be alone in her bedchamber with a dead bird, but that bird is a potent symbol of love, sex and poetry, and she knows it. Like the violated and voiceless Philomena, she writes down her story and sends it by way of a messenger to the one person she is desperate to reach. Unlike Philomena (who, after a final, horrific encounter with her violator, escapes by turning into a nightingale herself), the lady in “Laüstic” has the solution near at hand: “I’ll send him the nightingale,” she decides; “I’ll send him the story.”36 In so doing, she escapes the spiral vortex of despair she was pulled into by the death of the bird. She is still with her husband, of course; on a surface level, the institutions which have, from the beginning, governed the relationships in the lay remain in place. The love affair between the lady and the bachelor knight has not―has not ever―replaced her marriage; the pull of the abyss has turned its worm-eaten corpse inside out and exposed it for what it is, but it is not dead. The mangled body of the bird is the last of the gifts she can send to her lover: one last, vicarious and solitary fling. So she dresses the body of the bird as carefully as if it were a dead bride, wrapped in a fine gown embroidered with the story of its demise (“In a piece of brocade / Embroidered with words of gold / She wrapped the little bird”). 37 It is in this move from orality to the written word that the lady, I would suggest, most closely resembles Marie de France herself, writing down the stories she had heard, collecting them, and sending them like flowers to her lord so that she (and they) might not be forgotten. Marie, who, as she explains in the prologue to her collection of lays, was herself imitating the Ancients, 34 35 36 37

“Il ne vus esveillerat meis” (l. 110). Haidu, Subject, 125. “Le laüstic li trametrai” (l. 133); “L’aventure li manderai” (l. 134). “En une piece de samit / A or brusdé e tut escrit / Ad l’oiselet envolupé” (ll. 135– 37).

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Who, to be remembered, made them [lays] About the stories they had heard, Who were the first to write them down And send them out into the world. 38

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It is also this moment which transforms the nightingale from a songbird into a libretto, a pretext into a text; this is the relation between symbol and “explicatory narrativization” in its purest form.39 That is not to say however, that the function of orality is completely displaced at this point in the lay (nor at this point in twelfth-century literature in general); the lady takes the notion of “text-within-a-text” literally, not only wrapping the “bird as text” inside the “shroud as text” but also repeating the story to a messenger along with the message to repeat it to the other man. Jakobsonian message theory avant la lettre! The lady’s message is, of course, received. Moreover, its receiver, in a mise en abyme of his own, replicates the “text-within-a-text” structure of the message by sealing the bird text in the shroud text within what we might (albeit anachronistically) term a “Chinese box,” itself the quintessential structural metaphor for mise en abyme: He had a little casket made Neither of iron nor of steel But entirely made of very rare and very expensive Fine gold and precious stones; The cover was carefully fitted. He put the nightingale inside. 40

For Dällenbach, as we have seen, the figure [B] placed en abyme at the centre of a heraldic shield [A] produces a lacuna within the identity of A, which is partially lost (in the abyss) through the shield that is added to it―in other words, the addition of B in fact subtracts from it. 41

John H. White argues, however, that this lacuna, which he describes as “the equivalent of a hole in the information-bearing sign system,” is nonfunctional in literary uses of mise en abyme. 42 I would suggest, however, that in the case of “Laüstic,” it is the semiotic value of the information 38 39 40 41 42

“Ke pur remambrance les firent / Des aventures k’il oïrent / Cil ki primes les comencierent / E ki avant les enveierent” (ll. 35–38). See above, note 6. “Un vaisselet ad fet forgier; / Unques n’i ot fer ne acier, / Tuz fu d’or fin od bones pieres, / Mut precïeuses e mut chieres; / Covercle i ot tres bien assis. / Le laüstic ad dedenz mis” (ll. 149–54). Dällenbach, Mirror, 111. White, “Semiotics,” 34.

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produced by B1 (the dead bird) and B2 (the shroud in which it is presumably still wrapped) that is compromised (or at least altered) by that of the casket [A] in which they are placed. For the narrative ends with the sealing of the casket and the mise en place of one final piece of information: “Then he had the casket sealed. / He carried it with him forever after.” 43 Questions of supplementarity and hierarchisation aside, the function of a sealed casket is to conceal what lies within, to disguise the ravages of time, loss and degradation. Moreover, there being no lock, there is no key to any hermeneutic code the casket might contain. All is sealed; all is surface. Of course, if we consider the casket itself is a metaphor for the text, the jewels which stud that surface can be read in terms of a classical rhetoric which classified tropes as ornamentation, a “dress [that] adorns the body” rather than the (now decomposed) body of the text itself. 44 It is the lover, I would suggest, who now “incorporates” the body of the dead nightingale as a final, solitary act of sexual substitution; for the Derridean psyche in mourning does indeed create a fantastic mechanism that resurrects the lost beloved within itself in order to hold on to the intimacy which the psyche cannot, for various reasons, let go. 45

Dällenbach’s claim that the body of the nightingale is the locus of a metaphor for an originary metaphysical text must, I believe, be modulated by the corollary that that locus lies forever at the bottom of an abyss, in a dark and solitary place of irremediable emptiness and irreparable loss.

43 44 45

“Puis fist la chasse enseeler. / Tuz jurs l’ad fete od lui porter” (ll. 155–56). Doreen Innes, “Metaphor, Simile, and Allegory as Ornaments of Style,” in Metaphor, Allegory, and the Classical Tradition: Ancient Thought and Modern Revisions, ed. G.R Boys-Stones (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 7. Kavka, Messianism, 199.

Perturbations of the Soul: Alexander of Ashby and Aegidius of Paris on Understanding Biblical Obscuritas Greti Dinkova-Bruun

The mystery of the Bible and the significance of its deeply encoded messages have shaped Christian discourse from the earliest days of its existence. The brightest patristic, Carolingian, pre-scholastic and scholastic minds strove tirelessly to understand the meaning of God’s creation and the place of humanity in it. They were guided in this endeavor by Holy Scripture, which however often challenged them with perplexing, contradictory and obscure testimonies. From the time of Augustine throughout the entire Middle Ages the inherent obscurity of the divine word was considered an integral part of God’s message. It was universally believed that the true meaning of Scripture was concealed from the reader in order to encourage a multiplicity of interpretations that could only enrich and strengthen the faith of the believer.1 Because of the great intellectual effort expended in this search for understanding, the truth uncovered at the end would be even more highly valued, while pride would be subdued by toil and the intellect freed from disdain towards what has been discovered without difficulty.2 By devising this learning strategy God proves to be like the best of teachers who never give their students easy answers and whose lessons are intricate but memorable. While this brief description of the inherent nature of biblical obscuritas may be fairly well known, I will show in the following pages how these thoughts are exemplified in the writings of two thirteenth-century authors, whose works have not been examined from this perspective. 1

2

See Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos, In Psalmum 126, 11, ed. D. E. Dekkers and I. Fraipont, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina 40 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1965), 1865. See also Jan Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity in the Latin Tradition,” Mediaevalia 19 (1996): 101–67, esp. 146–47. “ad edomandam labore superbiam et intellectum a fastidio reuocandum” (Augustine, De Doctrina Christiana libri IV 2.6, ed. Joseph Martin, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina 32 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1965], 35).

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The authors in question are the Augustinian prior Alexander of Ashby in England (d. August 6, 1208 or 1214)3 and the Parisian master and poet Aegidius (fl. 1200),4 who take two different but complementary approaches in explaining the perplexing nature of the biblical narrative. Alexander and Aegidius are examined together in this study because they both treat the topic of biblical obscuritas in the context of biblical versification, thus adding a new pedagogical dimension to the theological significance of the question. In the prose prologue to his poem, the Breuisssima comprehensio historiarum,5 a text addressed to one of his younger followers, Alexander of Ashby outlines three principal turbationes that confuse the carnal soul in its early attempts to understand the meaning of sacred scripture. They are obscuritas significationis, uarietas expositionis, and mutatio personarum.6 Let us examine more closely what Alexander means by these turbationes and what solutions he proposes for dealing with the cognitive difficulties created by them. 3

4

5 6

Alexander was the second prior of the small Augustinian house of Canons Ashby in Northamptonshire. For details on his life, an edition of his epitaph, and the date of his death, see Greti Dinkova-Bruun, “Alexander of Ashby: New Biographical Evidence,” Mediaeval Studies 63 (2001): 305–22. According to his epitaph, Alexander died at the age of sixty, which means that he was born in 1148 or 1154. Little is known about Aegidius of Paris, expect for what he tells us himself. He is known mostly for revising Peter Riga’s poem the Aurora, but he also wrote a versified life of Charlemagne entitled the Karolinus, which he presented as a gift to the future King Louis VIII, on 3 September, 1200. For some recent studies on Aegidius, see Greti Dinkova-Bruun, “Aegidius of Paris and the Seven Seals: A Prose Prologue to the Gospels in Peter Riga’s Aurora,” Mediaeval Studies 73 (2011): 119–45; Greti Dinkova-Bruun, “Corrector Ultimus: Aegidius of Paris and Peter Riga’s Aurora,” in Modes of Authorship in the Middle Ages, ed. Slavica Rancović (Toronto: PIMS, 2012), 172–89; and Greti Dinkova-Bruun, “Charlemagne as a Model Ruler in the Poem Karolinus by Aegidius of Paris (ca. 1200)” (forthcoming). For further information on Aegidius’s life and literary activity, see Paul Beichner, Aurora Petri Rigae Versificata, 2 vols. (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1965), 1, xx–xxvi, and Histoire littéraire de la France (Paris: Imprimerie nationale 1832), 17: 36–69. For the critical edition of this prologue, see Alexandri Essebiensis Opera Poetica, ed. Greti Dinkova-Bruun, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis 188A (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 5–13. “Carnalis autem animus in inicio sacre erudicionis tripliciter turbari solet. Prima turbacio est de obscuritate significacionis, secunda de uarietate exposicionis, tercia de mutacione personarum” (Alexander of Ashby, Breuisssima comprehensio, Prologus, 7.52–54). See also Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity,” 150–51.

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According to Alexander, obscuritas significationis or obscurity of meaning causes consternation and bewilderment among the inexperienced readers of the Bible because they fail to grasp why God expresses himself allegorice et obscure, as though wishing to hide from them the path to salvation.7 Would God not want the flock of the faithful to acquire true understanding of his message? If so, why does he obscure and hide it in difficult and perplexing figurae and allegories? In order to dispel this confusion Alexander uses three quotations from Augustine’s Enarrationes in Psalmos: one from the exposition on Psalm 140, and two more from the expositions on Psalms 146 and 147.8 These quotations may have been borrowed directly from Augustine but it is also possible that Alexander took them from Peter Lombard’s treatise on the Psalms, which contains the same passages from Augustine and which by Alexander’s time had become the commentary of choice in scholastic circles. In either case, according to Augustine (and Lombard), the profound mysteries of scripture are veiled for three reasons: first, in order to retain their value (ne uilescant); second, in order to exercise the mind (ut exerceant); and third, in order to provide spiritual nourishment for the reader once their hidden meaning is uncovered (ut pascant).9 In this difficult journey of understanding, one should not be arrogant and accuse God of expressing himself badly. After all, the patient does not object to the medications prescribed to him by his doctor; in fact, he accepts them without complaining. Love of God, faith in his good intentions and humility will lead to sublime peace of mind, pax summa, as Alexander calls it. If one respects the divine law, one should honor it, even if one does not comprehend everything in it. If something that is written in the Bible seems absurd, one should consider it too elevated for one’s imperfect human intellect and thus embrace it in faith.10 In this 7 8 9

10

Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 7–8.55–79. Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 7–8.59–75. See Augustinus, Enarrationes in Psalmos, In Psalmum 140, 1–2; In Psalmum 146, 12; In Psalmum 147, 2, 2026, 2131, 2147. “Sunt in scripturis sanctis quedam profunda misteria que ad hoc absconduntur ne uilescant, ad hoc queruntur ut exerceant, ad hoc aperiuntur ut pascant. Scriptura enim sacra, si nusquam esset aperta, non te pasceret, si nusquam occulta, non te exerceret” (Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 7–8.59–61; quotation from Augustine, In Psalmum 140.1–2). “Qui enim legem diligit, si quid in ea non intelligit, honorat; quod absurde sonare uidetur, iudicat esse magnum et se nescire” (Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 8.77–79).

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way, the anxiety created by the first turbatio will be chased away. The second difficulty stems from the so-called varietas expositionis or variety of exposition. 11 What Alexander means by “variety of exposition” is actually the multiplicity of explanations proposed by the various catholic interpreters and theologians in their scholarly treatises on the Bible. Is it really possible, some people ask, that the Holy Spirit truly intends for the same words of scripture to contain a multitude of different meanings? Alexander’s answer to this question is “yes,” each statement in the Bible is divinely preconditioned to signify many different things and the task of the reader is to find these hidden layers of signification. This intellectual pursuit is meant to enrich the word of God and to provide worthy occupation for all men who have dedicated their lives to the service of the Lord. All the meanings (omnes sensus) that are found in the Bible by the Christian exegetes are supposed to be uncovered. 12 The process, however, is gradual and complex, resulting in a multitude of diverse opinions. This process is captured in the prophetic words of Daniel 12:4, which Alexander did not quote, but which seem to exemplify perfectly the tenor of his second turbatio: “Many shall pass through and knowledge shall be manifold.”13 The final difficulty that confuses the carnal soul when it attempts to understand the meaning of the Bible is what Alexander calls mutatio personarum or the change of speaker. 14 This problem seems to be encountered most often in the Psalter, where the speaker is sometimes Christ himself, sometimes various parts of his body, and sometimes the reader. Alexander insists that it is easy to explain this apparent confusion of expression as long as one remembers that it is always Christ who speaks, despite what appears at first glance. Christ is the head (caput), and the head always speaks for the other parts of the body, the membra, be they physical limbs or the members of the Church. Thus there is no mutatio personarum really; the speaker is always only one. This understanding of 11 12

13

14

Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 9.80–94. “Omnes autem sensus, quos catholici expositores in scriptures sacris apposuerunt, spiritus sanctus, quo ipse scripture sacre sunt, apponi et intelligi uoluit et adhuc plures, qui a te uel a quolibet alio catholice dici possunt” (Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 9.90–94). “Pertransibunt plurimi et multiplex erit scientia.” On the meaning of Daniel 12:4, see Jefferey R. Webb, “Knowledge will be manifold: Daniel 12:4 and the Idea of Intellectual Progress in the Middle Ages” (unpublished LMS paper, PIMS 2012; deposed in the PIMS Library). Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 9–10.95–110.

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the head-body union as representing the relationship between Christus and Ecclesia is a very old exegetical principle advanced as early as the fourth century by the North African Donatist theologian Tyconius. Indeed, Tyconius’s first rule in his textbook on biblical interpretation called the Liber Regularum (“The Book of Rules”) deals precisely with the issue of the unity between Christ and his body the Church.15 These ideas were widely disseminated in the Latin West through their inclusion in Augustine’s De doctrina Christiana and Isidore’s Sentences.16 The mutatio personarum concludes the section of Alexander’s prologue that outlines the three turbationes faced by the carnal soul when it first tries to decipher the messages of the Bible. Being a preacher and a teacher, Alexander proceeds to give practical advice to his reader on how the afore mentioned difficulties can be overcome. The answer is simple: serious dedication to learning. In fact, Alexander proposes a program of study saying that in order to understand the four senses of scripture one must begin by mastering the historical or literal level. For this purpose it is best to start with Hugh of Saint Victor’s Didascalicon, which Alexander calls Isagogas magistri Hugonis theologi, or with some other short introductory texts. 17 Second, after identifying the right books, one needs to find the right teachers. They can be located in the peace and silence of the cloister where the student will encounter 15

16

17 18

many masters, extremely skilled in both divine and secular knowledge, who can expound the theological arguments better than anybody else, because they know them not only through reasoning, but also through experience. 18

See The Book of Rules of Tyconius. Newly Edited from the MSS with an Introduction and an Examination into the Text of the Biblical Quotations, ed. F. Crawford Burkitt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1894), 1–8. Burkitt’s Latin text was reprinted and translated in Tyconius: The Book of Rules, trans. William S. Babcock (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989). See Pamela Bright, The Book of Rules of Tyconius: Its Purpose and Inner Logic (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1988), and Pierre Cazier, “Le Livre des règles de Tyconius. Sa transmission du De doctrina christiana aux Sentences d’Isidore de Séville,” Revue des études augustiniennes 19 (1973): 241–61, esp. 245. For Augustine’s text, see his De doctrina christinana 3.30–37, CCSL 32, 102– 06. Rule 1 is discussed in chapter 31, p. 104. Augustine deals with the same issue in Enarrationes in Psalmos, In Psalmum 140, 3, CCSL 40, 2027–2028.29–30 (“Si ergo ille caput, nos corpus, unus homo loquitur; siue caput loquatur, siue membra, unus Christus loquitur.” Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 9–10.95–110, 10. 115–16. “Habes tecum magistros plures, tam in diuinis, quam in secularibus literis peritissimos, qui theologicas raciones eo melius poterunt exponere, quo eas uerius nouerunt non solum per scienciam, sed eciam per experienciam”

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And finally, one has to develop good learning habits. Here Alexander quotes from the Epistola ad fratres de Monte Dei attributed in the Middle Ages to Bernard of Clairvaux, but now known to be the work of William of St. Thierry.19 The point made herein is that the student has to make a clear distinction between reading (lectio) and study (studium). The two are definitely not the same; indeed, they are as different as friendship is different from hospitality and amiable affection from casual greeting.20 Study needs to be closely connected, first, to understanding what one is reading; second, to memorizing what one has read; and third, to meditating upon the true significance of the memorized material. The ultimate purpose of the study of Scripture is to discover the glory of the abundant goodness of God which is laid up for those who fear him. 21 This aim will make the effort (labor) of the student a delightful (delectabilis) process rather than a difficult one or, as Alexander puts it himself at the beginning of his prologue: “The consideration of the benefits of this study turns toil into play.”22 The somewhat pragmatic and completely demystifying way in which Alexander presents and solves the problems of biblical obscuritas may seem somewhat unexpected at first. However, his prologue is representative of the changed environment of scholastic study at the beginning of the thirteenth century, an environment in which conscious attempts are made to render the study of scripture and theology a rational and manageable academic process. 23 Alexander’s own versification of the Bible, which was preceded by the prologue discussed here, is an excellent example of this new approach to contemporary pedagogical concerns and methods. As a result, the Brevissima comprehensio historiarum is a verse digest of the historical books of the Bible that is 19

20 21 22 23

(Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 11.134–37). See Guillaume de Saint-Thierry. Lettre aux frères du Mont-Dieu (Lettre d’or), ed. and French trans. Jean Déchanet, 2 ed., Sources chrétiennes 223 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1985); English translation in The Golden Epistle: A Letter to the Brethren at Mont Dieu, trans. Theodore Berkeley, 2 ed. (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1980). “Et in omni scriptura, tantum distat studium a leccione quantum amicicia ab hospicio, socialis affectio a fortuita salutacione” (Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 12.152–54). Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 13.174–75, which is a quotation of Ps. 30:20. “Laborem in ludum vertit fructus consideratio” (Breuissima comprehensio, Prologus, 5.1). Gillian R. Evans, Old Arts and New Theology: The Beginning of Theology as an Academic Discipline (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 27–37.

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meant to serve as a mnemonic aid to the student who is striving to master the literal level of biblical study. The linguistic and theological obscurity of scripture is temporarily put aside by Alexander, not because the poet denies its existence but because he considers the clarification of the hidden meaning of the sacred page to be the next step in the program of study his reader is advised to follow. Aegidius of Paris, the second author under discussion, represents this next level. In his prose prologue to Peter Riga’s Evangelium, Aegidius links the obscurity of the Bible to the Book of Revelation and the seven seals mentioned in it. Scripture is sealed by God with signacula and can be unlocked (soluenda) only by those who know how to uncover the secrets of its symbolic language. Aegidius of Paris and Alexander of Ashby were near contemporaries but their approaches are somewhat different, even though both wrote prose introductions to verse renditions of the Bible. If Alexander’s text, as we already saw, was mainly concerned with the literal sense of the biblical narrative, Aegidius’s preface is deeply embedded in a long tradition of prefigurative exegesis which is concerned primarily with the allegorical level of understanding or, as he calls it himself, the altior intelligentia.24 In the opening paragraph of his preface Aegidius compares himself to John the Evangelist who cries bitterly in Revelation 5 because there is nobody worthy to open the book sealed with the seven seals. He continues to say that the sealed book is, of course, the Bible, which could not truly be called sacred or holy, if it talked simply about the mundane deeds of men and contained no divine mysteries. It is shameful and absurd, insists Aegidius, to believe the foolishness of the Jews who hold the view that the authority and power of scripture are based on some insignificant historical tales (historicas narratiunculas) that are to be understood literally. Something more sublime has to be hidden and searched for in the letter.25 Indeed, Jesus himself says as much in the 24 25

Ed. Dinkova-Bruun, in “Aegidius of Paris and the Seven Seals,” 137.18. “Liber iste est sacra scriptura continens diuinam preordinationem et eiusdem promissionem antiquis patribus factam de filio Dei mittendo in carnem ad consummandum nostre redemptionis misterium per ipsius passionem et mortem. Neque enim uere sacra aut diuina scriptura dici posset uel deberet, si tantum de hominibus ita quod de puris eorum gestis ageret et nulla diuina misteria contineret. Turpe satis est fatuis Iudeis et absurdum credere quod propter quasdam quantum ad litteram hystoricas narratiunculas tanta auctoritate scriptura ista polleret, nisi in ipso corpore littere aliquid querendum sublimius latitaret” (in

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Gospel of John, chapter 16, verses 12–13:

I have many more things to say to you but you cannot bear them now. But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all the truth. 26

Until that moment the mysteries of the Bible will remain “not fully expressed but veiled and obfuscated by figurative imagery and enigmatic testimonies.”27 The Jew cannot read the Book because it is sealed (signatus), and the pagan philosopher is unable to understand it because in Jerome’s view he is ignorant of its sacred letters,28 but even the Christian cannot have a clear and perfect knowledge of its secrets before they are revealed to him by Christ, “the lion from the tribe of Judah, who is our teacher in humility and the harbinger of our salvation.”29 Aegidius dedicates the rest of the prologue to showing his reader how the secrets of the Bible can be understood. His exegetical method is traditional, meaning that each enigma fulfilled in the New Testament is exemplified and corroborated by a passage or passages from the Old Testament, all quoted in rapid succession and without lengthy explanations. Aegidius thus proposes the following clusters of solutions of the biblical mysteries: first, each of the seven seals of Revelation represents one sacramental mysterium related to Christ, that is, his incarnation, nativity, passion, resurrection, ascension, the sending of the holy spirit, and the last judgment;30 second, the seven seals can be interpreted as symbols of the seven ecclesiastical sacraments, that is, baptismus, eucharistia, confirmatio, ordo, coniugium, penitentia and extrema inunctio. Again, scriptural testimonies from the Old Testament are presented as illustrations of these solemn religious occasions; and finally, scriptural examples are presented as statements anticipating the Christian beliefs in the general resurrection and the last judgment at which the righteous will be 26 27 28 29

30

“Aegidius of Paris and the Seven Seals,” 137.21–29) “Adhuc multa habeo vobis dicere sed non potestis portare modo. Cum autem venerit ille Spiritus veritatis docebit vos in omnem veritatem.” “non ad plenum expressa sunt sed figuris et enigmatibus adumbrata” (in “Aegidius of Paris and the Seven Seals,” 137.32). See Hieronymus, Commentariorum in Esaiam libri I–IX, Prologus, ed. M. Adriaen, CCSL 77 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1963), 2.34–40. “Libro ergo sic remanente clauso et nemine aperiente eum nec soluente signacula eius, uenit tandem ‘leo de tribu Iuda’ (Apoc. 5:5) Christus, scilicet Dauid secundum carnem filius, qui uenit nobis magister esse humilitatis et auctor nostre salutis” (in “Aegidius of Paris and the Seven Seals,” 138.50–53). For a similar way of interpreting the seals, see E. Ann Matter, “The pseudoAlcuinian De septem sigillis: an early Latin apocalypse exegesis,” Traditio 36 (1980): 111–37.

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rewarded and the wicked punished. None of this is new or original as such. Christian exegetes had been making these connections for centuries. What is unusual is the context in which these ideas are placed. While Aegidius’s allegorical approach to understanding the Bible differs from Alexander of Ashby’s, it exemplifies a similar desire to organize, clarify and versify the available interpretative knowledge for didactic purposes. If Alexander’s teaching method was to eliminate scriptural obscurity, Aegidius’s approach was to propose a way of unlocking its meaning. In this he follows the example of Peter Riga, whose poem he is revising and expanding and to which he also adds the prologue under discussion here. Aegidius’s interest in the allegorical meaning of the sacred page is exemplified by such accretions to the Aurora as the Misterium de Tobia a correctore appositum, the Allegoria de libro Iudith, and the Allegoria de libro Hester. 31 In his own words, Aegidius seeks to uncover the hidden flavor of the biblical text by cracking open the bone of the letter and tasting the sweet marrow inside. The scent of typology, continues Aegidius, adds taste to the letter of the text, and the figure in the words delights like the aroma in the herbs: I proceed by appending a short addition to the Book of Tobit about the flavor which words possess through their figurative meaning; for the letter of the text, though bony on the outside, preserves this flavor inside, so if one sucks on it (i.e. the letter), its marrow will taste sweet to him. The plain narration of events is dry as bone on the outside, but the figurative scent, being stronger, flavors the words. 32

This vivid sensory imagery of pleasant aroma and sweet taste hidden inside the letter captures perfectly Aegidius’s exegetical approach which is exemplified also in his prologue to Peter Riga’s Euangelium. In addition, the way in which the text of the prologue is constructed reveals another level of signification that is not immediately apparent. The seven seals of scripture represent first the mysteries of Christ’s incarnation, or in other words, the past; then they are linked to the ecclesiastical sacraments, thus encompassing the present; and finally, the beliefs in the second coming of Christ and the last judgment invoke the prophecies about the future. In this way, without saying so explicitly, Aegidius rein31 32

See Beichner, Aurora, 1:334–38, 383, and 396–98, respectively. “Tobie libro breuiter subscribere pergo, / Quid typico sensu uerba saporis habent; / Intus enim retinet foris ossea littera textus / Quam qui suggit ei dulce medulla sapit. / Aret ut os extra rerum narratio pura, / Ac typicus potior uerba saporat odor” (Beichner, Aurora, vol. 1:334, Misterium de Tobia a correctore appositum, vv. 1–6).

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forces the idea that the Bible contains the entire span of human history as predetermined by God’s master plan. Hence the meaning of history is of paramount importance for both Alexander and Aegidius, even though they approach the concept differently. Like Alexander, Aegidius is also concerned with memory, which is closely connected to the idea of historical process. Thus towards the end of his prologue Aegidius says that “it is easy to find in scripture the mysteries locked within it and the sacraments hidden inside, but it is not easy to remember all of them.”33 Unlike Alexander, however, who gives detailed practical advice about how the student should train his memory and who produces a verse compendium to help him do so, Aegidius relies fully on Christ. “Christ, who is our Lord and master,” says Aegidius, will reveal the secrets and will grant us understanding in everything we need to know in order to be saved. Then, once we have been instructed, he will redeem us; once we have been redeemed, he will keep us in his faith, and finally he will save and bless us. 34

Through his incarnation and ministry, death and resurrection, Christ has made humanity part of his heavenly kingdom and the task of every Christian is to learn about all the major events in his life, which are narrated in the Gospels. Poetic works like the Aurora prove to be very useful for this purpose because they offer memorable digests of an enormous quantity of medieval exegetical scholarship on the Bible. As a result, even though only Christ can grant true knowledge, the believer is encouraged to learn the basics himself in order to be prepared for the revelations which will eventually be granted to him. Again, although his starting point was different from that of Alexander, Aegidius arrived at the same conclusion: learning to the best of one’s limited human abilities is an important step towards dispelling scriptural obscurity and unveiling the meaning of the sacred page. From an exegetical point of view, the two authors discussed in this article represent the two major approaches to biblical interpretation: the 33

34

“Hec sunt que recipit fides catholica, quorum sunt in scripturis signata misteria et abscondita sacramenta, que facile est in scripturis reperire, sed non facile est omnia ad memoriam reuocare” (in “Aegidius of Paris and the Seven Seals,” 143.194–96). “Ad hec et alia in hunc modum uenit Christus Dominus et magister noster, ut ea nobis reuelaret et in his nobis intelligentiam aperiret, quatinus de his tanquam de necesariis ad salutem instructos nos redderet, instructos redimeret, redemptos in sua fide conseruaret, postea saluaret et beatificaret” (in “Aegidius of Paris and the Seven Seals,” 143.196–200).

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literal (linguistic and immediate) and the allegorical (symbolic and delayed), even though, as was shown above, Aegidius does not lack historical sensibilities. In fact, the two approaches are complementary and represent the overarching belief clearly held in the Middle Ages that scriptural knowledge and divine truth will be revealed gradually and in various ways to the one who is searching for them. Mysteries are not explained easily; in fact, they are revealed only to the initiated who in this case are the Christian believers. 35 However, diligent study and mental discipline are required as well, if one hopes to reach spiritual enlightenment. In this difficult process, the faithful need to progress from literal to allegorical understanding using all the tools available to them: books and teachers, memory and meditation, faith and patience. Despite their differences, both Alexander and Aegidius are early-thirteenth-century teachers who exemplify the scholastic methods of study and who strive to bring order and clarity to the vast field of theological thought inherited from previous centuries in order to make it useful in the classroom. This common purpose, as well as the concern with memorability expressed by both authors, can be readily explained by the fact that their prologues, as already mentioned, were written to accompany verse Bibles. After all, the main reasons for versifying the biblical narrative in the later Middle Ages were first didactic and second mnemonic.36 In order for these aims to be achieved successfully, biblical obscuritas had to be dealt with in one way or another. Thus, Alexander of Ashby removes obscure and confusing passages from his poem, postponing their elucidation to the moment when the basics have been learned, memorized and internalized. Peter Riga and his reviser Aegidius of Paris, in contrast, take the student to the next level, where obscurity and symbolic language are confronted and clarified to the best ability of the poet. 35 36

Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity,” 141–43. See, for example, Greti Dinkova-Bruun, “Biblical Versification and Memory in the Later Middle Ages,” in Culture of Memory in East Central Europe in the Late Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period, ed. Rafal Wójcik, Prace Biblioteki Uniwersyteckiej 30 (Poznan: Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, 2008), 53–64; Greti DinkovaBruun, “Why Versify the Bible in the Later Middle Ages and for Whom?: The Story of Creation in Verse,” in Dichten als Stoff-Vermittlung: Formen, Ziele, Wirkungen. Beiträge zur Praxis der Versifikation lateinischer Texte im Mittelalter, ed. Peter Stotz, Medienwandel – Medienwechsel – Medienwissen, Band 5 (Zürich: Chronos Verlag, 2008), 41–55; and Greti Dinkova-Bruun, “The Verse Bible as Aidemémoire,” in The Making of Memory in the Middle Ages, ed. Lucie Doležalová (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 115–31.

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The student, meanwhile, is expected to exercise diligence and persistence because the hidden truth of Scripture is so multifaceted and the paths to uncovering it so manifold that, with God’s help, every Christian is bound to find the understanding that will enrich his faith and make him worthier of grace and salvation.

Versus obscuri nella poesia didascalica grammaticale del XIII sec. 1. Questioni preliminari

Carla Piccone

Porte chiuse destinate ad essere aperte da chiavi adatte, verità coperte che aspettano di essere svelate, selve intricate che devono essere attraversate, oscurità che aspetta di essere dissipata. La letteratura mediolatina si serve di queste metafore per esprimere le difficoltà legate al processo ermeneutico richiesto da testi di non immediata comprensione e conseguentemente ritenuti obscuri. Dal nostro punto di vista, lo studio dell’obscuritas presenta una difficoltà metodologica: spesso, per via della loro alterità linguistica e culturale, alcuni prodotti della letteratura medievale ci risultano di non facile interpretazione e, pertanto, li riteniamo difficilmente comprensibili. In realtà, l’esegesi dei testi risalenti a quel periodo dovrebbe tenere conto delle condizioni che hanno presieduto alla loro produzione, alla loro ricezione e alla loro fruizione in un determinato contesto, in cui un certo linguaggio e certi codici culturali erano condivisi. Sulla base di queste premesse, è nostra intenzione in prima battuta chiarire cosa venga percepito come obscurum nella letteratura mediolatina bassomedievale, per poi passare a verificare se l’obscuritas sia una categoria applicabile alla poesia didascalica. Al fine di gettare luce su questa questione, prenderemo in esame alcuni brani tratti dal Doctrinale di Alessandro di Villadei, dal Grecismus di Eberardo di Béthune e dal Novus Grecismus di Corrado di Mure, testi accomunati dal fatto di essere stati scritti nella prima metà del XIII sec. e di offrire una trattazione in versi della grammatica latina. Sulla base di alcuni brani tratti da queste opere, tenteremo di stabilire se esse siano state percepite all’epoca della loro stesura e nei secoli successivi come obscurae e se e come questa obscuritas, reale o presunta, sia collegata al loro processo di ricezione e di fruizione o lo abbia in qualche modo influenzato.

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2. Forme di obscuritas e problematiche connesse Goffredo di Vinsauf, Poetria nova (vv. 1074–77):1

Se fai uso, dunque, di termini stranieri o astrusi, mostri cosa sei in grado di fare con le parole e non ti attieni alle regole della retorica. Questo modo di esprimersi errato rifugga dall’uso di parole astruse e riprova l’uso di termini oscuri.

Guglielmo di Conches, De philosophia mundi (IV, 59):2

Dal momento che la grammatica precede ogni altra dottrina, ci siamo proposti di esporre i suoi principi, poiché, sebbene Prisciano ne parli abbastanza, egli offre definizioni oscure, non chiarisce le cause, ma non tralascia di trattare in alcune parti dell’origine delle diverse parti del discorso e dei diversi accenti.

Commento all’Eneide attribuito a Bernardo Silvestre relativo ai versi in cui la Sibilla predice ad Enea la guerra con Turno (Ad Aen. VI, 98–101):3

1

2

3

4

AMBAGES: enigma, poiché promette sia cose prospere che avverse o ambages nel senso di ambiguità, cioè responsi espressi facendo uso di allegorie; OBSCURIS: finzioni poetiche; VERA: nasconde la verità con le allegorie. Infatti l’intelligenza rappresenta massimamente il divino; dunque l'allegoria corrisponde al divino, poiché, come dice Macrobio, “il divino è da nascondere con le immagini mediate dalle parole.” 4

Gaufridus de Vino Salvo, Poetria nova, vv. 1074–77: Si qua feras igitur peregrina vel abdita verba, / quid possis ex hoc ostendis iusque loquendi / non attendis. Ab hac macula se retrahat error / oris et obscuris oppone repagula verbis. Il testo della Poetria nova è edito, tradotto e commentato da Ernest Gallo, The Poetria Nova and Its Sources in Early Rhetorical Doctrine (The Hague: Mouton, 1971). Guilelmus de Conchis, De philosophia mundi, IV, 59: Quoniam in omni doctrina grammatica praecedit, de ea dicere proposuimus, quoniam, etsi Priscianus satis dicat, tamen obscuras dat definitiones, nec exponit causas, nec inventiones diversarum partium et diversorum accentuum in unaquaque praetermittit. Il testo del De philosophia mundi è stato recentemente edito e tradotto da Marco Albertazzi, Guilelmus de Conchis, Philosophia (Lavis: La Finestra, 2010). Brevi osservazioni relative al passo discusso in Mortimer J. Donovan, “Priscian and the Obscurity of the Ancients,” Speculum 36 (1961): 75–80, spec. 77. Bernardus Silvester, Ad Aen. IV, 98–101: AMBAGES: quia modo prospera, modo adversa pollicetur vel ambages quasi ambiguitates, id est responsa integumentis involuta… OBSCURIS: integumentis VERA: Veritatem per integumenta occultat. Intelligentia namque divina precipue docet; divinis ergo precipue integumenta congruunt quia ut ait Macrobius cuniculis verborum divina sunt tegenda. Julian Ward Jones, et al., eds., Commentum quod dicitur Bernardi Silvestris super sex libros Aeneidos Virgilii (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1977). Per un’analisi di questo passo, Jan M. Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity in the Latin Tradition,” Mediaevalia 19 (1996): 101–70, spec. 143–44. Sul concetto di

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In questi testi parole, definizioni priscianee ed allegorie hanno in comune il fatto di essere oscure. Nel primo caso ad essere ritenuta tale è la singola parola e il fatto di essere rara, di recente conio, di uso regionale, di origine straniera o di afferire ad un linguaggio tecnico giustificano una sua definizione in questo senso. 5 L’obscuritas può essere, inoltre, propria di frasi e nello specifico può riferirsi alla sintassi disordinata di un testo, specchio della confusione di pensiero o di espressione di chi scrive. Essa può, quindi, esplicarsi da un lato in una incoerente accumulazione di subordinate, dall’altro nella concentrazione in poco spazio dell’esposizione di molti concetti. In questo caso la frase presenterà un andamento ellittico e risulterà caratterizzata da passaggi impliciti, che rendono la sua comprensione decisamente complessa. Proprio per questo, questa modalità espressiva viene definita sia in epoca antica che medievale obscura brevitas.6 Infine, obscura sono anche gli integumenta, le immagini che celano i significati più reconditi sia delle fabule che delle Sacre Scritture, comprensibili unicamente attraverso uno sforzo ermeneutico. L’idea dell’assenza di luce, insita nel significato dei termini obscurus ed obscuritas,7 è l’immagine8 che esprime, dunque, una non chiarezza

5 6

7 8

integumentum in contesto filosofico, teologico e letterario, Frank Bezner, Vela veritatis. Hermeneutik, Wissen und Sprache in der Intellectual History des 12. Jahrhunderts (Leiden: Brill, 2005). Per una panoramica sulla diffusione della metafora del coprire e dello scoprire in relazione all’esegesi di testi pagani e cristiani in contesto tardoantico, alto e bassomedievale, Henning Brinkmann, Mittelalterliche Hermeneutik (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1980), 170–91. Su questo aspetto, Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity,” 115–17. Sul concetto di brevitas in contesto antico e medievale: Ernst Robert Curtius, Letteratura europea e Medioevo latino (Firenze: La Nuova Italia, 2002), 543–51. Sull’obscura brevitas, Manfred Fuhrmann, “Obscuritas. Das Problem der Dunkelheit in der rhetorischen und literarästhetischen Theorie der Antike,” in Immanente Ästhetik – Ästhetische Reflexion. Lyrik als Paradigma der Moderne, ed. Wolfgang Iser (München: Fink, 1966), 47–72, spec. 70–72; Päivi Mehtonen, Obscure Language, Unclear Literature. Theory and Practice from Quintilian to the Enlightenment (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum, 2003), 112–15; Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity,” 125–27. Sui significati dell’aggettivo obscurus, Novum glossarium mediae latinitatis, ed. Franz Blatt et al. (Hafniae: Munksgaard, 1983), O, 123–25. Brevi osservazioni a riguardo in Mehtonen, Obscure Language, 70, e Carlo Donà, “Oscurità ed enigma in Marie de France e Chrétien de Troyes,” in Obscuritas. Retorica e poetica dell’oscuro, ed. Giosuè Lachin et al. (Trento: Editrice Università

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espressiva relativa alla singola parola, alla singola frase o, ampliando la prospettiva, all’interpretazione di un intero testo. 9 In altre parole, il concetto bassomedievale di obscuritas sembrerebbe corrispondere ai concetti moderni di ambiguità e polisemia. 10

3. La poesia didascalica a tema grammaticale del XIII sec.: autori e riflessioni teoriche

Al fine di chiarire come i poeti mediolatini si pongono rispetto al concetto di obscuritas, come si esprimono in merito ad esso e se è osservabile all’atto pratico una devianza rispetto ad eventuali formulazioni teoriche, è nostra intenzione limitare il nostro interesse ad un ristretto numero di testi e prendere in esame il Doctrinale di Alessandro di Villadei11 ed il Grecismus di Eberardo di Béthune, 12 testi scritti in area francese rispettivamente nel 1199 e nel 1212.13 Entrambi nascono dalla fusione e dalla trasposizione in esametri di testi preesistenti 14 e for-

9

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11

12 13

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di Trento: 2004), 103–15, spec. 101. Cfr. anche Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity,” 109. A riguardo, Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity,” 124–38. Su questo aspetto, Jacqueline Cerquiglini, “Polysémie, ambiguïté et équivoque dans la théorie et la pratique poétiques du Moyen Age français,” in L’ambiguïté. Cinq études historiques, ed. Irène Rosier (Lille: Presses Universitaires de Lille, 1988), 167–80, spec. 167. Il testo del Doctrinale, corredato da un’ampia introduzione, è edito da Dietrich Reichling, Das Doctrinale des Alexander de Villa Dei. Kritisch-exegetische Ausgabe mit Einleitung, Verzeichniss der Handschriften und Drucke nebst Registern (Berlin: Hofmann & Comp., 1893). Un’introduzione alla figura di Alessandro di Villadei e alle sue opere è fornita in Reinhold F. Glei, “Alexander de Villa Dei, Doctrinale,” in Lateinische Lehrer Europas, ed. Wolfram Ax (Köln: Böhlau, 2005), 290–310. L’edizione di riferimento del Grecismus è quella di Johannes Wrobel, Eberhardus Bethuniensis, Grecismus (Breslau: Koebner, 1887). Sulla datazione del Doctrinale, Reichling, “Einleitung,” in Das Doctrinale des Alexander de Villa Dei, XXIII–XXIV, e Glei, “Alexander de Villa Dei, Doctrinale,” 294. Su quella del Grecismus, Anne Grondeux, Le Graecismus d’Évrard de Béthune à travers ses glosses (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), 7. Sebbene oggi non sia possibile individuare con certezza tutte le opere rielaborate e confluite nel Doctrinale, è certo che il grammatico abbia tenuto presente l’Ars maior di Donato, le Institutiones di Prisciano, materiale più recente derivato da queste opere ed un testo di Pietro Riga dedicato all’esame dei preteriti e dei supini (Doctr., v. 16). A riguardo, Reichling, “Einleitung,” XXX–XXXI. Nel Grecismus sono stati rielaborati, tra gli altri, gli scritti grammaticali di Donato, Prisciano,

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niscono un’esposizione sistematica del sapere grammaticale, che viene inserita all’interno di una situazione fittizia priva di qualunque indicazione spaziale o temporale, in cui un maestro parla ad un allievo che ascolta passivamente i suoi insegnamenti. Proprio in virtù di questi tratti, i due testi in questione sono catalogabili come poesia didascalica.15 Inoltre, i numerosi commenti di cui essi sono stati oggetto, l’alto numero di testimoni che ne riportano il testo, le molte edizioni a stampa dimostrano il fatto che le grammatiche discusse hanno goduto di uno straordinario successo fino al XVI sec.16 Accanto al Doctrinale e al Grecismus concentreremo la nostra attenzione anche sul Novus Grecismus di Corrado di Mure, 17 la cui stesura è databile intorno al 1244. 18 Esso nasce dal desiderio di contrapporsi alla grammatica di Eberardo di Béthune, ritenuta troppo complessa e contenente notizie discutibili.19 Di conseguenza, nei primi tre libri del Novus Grecismus, in cui trova spazio un’esposizione sistematica della grammatica latina, confluisce molto materiale mutuato dal Grecismus insieme a contenuti derivati, tra gli altri, dalle Institutiones e dal relativo commento di Pietro Elia, dal Donatus metricus di Enrico di Avranches, dal Doctrinale, da Isidoro di Siviglia e da Uguccione da Pisa.20 Nei successivi sette libri, l’autore passa a trattare di cosmologia, geografia, zoologia, botanica, anatomia, etica, arti meccaniche e religione, offrendo così una visione a tutto tondo della realtà.21 Proprio per la pluralità di tematiche ravvisabili nel Novus Grecismus, esso può essere ritenuto un’opera didascalica di carattere enciclopedico, in cui l’esposizione del sapere grammaticale assume un rilievo particolare. Il testo è oggetto di commenti 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Pietro Elia, Isidoro di Siviglia e Marbodo di Rennes; su questo aspetto, Grondeux, Le Graecismus, 19–21. Per una definizione del genere didascalico, Thomas Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht im Mittelalter. Analyse einer Gattung (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 38. A riguardo, Reichling, “Einleitung,” LXXXIII–CX e, in particolare sul testo di Eberardo, Grondeux, Le Graecismus, 41. Il testo del Novus Grecismus è stato recentemente edito: Alexandru N. Cizek, ed., Conradus de Mure, Novus Grecismus (München: Fink, 2009). Sulla figura di Corrado, Cizek, “Einleitung,” in Conradus de Mure, Novus Grecismus, XV–XVII. Per una datazione dell’opera, Cizek, “Einleitung,” XV. Per un’analisi del prologo del Novus Grecismus, Cizek, “Einleitung,” XXIX–XXX. Per un’ampia panoramica sui contenuti dei primi tre libri dell’opera di Corrado, Cizek, “Einleitung,” XXXII–LIX. Per un esame del contenuto dei libri IV–X del Novus Grecismus e per la definizione del materiale precedente in esso confluito, Cizek, “Einleitung,” LX– LXXIX.

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sistematici, ma conosce una diffusione limitata all’area tedesca, 22 causata probabilmente dalla fortuna di cui a metà del XIII sec. hanno goduto sia il Doctrinale che il Grecismus. Il corpus di testi che ci proponiamo di analizzare risulta, dunque, composto da opere scritte nell’arco di un cinquantennio e afferenti allo stesso genere letterario, quello didascalico. Partendo da questi presupposti, rivolgiamo la nostra attenzione alla Glosa Admirantes al Doctrinale, commento anonimo alla grammatica di Alessandro di Villadei, databile tra la fine del XIII sec. e l’inizio del XIV e influenzato della logica aristotelica.23 Esaminiamo, dunque, quanto scrive l’anonimo commentatore nell’ accessus:24 La forma in versi che questo autore [Alessando di Villadei] usa, ha in sé più vantaggi della prosa che usa Prisciano; e questo si dimostra così: i versi sono più utili per una facile acquisizione dei contenuti, per una chiara e bella brevità dell’esposizione e per una memorizzazione più salda. Non è infatti straordinario: questo libro riporta in breve ciò che prima era prolisso e confuso, descrive in maniera ordinata ciò che prima era disordinato; riferisce con chiarezza ciò che prima era nebuloso; rende facilmente comprensibile ciò che prima parecchi disperavano di comprendere.

Partendo dall’assunto che la forma in versi permetta una “chiara brevità” (lucida brevitas), un’“acquisizione più facile” (facilior acceptio) e una memorizzazione più salda dei contenuti (memoria firmior), 25 l’anonimo 22 23

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Sulla diffusione dell’opera, Cizek, “Einleitung,” XC–XCI. Ampie sezioni di questa glossa sono pubblicate sulla base del testo tradito in Orléans, Bibliothèque Municipale 252 in Charles Thurot, Notices et extraits de divers manuscrits latins pour servir à l’histoire des doctrines grammaticales (Paris, 1869). Per alcuni cenni su questo commento, finora mai sistematicamente studiato, Reichling, “Einleitung,” LXII. Il testo di questo passo dell’Admirantes è edito in Thurot, Notices et extraits, 102: Sermo metricus, quem sequitur actor [Alexander de Villa Dei] iste, ad plura se habet quam prosaycus, quem sequitur Priscianus; et hoc ita probatur: sermo metricus utilis factus est ad faciliorem acceptionem, ad venustam et lucidam brevitatem, et ad memoriam firmiorem… Non est igitur mirum, si legitur liber iste, in quo compendiose traditur quod erat primitus dispendiosum et confusum, in quo ordinate traditur quod erat primitus inordinatum, in quo sub luce traditur quod erat primitus nubilosum, in quo potest capi de facili quod nonnulli capere desperabant. Questo concetto è riassunto nei versi “I versi giovano all'animo, comprendono molti concetti in poco spazio, si ricordano prima e sono grati al lettore” (Metra iuvant animos, comprendunt plurima paucis, / pristina commemorant et sunt ea grata legenti). Essi compaiono in diversi testi composti nell’ambito della scuola medica salernitana ed aprono il cosiddetto Florilegium Treverense, databile al XIV

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commentatore riconosce che Alessandro di Villadei grazie all’uso del verso riesce a rendere chiaro e sintetico quanto nella prosa priscianea è prolisso e confuso. La superiorità del testo del maestro francese rispetto a quello tardoantico risiede, quindi, non in una innovazione a livello di contenuto, ma unicamente nella scelta di scrivere in versi.26 Questi aspetti vengono ulteriormente approfonditi nella glossa al v. 1550 del Doctrinale, in cui Alessandro sostiene di essersi riproposto di trattare in versi della quantità sillabica. Forse è proprio questa dichiarazione a spingere l’anonimo commentatore a soffermarsi ancora sull’utilità della forma in versi e ad esprimersi come segue: 27 La causa finale è tripartita, perché questa scienza ha come fine il piacere, la memoria più salda, la chiara e bella brevità. Dico “piacere,” perché le cose ben strutturate generano in noi piacere. Dico “memoria più salda:” infatti nelle esposizioni in versi viene osservato un ordine e, come sostiene Aristotele, sono più facili da ricordare le cose che hanno un ordine. E dico “lucida e bella brevità:” infatti il verso non elimina nulla, ma non contiene in sé il superfluo. Queste cause finali possono essere così definite: “il verso è un discorso in versi, che, procedendo brevemente e per clausole e adornato da una bella unione di

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sec. (il testo è edito in Franz Brunhölzl, “Florilegium Treverense,” Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch 1 [1964]: 65–77 e idem, “Florilegium Treverense,” Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch 3 [1966]: 129–217), mostrando così un evidente carattere proverbiale (Hans Walther, Proverbia sententiaeque Latinitatis Medii Aevi – Lateinische Sprichwörter und Sentenzen des Mittelalters in alphabetischer Anordnung [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1964], no. 14823). Osservazioni su questi versi in Paul Klopsch, Einführung in die Dichtungslehren des lateinischen Mittelalters (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1980), 65. Questo passo della Glosa Admirantes è analizzato in Bernhard Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel in Theorie und Praxis. Die Umstellung von prosaischen auf versifizierte Schultexte im 12. bis 14. Jahrhundert und ihre Problematik,” in Dichtung als StoffVermittlung. Formen, Ziele, Wirkungen. Beiträge zur Praxis der Versifikation lateinischer Texte im Mittelalter, ed. Peter Stotz (Zürich: Chronos, 2008), 154, e in Alexandru Cizek, “Docere et delectare. Zur Eigenart der versus differentiales im Novus Grecismus Konrads von Mure,” in ibidem, 191–212, spec. 193. Questo passo tratto dalla Glosa Admirantes è edito in Thurot, Notices et extraits, 417: Causa finalis trimembris est, quia ista scientia tendit finaliter ad delectationem, ad memoriam firmiorem, ad lucidam et venustam brevitatem. Ad delectationem dico, quia in bene ornatis delectamur. Ad memoriam firmiorem dico; nam ordo in sermone metrico observatur, et, ut ait Aristoteles, reminiscibilia sunt que ordinem habent. Et ad lucidam et venustam brevitatem dico; nam sermo metricus nichil diminutum, nichil in se continet superfluum. Iste cause finales ex descriptione versus sic possunt elici: “Versus est metrica oratio, succincte et clausulatim progrediens, venusto verborum matrimonio et sententiarum flosculis picturata, nichil in se superfluum nichilque continens diminutum” [Matth. Vend., Ars I, 1].

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parole e dagli ornamenti delle frasi, non contiene in sé né nulla di superfluo e non elimina nulla.” 28

Inoltre, Egidio di Corbeil nel suo De pulsibus, testo didascalico a tema medico, la cui stesura è collocabile tra XII e XIII sec., si sofferma nel prologo della sua opera su Filareto, medico bizantino vissuto probabilmente nel IX sec., e a riguardo scrive:29 Ma Filareto cercò di condensare la confusione dei predetti autori (di testi medici) in un volume così breve, che volendo evitare il Cariddi della confusione, è caduto nella Scilla dell’oscura brevità, che come l’oscurità è nemica del sapere.

Tanto questo brano del De pulsibus quanto quello precedentemente ricordato tratto dall’Admirantes evidenziano che un’esposizione dei contenuti né troppo prolissa né troppo concisa realizza quella brevitas, che è ritenuta una virtus del linguaggio poetico; se invece la materia trattata è esposta in maniera concettosa e con modalità espressive ellittiche, allora la brevitas diventa obscura e, dal momento che, come sostiene Egidio di Corbeil, l’obscuritas è nemica della dottrina, essa diventa un vitium. In contesto didascalico la riflessione metapoetica relativa alla natura del versus connette l’obscuritas alla brevitas, concetto a cui, così come avviene nella riflessione classica e mediolatina sull’argomento, viene attribuita una natura bivalente. Dal momento che la poesia didascalica mira ad offrire una trasmissione sistematica del sapere, una eccessiva brevitas, portatrice di obscuritas, dovrebbe essere evitata a favore della ricerca del giusto equilibrio tra un’esposizione eccessivamente prolissa da una troppo concisa. 28

29

Per una discussione su questo passo, Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel in Theorie und Praxis,” 153–54. Sul valore estetico del versus in questo passo, rimando al mio Dalla prosa ai versi. Forme, usi, contesti della versificazione nella poesia didascalica del XIII sec., la cui uscita è prevista nel 2013 per i tipi di Peter Lang. Formulazioni chiaramente derivate dal brano dell’Admirantes discusso sono contenute nella glossa al Grecismus redatta intorno al 1300 da un certo Iupiter, identificato in Giovanni di Clacy, commentatore, oltre che del testo grammaticale di Eberardo, anche del Doctrinale e delle Metamorfosi ovidiane. Il testo in questione è pubblicato in Anne Grondeux, ed., Glosa super Graecismum Eberhardi Bethuniensis. Capitula I–III: De figuris coloribusque rhetoricis (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 233– 34. Su Iupiter e sulle caratteristiche del suo commento, Grondeux, Le Grecismus, 401–52. Il seguente passo è riportato in Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 82: Philaretus autem sub tanto brevitatis volumine praedictorum [medicinae auctorum] confusionem studuit coarctare, qui Charybdim confusionis volens effugere, lapsus est in Scyllam obscurae brevitatis, quae obscuritas est inimica doctrinae… Per una riflessione a riguardo, Haye, ivi e Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel,” 153 e 167, n. 10.

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Al fine di chiarire se queste prescrizioni siano state effettivamente rispettate nei testi didascalici, si analizzeranno alcuni passi del Doctrinale e dei “Grecismi”. Consideriamo ora i vv. 880–83 della grammatica di Alessandro di Villadei:30 -no tramite -ui dà -itum eccetto i derivati di cano; in questi n precede -tum; -psi dà -ptum e -vi dà -tum. -po dà -ui, se precede e breve dà -itum; se precede m, -po dà -pi e -ptum; i restanti in -psi danno -ptum.

Esaminiamo ora il passo delle Institutiones di Prisciano dedicato allo stesso tema (Prisc. Inst., GL II, 530, 1–10 e 531, 15–23):31

30 31

Il supino si forma dopo aver tolto -u tra le lettere che concludono il preterito in -ui bisillabico e dopo aver aggiunto -tum; tuttavia, la penultima è breve, come posui posĭtum, genui genĭtum. I composti di cano conservano al supino le lettere finali del verbo semplice [cano]; diciamo, infatti, cantum e succentum, sebbene i composti di cano mutino a in i, ma nel supino essi mutano nuovamente i in e: succino fa succentum, occino occentum; tempsi temptum, come tutti i verbi che nel preterito hanno -psi. I verbi che al preterito hanno l'ultima sillaba in -vi la mutano in -tum secondo la regola precedentemente esposta, come sivi situm, stravi stratum, crevi cretum, sprevi spretum. ... Ho presente il solo rumpo che termina in -po preceduto da m e questo verbo, eliminando m, mutando o in i e allungando la penultima, forma il preterito

Reichling, Das Doctrinale (vv. 880–83): -no per -ui dat -itum sine natis a cano; nam -tum / n praecedit in his; -psi -ptum dat -vique facit -tum. / -po dat -ui, dat itum, brevis e si praevenit; m -pi / -ptum remota facit; -psi cetera -ptum dedere. Priscianus, Institutiones, in “Grammatici Latini,” ed. Heinrich Keil, vol. 2 (Hildesheim: Olms, 1961), 530, 1–10 e 531, 15–23: Supina in -ui quidem divisas terminantium praeteritum subtracta u et addita -tum proferuntur, correpta tamen paenultima, ut posui posĭtum, genui genĭtum. A cano tamen composita primitivi servant in supino terminationem; cantum enim et succentum dicimus, quamvis in ipso verbo a in i convertunt ex eo composita, sed in supino iterum i in e transferunt: succino succentum, occino occentum; tempsi vero temptum facit, sicut omnia in -psi per praeteritum exeuntia. In -vi vero syllabam desinentia mutant eam in -tum secundum praedictam regulam, ut sivi situm, stravi stratum, crevi cretum, sprevi spretum. … In -po desinens m antecedente unum invenio rumpo, quod subtracta m et o in i conversa facit praeteritum paenultima producta tam in simplici quam in compositis ab eo: rumpo rūpi, abrumpo abrūpi, corrumpo corrūpi. E vero brevem paenultimam habentia mutant -o in -ui divisas in praeterito, ut strĕpo strepui, obstrĕpo obstrepui; r vero vel l vel e productam ante -po habentia o in -si convertentia faciunt praeteritum, ut scalpo scalpsi, sculpo sculpsi, carpo carpsi, rēpo repsi, serpo serpsi, sarpo sarpsi.

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tanto nel verbo semplice che nei suoi composti: rumpo rūpi, abrumpo abrūpi, corrumpo corrūpi. I verbi che hanno come penultima e breve mutano al preterito -o in -ui come strĕpo strepui, obstrĕpo obstrepui. I verbi che hanno r, l o e lunga prima di -po formano il preterito mutando -o in -si, come scalpo scalpsi, sculpo sculpsi, carpo carpsi, rēpo repsi, serpo serpsi, sarpo sarpsi.

La lettura di questi passi priscianei permette di individuare nella formazione del perfetto e del supino di alcuni verbi appartenenti alla terza coniugazione l’oggetto di riflessione nei versi del Doctrinale menzionati. Sebbene l’argomento trattato dai due grammatici sia lo stesso, nell’esposizione a riguardo contenuta nel testo mediolatino i molti esempi menzionati nella grammatica tardoantica vengono completamente omessi. Inoltre, mentre Prisciano si sofferma sulla formazione del supino di cano e dei suoi derivati e offre un esame chiaro delle modalità in cui i verbi, che presentano nel tema del presente i gruppi -rp-, -lp- ed -ep-, formano il perfetto e il supino, Alessandro di Villadei si limita ad inserire nei versi menzionati le forme -tum, -ui ed -itum, -psi, -pi e -ptum, presupponendo che il lettore sia in grado di decodificarle quali marche del perfetto e del supino; inoltre questi deve essere in grado di comprendere che il cetera del v. 883 si riferisce ai gruppi -ēpo, -lpo e -rpo e di interpretare il termine natus del v. 880 come termine tecnico nel significato di “derivato,” usato probabilmente metri causa al posto dei più abituali derivatus o derivativus, in quanto costituito da un numero di sillabe che ben si adatta al contesto prosodico in cui il termine è inserito. Alessandro di Villadei sottopone, dunque, il materiale offerto dalle Institutiones ad un processo di riduzione, che si esplica nel caso specifico nella soppressione e nella condensazione di contenuti,32 con la conseguenza che le stesse tematiche presentate in Prisciano vengono esposte in maniera talmente abbreviata ed ellittica da risultare difficilmente comprensibili senza una salda conoscenza pregressa della grammatica latina. Questa tendenza all’abbreviazione raggiunge la sua acme nei cosiddetti versus memoriales. Attestati in forma anonima già in epoca altomedievale, essi raggiungono il loro momento di massima diffusione in concomitanza con il periodo di maggior fortuna del genere didascalico, coincidente con il XII sec. 33 Elencati in raccolte oppure inglobati in testi 32 33

Sui procedimenti di riduzione o di ampliamento seguiti da Alessandro di Villadei, Eberardo di Béthune e Corrado di Mure nell’elaborazione del materiale precedente confluito nei loro testi grammaticali rimando al mio Dalla prosa ai versi. Per una panoramica sulla diffusione di questo genere di versi, Dorothea Klein, “Ad memoriam firmiorem. Merkverse in lateinisch-deutscher Lexikographie des

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didascalici dedicati ai temi più disparati, 34 essi rappresentano una sorta di “sapere franco,” nato e circolante in contesto scolastico, a cui chiunque avrebbe potuto attingere, facendo propri i loro contenuti. 35 In ambito grammaticale già Papias nell’XI sec. si serve di questa tipologia di versi, ma è tra la fine del XII e il XIV sec. che essi risultano essere abbondantemente utilizzati in Alessandro di Villadei, in Eberardo di Béthune, nel commento a Prisciano approntato da Pietro Elia, da Giovanni di Garlandia negli Equivoca, da Giovanni Balbi nel Catholicon, da Uguccione da Pisa, nella sezione grammaticale del Novus Grecismus e nello Speculum grammaticae di Ugo Spechtshart.36 Sebbene consapevoli dell’ampia mole di versus memoriales presenti nei testi grammaticali presi in esame,37 è nostra intenzione offrire alcuni esempi rappresentativi. Pertanto, distingueremo versi contenenti l’enumerazione delle eccezioni ad una certa regola grammaticale da quelli costruiti con gruppi di omonyma, synonima ed equivoca,38 che rappresentano una categoria specifica nell’ambito dei versus memoriales, definita versus differentiales.39

34

35 36 37 38 39

späteren Mittelalters,” in Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Editionen und Studien zur deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters. Kurt Ruh zum 75. Geburtstag, ed. Konrad Kunze et al. (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1989), 133–34; eadem, “Zur Praxis des Lateinunterrichts: Versus memoriales in lateinisch-deutschen Vokabularen des späten Mittelalters,” in Latein und Volkssprache im deutschen Mittelalter 1100–1500. Regensburger Colloquium 1988, ed. Nikolaus Henkel et al. (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1992), 337–50; Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 258–59; Cizek, “Docere et delectare,” 194–95. I versus memoriales sono ben attestati in opere a carattere storiografico, medico ed astronomico. A riguardo, Heribert A. Hilgers, “Versuch über deutsche Cisiojani,” in Poesie und Gebrauchsliteratur im deutschen Mittelalter. Würzburger Colloquium 1978, ed. Volker Honemann et al., (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1979), 127– 35. Per un esame relativo ai versus memoriales in ambito storiografico, Ludwig Benkert, “Der historiographische Merkvers,” diss. Würzburg, 1960. A riguardo, Klein, “Zur Praxis,” 346, e Cizek, “Docere et delectare,” 194. Sulla diffusione dei versus memoriales in contesto grammaticale, Vivien Law, “Why Write a Verse Grammar?” The Journal of Medieval Latin 9 (1999): 46–76, spec. 55–56. Uno studio sistematico sui versus differentiales contenuti nel Novus Grecismus è stato condotto da Cizek, “Docere et delectare.” Sulla diffusione di questa tematica in contesto grammaticale antico e tardoantico, Giorgio Brugnoli, Studi sulle differentiae verborum (Roma: Signorelli, 1955), 7–20. Sui versus differentiales in contesto didascalico mediolatino, Klein, “Zur Praxis,” 341–42, e Cizek, “Docere et delectare,” 195.

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I. a. Nel quinto capitolo del suo Doctrinale Alessandro di Villadei sostiene che il perfetto della prima coniugazione si ottiene sostituendo la desinenza -as del presente indicativo con -ui (vv. 698–99) e continua questa sua spiegazione, scrivendo (v. 700–04):40 Cre. do. do. mi. iu. sto. pli. fri. so. ne. ve. la. se. cu. to. Infatti cubo, crepo, domo, frico, mico, nexo, plico, sono, seco, tono, veto, terminano in -ui bisillabico; do dà dedit, sto stetit, iuvo dà iuvi e lavo lavi.

Il v. 700 appare ad una prima lettura senza dubbio criptico, ma in realtà il suo senso è chiarito dai versi immediatamente successivi: in esso sono enumerati quindici verbi che fanno eccezione alle regola precedentemente esposta e il versus risulta costituito dalla successione delle loro prime sillabe, che sono combinate in un esametro leonino in modo tale da formare delle parole di senso compiuto (credo, domi, iusto, frisone, vela, secuto). Lo stesso verso viene ripetuto con poche variazioni anche nel Grecismus di Eberardo di Béthune (XXVI, 119–24). Passando ora all’analisi dei versus differentiales, ci limiteremo all’analisi di due esempi:41 II. a. Nel Doctrinale (vv. 446–47) Alessandro di Villadei scrive: 42

Glis è l'animale, glis è la terra dura, glis è il cardo; il primo fa gliris, il secondo glissis, il terzo glitis.

Entrambi questi versi sono ripetuti senza alcuna variazione nel Grecismus (X, 168–69), mentre il v. 446 viene menzionato in questa forma nelle Magne Derivationes di Uguccione da Pisa (G 74, 4–7), nella Summa super Priscianum di Pietro Elia (I, 338), nel Catholicon di Giovanni Balbi (s. v. glis), nello Speculum grammatice di Ugo Spechtshart 43 e vengono 40

41 42 43

Reichling, Das Doctrinale, vv. 700–04: Cre. do. do. mi. iu. sto. pli. fri. so. ne. ve. la. se. cu. to. / Nam cubo sive crepo, domo, deinde fricoque micoque, / nexo plicoque, sono, seco, deinde tonoque vetoque / praetereunt in vi divisas; do dedit et sto / dat stetit, et iuvi iuvo praeterit et lavo lavi. Per un’analisi più dettagliata a riguardo, rimando a Cizek, “Docere et delectare,” 194–206, e al mio Dalla prosa ai versi. Reichling, Das Doctrinale, vv. 446–47: Glis animal, glis terra tenax, glis lappa vocatur; / -ris primus, glissis tenet altera, tertia glitis. Le occorrenze di questo versus sono menzionate in Charles Du Cange, Glossarium mediae et infimae Latinitatis (Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1958), IV, 68; Leo Reilly, ed., Petrus Helias, Summa super Priscianum (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1993), I, 338. Il verso in questione è riportato, inoltre, alla pagina 161v del ms. München, BSB, Clm 3566, in cui è tradito il testo dello Speculum grammaticale di Ugo Spechtshart corredato da commento.

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rielaborati da Corrado di Mure in questi termini (Novus Grecismus II, 594–96):44 Glis è l'animale, glis è la terra dura, glis è il cardo; questo animale, questa terra dura, questo cardo; quindi il genitivo sarà gliris, glissis, glitis.

Questi versi ricorrono, dunque, in maniera pressoché identica da un testo grammaticale all’altro ed evidenziano che il sostantivo glis può indicare sia il “ghiro” sia la “terra compatta” che il “cardo.” Inoltre, tanto nel Doctrinale che nei “Grecismi” la menzione delle forme del genitivo chiarisce che i tre significati precedentemente enucleati sono da riferire a tre diversi significanti, glis – gliris, glis – glissis e glis – glitis; a questa notazione Corrado di Mure aggiunge anche ragguagli in merito al genere dei tre termini. 45 Il fine dei versus differentiales discussi è, dunque, da ravvisare nella volontà di distinguere, attraverso la menzione dei loro significati, delle loro forme del genitivo e tramite la definizione del loro genere, termini che risultano omografi unicamente nelle loro forme al nominativo e conseguentemente differiscono nel significato e nella declinazione. II.b. Corrado di Mure scrive (Novus Grecismus II, 775–78):46

La mola macina il grano triturandolo, ma moles ti indica il peso e nei riti sacri mola è farina mista a sale… Mola è anche ciò che è pesante o viene trascinato da un asino.

In questi versi vengono menzionati i diversi significati del termine mola, individuati in “macina di mulino”; “mola,” intesa nel senso di focaccia utilizzata nei riti religiosi in epoca romana; “peso.” Questo è, inoltre, il significato del termine moles. Successivamente Corrado scrive (II, 781): Tu mole mole mole, tibi namque molit mola mole. Tu macina con il peso per la mola (intesa nel senso di “focaccia”), infatti la macina di mulino macina per te per il suo peso. 47

Nel verso compaiono, dunque, i termini moles e mola in tutte le accezioni precedentemente ricordate; ad essi si aggiunge anche la forma mole, imperativo del verbo molĕre. In questo modo il verso racchiude in sé 44 45 46 47

Cizek, Novus Grecismus II, 594–96: Glis animal, glis terra tenax, glis lappa vocatur; / hic animal, hec terra tenax, hoc lappa vocatur. / Hinc gliris glissis genitivus, erit quoque glitis. Un’analisi di questo verso è fornito in Cizek, “Docere et delectare,” 197. Cizek, Novus Grecismus, II, 775–78: Grana terendo molit mola, sed moles tibi signat / pondus et in sacris mola sit sale mixta farina. / … / Quod gravis est aut per asinum trahitur, mola… Questo verso è oggetto di discussione in Cizek, “Docere et delectare,” 202, che però lo ritiene privo di senso.

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omografi polisemici, omofoni e paronimi, risultando così fortemente allitterante, e mostra al contempo la varietà semantica del termine mola e la sua differenza di significato rispetto al fonicamente molto simile moles. Il fine del verso è, dunque, quello di raccogliere nello spazio di un esametro termini molto simili a livello fonico in un contesto dotato di significato, in modo da rendere evidenti le loro differenze semantiche. Come si è visto, i versus differentiales si caratterizzano per il fatto di essere costituiti da omonyma e paronomasie, risultando così ricchi di figure di suono. In alcuni casi, come avviene nell’ultimo esempio discusso, la maggiore intensificazione di questo tratto e la presenza in essi di omofoni e omografi genera spesso dei veri e propri indovinelli, che non sono mai di immediata comprensione.48 Proprio in virtù di queste caratteristiche essi sono rappresentativi di quel gusto per la poesia ingegnosa ed artificiale, che Curtius definisce “manierismo formale” e che ritiene un fenomeno sovratemporale dello spirito. 49 L’analisi precedentemente condotta sul passo del Doctrinale relativo alla formazione del perfetto e del supino di alcuni verbi di terza coniugazione ha evidenziato il fatto che nel testo di Alessandro l’esposizione del sapere grammaticale si snoda attraverso passaggi concettuali impliciti, con la conseguenza che esso risulta estremamente conciso ed ellittico. Inoltre, l’esame dei versus memoriales e differentiales ha mostrato come essi concentrino nello spazio di un verso l’enunciazione delle eccezioni ad una certa regola o mirino a distinguere termini fonicamente molto simili, ma divergenti a livello semantico. Proprio la presenza in essi di omographa, omonyma ed equivoca fa sì che questa tipologia di versi sia spesso assimilabile agli indovinelli, per definitionem di non sempre facile interpretazione. Sulla base di queste osservazioni, saremmo portati a ritenere che le modalità espressive ravvisabili nelle grammatiche discusse coincidano con quelle proprie dell’obscura brevitas, così come essa è descritta nella 48

49

Di carattere introduttivo sulle forme dell’indovinello nella letteratura tardoantica e mediolatina il contributo di Giovanni Polara, “Aenigmata,” in Lo spazio letterario del Medioevo 1. Il Medioevo Latino, vol. I: La produzione del testo, vol. II, ed. Guglielmo Cavallo et al. (Roma: Salerno, 1993), 197–216; cfr. anche Monica Longobardi, “Ah! Che rebus,” Italiano e oltre 13 (1998): 155–63, spec. 155–59. Accanto al “manierismo formale” Curtius individua anche un manierismo che si esplica a livello di contenuto. Esempi di “manierismi formali” nella poesia antica, tardoantica e medievale in Curtius, Letteratura europea, 313–17; sui “manierismi contenutistici,” ibidem, 305–13; sulla definizione di “manierismo,” ibidem, 303– 04.

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Glosa Admirantes al Doctrinale e nel prologo del De pulsibus di Egidio di Corbeil; se così fosse, l’esposizione del sapere grammaticale riportata nel Doctrinale e nei “Grecismi” sarebbe caratterizzata da obscuritas sia a livello lessicale che sintattico.

5. Versus obscuri o presunti tali?

Al fine di chiarire se questa nostra ipotesi possa essere confermata o smentita, ci sembra opportuno ampliare la nostra prospettiva e soffermarci su altri testi didascalici a tema grammaticale di poco successivi a quelli presi in esame. Ad un paio di decenni di distanza dalla stesura del Doctrinale, Giovanni di Garlandia scrive l’Ars lectoria Ecclesie, dedicata all’esposizione delle regole della prosodia latina. 50 Il testo è tradito in nove manoscritti ed alcune delle glosse riportate nel testimone più antico (Bruges, Stadsbibliotheek, 546)51 si caratterizzano per l’uso della prima persona singolare, si soffermano abbondantemente sui passi più controversi dell’opera, evidenziano una notevole familiarità con le sue fonti e presentano rimandi interni al testo, mostrando così un’ottima conoscenza dello stesso52; sulla base di questi elementi si è ritenuto che Giovanni di Garlandia stesso abbia glossato la sua Ars. 53 Successivamente, nel 1346, Ugo Spechtshart scrive la Forma discendi, in cui propone un modello di lezione di latino di livello elementare. Nella chiusa della sua opera l’autore dichiara: “Quando Ugo scriveva questo trattato, aggiunse da un libro diverso glosse rosa e con le proprie mani scrisse questa opera.” 54 In questi versi, dunque, l’ammissione da parte 50

51 52 53 54

L’editio princeps del testo è offerta in Elsa Marguin-Hamon, L’Ars lectoria ecclesie de Jean de Garlande. Une grammaire versifiée du XIIIe siècle et ses gloses (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003). La composizione dell’opera è collocabile intorno al 1225. Su questo aspetto, ibidem, 77–78. Per una descrizione dei testimoni che ne riportano il testo, Marguin-Hamon, Introduction à L’Ars lectoria ecclesie, 13–49; sulla sua tradizione manoscritta, ibidem, 52–60. Sulla glossa al testo, ibidem, 67–94, spec. 86–96. Osservazioni in merito in Bernhard Pabst, “Text und Paratext als Sinneinheit? Lehrhafte Dichtungen des Mittelalters und ihre Glossierung,” Wolfram-Studien 19 (2006): 117–45, spec. 125–26. Hugo tractatum quando dictaverat istum, / adiunxit glosas vario de codice rosas / et propriis librum manibus conscripserat istum. Il testo menzionato è edito in Adolf Diehl, “Speculum grammaticae und Forma discendi des Hugo Spechtshart

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del poeta didascalico di aver aggiunto glosae rosae al testo da lui composto permette di ritenere con certezza che egli alluda alla pratica dell’ autoglossa.55 Infine, tra il 1404 e il 1405 Godofredo di Utrecht scrive nell’area di Lovanio il Gramaticale, 56 testo in esametri leonini tradito unicamente in tre manoscritti e dedicato a morfologia e sintassi latine57. L’opera si apre con questi versi (vv. 1–4):58 Mi preparo a scrivere per giovani studenti il Grammaticale, non criticando, ma nominando i miei maestri, che nessun intelletto infantile è in grado né di imparare a memoria né di ricordare, qualora essi vengano compresi.

La glossa ad essi riporta: 59

Nota anche che questo libro è molto utile per i giovani che devono accostarsi allo studio della grammatica, poiché comprende molte cose e in uno stile molto facile; così è indubbiamente molto più utile di Alessandro, che in numerosi passi è molto difficile per i giovani.

Godofredo si propone, dunque, di non criticare le autorità grammaticali del suo tempo, ma di trasporre i contenuti delle loro opere in una forma più accessibile all’“intelletto infantile.” È poi la glossa a chiarire che il Gramaticale grazie al suo “stile semplice” è certamente più adatto per gli 55 56 57

58

59

von Reutlingen,” Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für deutsche Erziehung und Schulgeschichte 20 (1910): 1–26, spec. 26. Osservazioni a riguardo in Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 369–70 e Pabst, “Text und Paratext,” 126–27. Il testo del Grammaticale è edito da Christian Klinger, ed., Godefridi de Traiecto Gramaticale. Untersuchung und kritische Ausgabe (Ratingen: Henn, 1973). Il testo è tradito in un manoscritto di Basilea (Basel, UB, F. IV. 48) e in due testimoni monacensi (München, BSB, Clm 19867 e Clm 14133), databili tra la metà e la fine del XV sec. Per una dettagliata descrizione dei tre testimoni, Klinger, Einleitung zu Godefridi de Traiecto Gramaticale, 113–36. Sulla figura e sulle opere di Godofredo da Utrecht, ibidem, 14–24; per una panoramica introduttiva al contenuto del Gramaticale, ibidem, 44–46. Klinger, ed., Godefridi de Traiecto (vv. 1–4): “Scribere clericulis paro Gramaticale novellis, / non reprobando meos sed declarando magistros, / quos infantilis nequit intellectulus omnis / mentetenus capere nec adeptos quit retinere.” L’incipit dell’opera contiene un evidente richiamo a quello del Doctrinale (v. 1: Scribere clericulis paro Doctrinale novellis). Sull’avverbio mentetenus Peter Stotz, Handbuch der lateinischen Sprache des Mittelalters, Bd. 2 (München: Beck, 2000), VI, 100, 4 con relativa bibliografia sull’argomento. “… Item nota, quod iste liber multum utilis est iuvenibus in gramatica introducendis, quoniam multa comprehendit et sub valde facili stilo, et ideo indubie multum utilior est Alexandro, qui in multis passibus est valde difficilis pro iuvenibus.” Il suo testo è tradito in Basilea, UB, F. IV. 49 e München, BSB, Clm 19867 ed è ricostruito in Klinger, ed., Grammaticale, 255.

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studenti del Doctrinale, ritenuto complesso. È, quindi, sulla base di queste premesse che il materiale contenuto nella grammatica del maestro francese viene abbreviato, semplificato, sistematizzato, corretto e rifuso in un nuovo testo, il Gramaticale, appunto, che nasce programmaticamente come una versione semplificata dell’opera di Alessandro. 60 L’esistenza di grammatiche in versi in parte glossate dai loro stessi autori e di riscritture delle stesse scevre da qualunque intento polemico, ma dettate dalla necessità di renderle accessibili, dimostra che questa tipologia di testi, intesa nella loro essenza di successione di versi, è percepita dagli stessi poeti didascalici difficilis, obscura e, dunque, di non facile comprensione e fruizione.61 Tanto Alessandro di Villadei quanto gli autori dei “Grecismi” menzionano nei prologhi e chiamano in causa “maestri” e “allievi,” che rappresentano il gruppo sociologicamente ben definito, a cui i grammatici oggetto di esame si rivolgono.62 Inoltre, essi stessi sono stati insegnanti di scuola63 e, pertanto, le loro opere sono scritti di maestri composti per allievi e altri maestri, che nascono e trovano conseguentemente il loro naturale contesto di fruizione in ambito scolastico, 64 in cui per questa tipologia di opere è prevista una ricezione mnemonica.65 Nelle loro composizioni i poeti didascalici analizzati rielaborano in versi una pluralità di ipotesti, sottoponendoli, come si è visto, ad un processo di soppressione e condensazione,66 al fine di poter fornire al loro Lettore Modello,67 identificabile, dunque, nei pueri, una sorta di summa relativa ad un dato sapere in una forma, quella in versi, percepita quale garante di brevità di esposizione e di facile memorizzazione. Tuttavia, l’autoglossa approntata da alcuni poeti didascalici alle proprie opere dimostrerebbe che essi stessi riconoscessero che tanto l’esposizione del 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67

Sugli interventi apportati da Godofredo al testo di Alessandro, Klinger, “Einleitung,” 44–62. Su questo aspetto, Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 369. A riguardo, Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 119. Per alcune notizie biografiche relative ad Alessandro di Villadei, Reichling, Einleitung, XXI–XXIV e Glei, “Alexander de Villa Dei,” 293–94. Per la biografia di Eberardo di Béthune, cfr. Grondeux, Le Grecismus, 7, e per quella di Corrado di Mure, Cizek, “Einleitung,” xv–xvii. Su questo aspetto, Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 113. A riguardo rimando al mio Dalla prosa ai versi. Sull’originalità della poesia didascalica, Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 77–81; cfr. anche Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel,” 163. Sul concetto di Lettore Modello, Umberto Eco, Lector in fabula. La cooperazione interpretativa nei testi narrativi (Milano: Bompiani, 2002), 50–56.

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sapere grammaticale per le sue formulazioni ellittiche quanto i versus memoriales per la loro ambiguità, seppur usati al fine di facilitare la loro memorizzazione, generassero obscuritas. D’altro canto, come suggerisce il prologo del Doctrinale (vv. 7–10),68 gli stessi autori didascalici sono consapevoli che i loro scritti sarebbero stati oggetto di lectio, 69 di spiegazione orale da parte del magister, che avrebbe sciolto formulazioni ellittiche e versus memoriales, dissipando conseguentemente la loro obscuritas. Nel loro processo di ricezione è, quindi, la compenetrazione tra testo scritto e spiegazione orale e, dunque, tra scrittura e oralità,70 che permette di colmare durante la lezione quelle “Leerstellen in Text, die bewusst zu didaktischen Zwecken gelassen wurden,” 71 trasformando così l’obscuritas propria di questo genere di opere in luciditas e permettendo così una loro consapevole memorizzazione da parte dei pueri. 72 Il poeta didascalico attinge, dunque, alle conoscenze inerenti al tema trattato nella sua opera, fa uso delle convenzioni del genere didascalico ed è a conoscenza del fatto che il suo scritto sia destinato ad essere recepito mnemonicamente nelle scuole. Di conseguenza, si serve scientemente di modalità espressive che da un lato avrebbero dovuto facilitare la memorizzazione della sua opera, ma che dall’altro risultano obscurae; egli sa però che la loro obscuritas sarebbe stata dissipata nel corso della loro spiegazione orale a lezione. È, dunque, grazie a queste 68 69 70

71 72

Per un’analisi di questo passo, rimando al mio Dalla prosa ai versi. Sulle modalità di ricezione di questi testi, Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel,” 162 e il mio Dalla prosa ai versi. La questione è stata indagata in relazione alla poesia didascalica da Klaus Grubmüller, “Mündlichkeit, Schriftlichkeit und Unterricht. Zur Erforschung ihrer Interferenzen in der Literatur des Mittelalters,” Der Deutschunterricht. Beiträge zu seiner Praxis und wissenschaftlichen Grundlegung 1 (1989): 41–54, spec. 48– 51. Rimando, inoltre, ad Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 131; Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel,” 161–62, ed infine al mio Dalla prosa ai versi. Su oralità e scrittura in epoca medievale, basterà in questa sede menzionare Paul Zumthor, La lettera e la voce. Sulla “letteratura” medievale (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990); Dennis H. Green, “Über Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit in der deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters. Drei Rezeptionsweisen und ihre Erfassung,” in Philologie als Kulturwissenschaft. Festschrift für Karl Stackmann zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Ludger Grenzmann et al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 1–20. Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel,” 161. Sulla ricezione mnemonica di questa tipologia di opere, rimando al mio Dalla prosa ai versi.

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conoscenze, a questa enciclopedia,73 che il poeta didascalico è in grado di muovere un sapere precostituito, quale quello grammaticale, in funzione dell’esigenza di memorizzazione dello stesso da parte del proprio Lettore Modello. Inoltre, il fatto che da un lato il genere didascalico e, nello specifico, il Doctrinale e il Grecismus,74 abbiano goduto nei secoli del Basso Medioevo di uno straordinario successo e la constatazione, dall’altro, della scarsa fortuna di versioni semplificate di questa tipologia di testi, quale il Gramaticale di Godofredo di Utrecht, 75 dimostrano, dunque, che le strategie messe in atto dai vari poeti didascalici nella composizione delle loro opere riescono ad andare incontro con successo alle esigenze del loro pubblico, che conseguentemente ne sancisce il successo. A distanza di pochi anni dalla loro stesura, sia la grammatica di Alessandro di Villadei che quella di Eberardo di Béthune diventano oggetto di interesse di Giovanni di Garlandia, che correda entrambe con brevi notazioni marginali, oggi rintracciabili in diversi manoscritti.76 I successivi approcci intenzionalista e modista alla grammatica, ampiamente diffusi 73 74

75

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Sul concetto di enciclopedia, Eco, Lector in fabula, 11–26, e, per alcune riflessioni a riguardo, Maria Pia Pozzato, Semiotica del testo. Metodi, autori, esempi (Roma: Carocci, 2002), 118–19. Il Doctrinale è tradito in circa 400 manoscritti, è stato abbondantemente commentato e fino al XV sec., è stato abbondamente stampato e ha fornito materiale per parodie e centoni. Il testo del Grecismus ci è restituito da 255 testimoni databili tra XIII e XV sec. ed è corredato da commento. Il Novus Grecismus, invece, riportato in quatttordici testimoni, conosce una tradizione unicamente regionale. Per un elenco dei testimoni del Doctrinale e del Grecismus, Geoffrey L. BursillHall, A Census of Medieval Latin Grammatical Manuscripts (Stuttgart e Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1981). Sulle edizioni a stampa della grammatica di Alessandro di Villadei, Reichling, “Einleitung,” clxxi–ccxc. Sulla tradizione manoscritta del Novus Grecismus, Cizek, “Einleitung,” lxxii–xc. Il testo è tradito unicamente in tre testimoni (Basel, UB F. IV. 49; München, BSB, Clm 19867 e Clm 14133), prodotti nel sud dell’area germanica e databili tra il 1455 e il 1470. Sui manoscritti menzionati, cfr. Klinger, “Einleitung,” 113; 122– 23; 129–30. Il punto sullo stato della ricerca a riguardo è fornito da Marguin-Hamon, “Introduction,” 65, che offre, inoltre, un elenco dei manoscritti del Doctrinale in cui è rintracciabile il commento al testo di Giovanni di Garlandia. Sul commento di questo autore al Grecismus, Anne Grondeux, “La tradition manuscrite des commentaires au Grecismus d’Évrard de Béthune,” in Manuscripts and Tradition of Grammatical Texts from Antiquity to the Renaissance. Proceedings of a Conference held at Erice, 16–23 October 1997, ed. Mario De Nonno et al. (Cassino: Edizioni dell’Università di Cassino, 2000), 516–20.

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in contesto accademico tra XIII e XIV sec., influenzano anche la Glosa Admirantes al Doctrinale77 e le diverse tradizioni di commento al Grecismus78; inoltre, l’accumulazione dei suoi diversi stadi porta ad un progressivo accrescimento del suo volume nei singoli testimoni, fatto che rende ben conto della sua natura fluida e multiforme.79 Nella prima metà del XV sec. anche il Novus Grecismus è stato oggetto di un paio di commenti sistematici al testo e di un commento per loci selecti 80; essi sono stati finora ignorati dalla critica ed aspettano ancora di essere editi ed adeguatamente studiati. Al fine di chiarire i rapporti esistenti tra testo in versi e commento, concentriamo la nostra attenzione su un incunabolo pubblicato a Reutlingen nel 1490, 81 in cui è riportato il testo grammaticale di Alessandro di Villadei corredato dalla Glosa Notabilis, approntata nel 1488 dal teologo di Colonia Gerhard von Zutphen. 82 I versi 880–83 del Doctrinale precedentemente esaminati presentano delle glosse interlineari che permettono di identificare come tali le desinenze del perfetto e del supino in esso inglobate; una glossa marginale si sofferma, inoltre, sul significato dei verbi menzionati nei versi oggetto di commento. Inoltre, a proposito del versus memorialis riportato al v. 700 (cre. do. do. mi. iu. sto. pli. fri. so. ne. ve. la. se. cu. to.) già discusso, l’incunabolo riporta una glossa interlineare, in cui si menzionano nella loro interezza i verbi abbreviati nel verso in questione e un’ampia glossa marginale, in cui vengono passati in rassegna sia i loro significati sia i loro paradigmi. Le glosse al Grecismus, in parte oggi leggibili nell’edizione approntata da Anne Grondeux, offrono del concetto di euphonia (Ad Grec. II, 7–8), a cui Eberardo dedica solamente due versi (II, 7–8),83 un dettagliato esame 77 78 79 80 81 82 83

Per le caratteristiche della Glosa Admirantes e sulla sua diffusione in ambito tedesco, Reichling, “Einleitung,” lxiv–lxv. Sui commenti al Grecismus, fondamentale risulta essere la monografia di Grondeux, Le Grecismus, ed eadem, “La tradition manuscrite.” Su questo fenomeno, Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel,” 162–63; Grondeux, Introduction, Glosa super Graecismus Eberhardi Bethuniensis. Capitula I–III: De figuris coloribusque rhetoricis (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), xi–xiii. Sui commenti al Novus Grecismus, Cizek, “Einleitung,” lxxxii–lxxxiii e lxxxvi– lxxxvii. Il testo della Glosa Notabilis consultato è quello riportato insieme al Doctrinale nell’incunabolo pubblicato a Reutlingen intorno al 1490 dal tipografo Michael Greytt (GW 1053), oggi conservato a Monaco (München, BSB, Ink. A–271). Per le caratteristiche della Glosa Notabilis e sulla sua diffusione in ambito tedesco, Reichling, “Einleitung,” lxiv–lxv. Grondeux, Glosa super Graecismus.

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e chiariscono al contempo anche gli esempi chiamati in causa dal maestro francese. 84 Esse presentano, poi, una obiectio relativa al fatto se la nozione presa in esame sia da annoverare tra i vitia o tra le virtutes del discorso e viene offerta la relativa solutio, le cui argomentazioni si appoggiano ad Alessandro di Villadei, Aristotele e Tommaso d’Aquino, concordemente con il procedimento proprio della quaestio scolastica. L’analisi condotta sul commento ad alcuni passi del Doctrinale e del Grecismus ha evidenziato che le glosse interlineari offrono la chiave per interpretare espressioni ellittiche contenute nel testo o permettono di comprendere il senso dei versus memoriales, configurandosi così come lo strumento in grado di dissipare l’obscuritas insita in questo genere di formulazioni; nelle glosse marginali, invece, vengono affrontate tematiche di tipo lessicale o di stampo filosofico, i cui spunti sono offerti dal testo in versi. 85 Glosse e commenti ovviano, dunque, con le loro spiegazioni all’obscuritas lessicale e sintattica connaturata alla poesia didascalica intesa come susseguirsi di versi e, conseguentemente, testo e relative glosse, percepiti nella loro unitarietà, sviluppano un rapporto simbiotico evidente anche nella tradizione manoscritta, in cui i due elementi sono spesso traditi insieme. 86

6. Conclusioni

In epoca bassomedievale il concetto di obscuritas sembrerebbe riferirsi sulla base dei testi esaminati a singoli termini difficilmente intelligibili per la loro rarità, per la loro origine straniera o per il loro recente conio; a frasi costruite in maniera troppo complessa o troppo concettosa; alle possibili interpretazioni di un testo. Pertanto, questa nozione trova 84

85 86

I versi del Grecismus dedicati all’euphonia (II, 7–8: ma sia per te l’eufonia una parola sonoramente bella, come se si dicesse Tytides e meridies; ast euphonia sit tibi dictio pulchra sonora, / ut si dicatur “Tytides meridiesque”) sono commentati in questi termini (303–05): L’eufonia si ha quando una lettera viene mutata in un’altra per avere un suono migliore, come quando si dice meridies al posto di medidies e Tytides per Tydides (Euphonia est quando littera in litteram mutatur causa pulchre sonoritatis, ut cum dicitur “meridies” pro “medidies,” “Tytides” pro “Tydides”). A riguardo, Pabst, “Ein Medienwechsel,” 162–64. Osservazioni a riguardo in Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht, 369–70.

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applicazione in ambito lessicale, sintattico e semantico e risulterebbe essere sovrapponibile ai moderni concetti di polisemia ed ambiguità. Nel XIII sec. la riflessione metapoetica relativa al genere didascalico associa l’obscuritas all’eccessiva brevitas nell’esposizione dei contenuti ed è proprio da essa che il poeta didascalico dovrebbe fuggire, optando per la lucida brevitas, ritenuta una caratteristica propria del versus insieme alla firmior memoria e alla facilior acceptio. L’analisi condotta sulle grammatiche dei due maestri francesi e sulla sezione grammaticale del Novus Grecismus dovrebbe aver evidenziato che le loro formulazioni presentano spesso passaggi logici impliciti ed espressioni spesso ambigue ed incomprensibili in assenza di conoscenze pregresse. Questo stato di cose sembra, dunque, realizzare quell’obscura brevitas chiamata in causa nelle riflessioni metapoetiche sulla forma del genere didascalico. La forma estrema di questa brevità nell’espressione si realizza nell’ampio uso ravvisabile nelle grammatiche esaminate dei cosiddetti versus memoriales e versus differentiales, in cui in forme criptiche sono elencate le eccezioni ad una regola grammaticale precedentemente esposta o mirano a distinguere il significato di omonyma ed equivoca, obscura sia a livello lessicale che sintattico. L’autoglossa condotta sui propri testi da parte di autori di opere grammaticali coeve a quelle esaminate e l’esistenza di una versione semplificata del Doctrinale approntata da Godofredo di Utrecht lasciano supporre che questa tipologia di scritti, intesa come un susseguirsi di versi, fosse percepita come obscura da successivi fruitori e dai loro stessi autori, il cui fine era quello di raccogliere in un unico scritto il sapere su un dato argomento sparso in più ipotesti in una forma condensata e facile da memorizzare, fatto garantito dal loro punto di vista dall’uso del verso. Considerando che questa tipologia di opere trova ricezione in contesto scolastico, i loro autori fanno uso di queste modalità espressive per fornire al loro Lettore Modello, i pueri, un testo più facile da imparare a memoria, prevedendo però che i passaggi più complessi dei loro scritti sarebbero stati oggetto di lectio da parte del magister. Pertanto, l’unità testo inteso come alternanza di versi: spiegazione orale va a dissipare l’obscuritas ad essi connaturata, rendendoli così accessibili nei loro contenuti e, dunque, più facili da memorizzare. Infine, tanto il Doctrinale che i “Grecismi,” come molti altri testi didascalici, sono stati nel corso degli anni abbondantemente oggetto di commenti, che non solo contengono gli elementi in grado di chiarire i passi più ambigui, ma aggiungono a quello contenuto nel testo in versi anche altro materiale, che spesso deriva dagli ipotesti della stessa

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grammatica in versi e che rispecchia la speculazione grammaticale coeva influenzata dalla filosofia aristotelica. Pertanto, anche l’unità testo–commento riesce a dissipare l’obscuritas insita in questo genere di opere. La straordinaria fortuna di cui hanno goduto almeno fino all’inizio del XVI sec. il Doctrinale e il Grecismus e il fatto che tanto questi scritti quanto quello di Corrado di Mure siano stati abbondantemente commentati permettono di trarre due ordini di conclusioni: in prima battuta le opere esaminate, così come la produzione didascalica coeva in generale, sono state effettivamente percepite come obscurae secondo i parametri della riflessione metapoetica sul genere didascalico e nella percezione dei loro stessi autori. In secondo luogo va sottolineato come esse acquistino in luciditas nel loro processo di fruizione e ricezione. Dunque, il genere didascalico con il suo linguaggio, con le sue modalità espressive e di ricezione, per noi oggi estremamente stranianti, ma ben diffusi e condivisi in contesto scolastico nei secoli del Basso Medioevo, è riuscito ad andare incontro alle esigenze del suo pubblico, che ne ha conseguentemente sancito la straordinaria fortuna.

Disclosing Secrets: Virgil in Middle High German Poems Virgil as a Magician

Alessandro Zironi

During the Middle Ages, Virgil became a versatile character in literature throughout Europe. Since Domenico Comparetti’s pioneering book, Virgil in the Middle Ages, this particular topic in medieval literature has been widely examined.1 Nevertheless, many questions still remain unanswered, one of them being the peculiarity of the German tradition. The presence of Virgil in German literature differs, in particular, from his presence in other European traditions in the demoniac characterization ascribed to the Latin poet in certain works. 2 In particular, Virgil is connected with the existence of a secret book written by the Latin poet, in which the access to ars notoria and magic arts are hidden through obscure sentences. The obscurity of the contents of Virgil’s secret book became object of a wide interest in German literary production during the thirteenth century and warrants an investigation into the origin and diffusion of this aspect of Virgil’s reception which will also take into account the popularization of themes like the obscurity in the transmission of forbidden arts among a lay public living in the German courts. At the beginning of the thirteenth century, Virgil was well known in German courts thanks to Heinrich von Veldeke’s rewriting of the Aeneid, to which particular attention was paid in the cultural milieu of Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia.3 The representation of Virgil as a magician 1 2

3

Domenico Comparetti, Virgilio nel Medio Evo (Livorno: F. Vigo, 1872), repr. edition by Giorgio Pasquali (Firenze: La nuova Italia, 1937–41, 2nd ed. 1943). Otto Neudeck, “Möglichkeiten der Dichter-Stilisierung in mittelhochdeutscher Literatur: Neidhart, Wolfram, Vergil,” Euphorion 88 (1994): 349; Franz Josef Worstbrock, “Vergil,” in Die deutsche Literatur des Mittelalters. Verfasserlexikon, ed. Kurt Ruh, vol. 10 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1999), 276. Maria Grazia Saibene, “Le ‘Metamorfosi’ di Ovidio nella traduzione di Albrecht von Halberstadt,” in L’antichità nella cultura europea del Medioevo, ed. Rosanna Brusegan and Alessandro Zironi (Greifswald: Reineke, 1998), 21–22.

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in vernacular German literature goes back to Wolfram von Eschenbach, who cites Virgil in his poem Parzival.4 In the long section of the poem devoted to Gawain, the knight meets the necromancer Clinschor who was born in the Terra di Lavoro, a plain near Naples, and is a descendant of the Latin poet.5 Since Wolfram reports that Virgil was the ancestor of the sorcerer Clinschor, it must be assumed that the former was also a magician. Virgil is associated with the city of Naples in a literary tradition which started immediately after his death: Latin authors, like Pliny the Younger, recalled the poet’s tomb just outside the walls of the city. Virgil’s grave was situated more precisely on the road to Pozzuoli in the Vita Svetonii vulgo Donatiana.6 Ultimately, the widespread knowledge of the site of Virgil’s tomb is to be attributed to Jerome’s translation of the Chronicon of Eusebius of Caesarea. 7 After having recalled that Virgil died in Brindisi and that his bones were carried to Naples, Jerome reports the epitaph engraved on the tomb.8 Comparetti imagined that some popular, oral stories about the poet in Naples developed alongside a written biographical transmission 4 5

6 7 8

Neudeck, “Möglichkeiten,” 350. “His land is called Terre de Labur. He is born of the descendants of one who also devised many marvels. Virgil of Naples” (Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parzival and Titurel, trans. Cyril Edwards, Oxford World’s Classics [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006], 275); “sîn lant heizt Terre de Lâbûr: / von des nâchkomn er ist erborn, / der ouch vil wunders het erkorn, / von Nâpels Virgilîus. / Clinschor des neve warp alsus,” (Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parzival 656,14–18, Text und Übersetzung, 2nd ed. with text from the 6th edition by Karl Lachmann [Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003], 660). Jan M. Ziolkowski and Michael C. J. Putnam, The Virgilian Tradition. The First Fifteen Hundred Years (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 185. Rudolf Helm, Die Chronik des Hieronymus, in Helm, ed., Eusebius Werke, VII, part 1 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1956), 165h; Ziolkowski and Putnam, The Virgilian Tradition, 201. “Virgil dies at Brindisi under the consulships of Sentius Saturninus and Lucretius Cinna. His bones, carried over to Naples, are buried at the second milepost from the city, with an epitaph of this sort written above, which he himself had dictated as he was dying: Mantua gave birth to me, the Calabrians snatched me away, Parthenope now holds me; I sang of pastures, plowlands, and leaders” (Ziolkowski and Putnam, The Virgilian Tradition, 201); “Vergilius Brundisii moritur Sentio Saturnino et Lucretio Cinna conss. Ossa eius Neapolim translata in secondo ab urbe miliario seplieuntur titulo istius modi supra scripto, quem moriens ipse dictaverat: Mantua me genuit, Calabri rapuere, tenet nunc / Parthenope; cecini pascua rura duces” (Die Chronik des Hieronymus, 165).

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concerning Virgil during the Early Middle Ages. His theory has been fiercely contested by subsequent scholars, 9 but, even if Romantic in its approach, Comparetti’s conclusion should not be definitively rejected. The greatest obstacle to Comparetti’s theory was the lack of sources which might demonstrate the link between Naples and how Virgil came to be characterised as a magician. The most ancient text dates back to the middle of the twelfth century: it is a passage in the Policraticus by John of Salisbury, where the author speaks about a mechanical fly constructed by Virgil which could drive real flies from Naples, in this way ridding the city of the plague.10 After John of Salisbury’s assertions, several other writers likewise claimed that Virgil was a magician.11 A considerable number of clerics who wrote about Virgil as a sorcerer and astrologer came from Germany and Britain, but the reasons for the spread of this belief among Germans and Britons in particular remain unclear. The association of Virgil with demoniac practices, which appeared in Germany for the first time with Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, seems even more obscure. If we consider a group of texts from the early Middle Ages, it may be possible to find a solution to these controversial questions. John of Salerno (Joannes Italus Cluniacensis or Joannes Romanus) lived for some years in Naples and Salerno in the middle of the tenth century. While he was in Salerno, he came into contact with Greek books and the Hellenic cultural milieu, and wrote his Vita Sancti Odonis. In this work, he asserts that Odo dreamt of a beautiful pot from which snakes issued when it was opened. Odo was quick to think that the pot had belonged to Virgil, and considered the snakes to be negative symbols of past pagan poetry.12 The Vita Popponis Abbatis, written in the middle of the eleventh century, reports what happened to a young monk, Gazo, who, in a delirium caused by a high fever, was terrified by the apparition of a host of spirits: 9

10 11 12

Wilhelm Viëtor, “Der Ursprung der Virgilsage,” Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie 1 (1877): 165–78; Giorgio Pasquali, “Prefazione dell’editore,” in Domenico Comparetti, Virgilio nel Medio Evo, ed. Giorgio Pasquali (Florence: La nuova Italia, 1937), I, xxiii; Ziolkowski and Putnam, The Virgilian Tradition, 826–27. John of Salisbury, Ioannis Saresberiensis episcopi carnotensis Policratici sive De nugis Curialium et vestigiis Philosophorum libri 8, ed. Clemens C. J. Webb (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1909), 1, iv, 26. Ziolkowski and Putnam, The Virgilian Tradition, 825. John of Salerno (Ioannes Italus Cluniacensis), Vita Sancti Odonis, in Patrologiae latinae cursus completus 133 (Paris: J.-P. Migne, 1853), xii, 49.

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Aeneas, Turnus, Virgil and many other characters from the Aeneid. 13 The presence of Virgil in nightmares is quite frequent, as had already been mentioned in a letter written in the ninth century by the Swabian Ermenrich of Ellwagen to the abbot Grimald of St. Gall. Ermenrich reports a vision in which Virgil’s tomb is plunged into the Stygian swamp. Moreover, the poet causes nightmares, appearing as a ghost with a trident.14 Here are two final examples. The first comes from the Historiae by Raoul Glaber, dating back to the beginning of the eleventh century. He wrote about Vilgard to whom devils appeared in the guise of Virgil, Horace and Juvenal.15 The second source is perhaps the most curious and interesting. It comes from Vincent of Beauvais’s Speculum Historiale, which was widely circulated. In chapter 26 in the edition published in Douai in 1624 (chapter XXVII, 4 in the fourteenth-century MS Douai, Bibliothèque municipale, 797), Hugh of Cluny cannot sleep because he dreams that beasts and snakes are lying under his head. He wakes up to find the Liber Maronis under his pillow. He throws it away, and thereafter sleeps peacefully.16 Massimo Oldoni, who found most of the previous sources, argued that the demoniac image of Virgil developed during the tenth century in Naples and Salerno, two cities which were still in close contact with Byzantine culture: the interest in mechanical automata is assumed to have come from there and was henceforth constantly present in narratives involving Virgil, the magician.17 As far as the magic powers ascribed to Virgil are concerned, two main pieces of evidence can be adduced. The first is the well-known interpretation of the prophecy contained in the fourth Eclogue, where Virgil was supposed to have predicted Jesus’s 13 14 15 16

17

Everhelm, Vita Popponis abbatis, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in M.G.H., SS., 11 (Hannover: Impensis bibliopolii aulici Hahniani, 1854), 32, 314. Ermenrich of Ellwagen, Epistula ad Grimaldum abbatem, in M.G.H., Epistolae, 5, Epistolae Karolini Aevi 3 (Berlin: apud Weidmannos, 1899), 24, 561. Rodolfo il Glabro [Raoul (Rodulfus) Glaber], Cronache dell’anno mille (Storie), ed. and trans. Guglielmo Cavallo and Giovanni Orlandi (Rome: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla, 1990), 106–09. Vincent of Beauvais, Speculum Historiale (ex MS Douai, BM, 797 from the 14th cent.): http://atilf.atilf.fr/bichard/: xxvii, 4; Vincentius Bellovancensis, Speculum quadruplex, sive speculum maius: naturale, doctrinale, morale, historiale (Graz: Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt, 1964) (repr. of edit. Duaci, ex Officina typographica Baltazaris, 1624): 5, xxvi. Massimo Oldoni, “L’ignoto Liber Maronis medievale tradotto dall’antico,” in Lectures médiévales de Virgile. Acte du colloque organisé par l’Ecole française de Rome (Rome, 25–28 octobre 1982) (Rome: Ecole française de Rome, 1985), 365.

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birth. The second piece of evidence comes from a long literary tradition that goes back at least to Macrobius’s Saturnalia, where he asserted that Virgil’s poetry contained all human knowledge: “omnium disciplinarum peritus.” 18 Moreover, Fabius Planciade Fulgentius tried to discover Virgil’s occult knowledge through etymological interpretations in his Expositio Virgilianae continentiae secundum philosophos moralis, a work that was widely read during the Middle Ages, in particular in the twelfth century. 19 It is easy to see how the tradition connected with Virgil’s tomb in Naples, the poet’s extensive knowledge, his prediction of Christ’s coming, his association with Byzantine automata, and the existence of a book which causes nightmares to virtuous Christians combined to give Virgil the reputation of being a magician. The demoniac connotation, even if not very widespread, had existed at least since the ninth century and circulated in clerical milieux throughout Europe.

Virgil and the ars notoria

During the twelfth century, some clerics from Northern Europe, and from Britain and Germany in particular, spent some time in southern Italy, namely in Naples and Salerno. When reporting their journey, they quite frequently told stories about Virgil in connection with his burial place, with the automata he created to help the inhabitants of Naples or Rome and, finally, with the existence of a book of magic arts which had belonged to him. An epistle by Conrad of Querfurt (†1202), bishop of Hildesheim and Würzburg and chancellor to Emperor Henry VI, is of particular significance for the German context. He wrote from Sicily, probably in 1196, to the prior of the abbey of Hildesheim. In this letter, preserved in the Chronicle of the Slavs written by his contemporary Arnold of Lübeck, Conrad relates many anecdotes about the magician Virgil and the marvellous things he created: a city in a glass bottle, a bronze horse, a bronze fly, the serpent gate in Naples, the preservation of meat at the butcher’s block in Naples, the means he devised for defend-

18 19

Ambrosius Theodosius Macrobius, Saturnalia, apparatu critico instruxit, in somnium Scipionis commentarios selecta varietate lectionis ornavit Iacobus Willis, 2nd ed. (Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1970), I, 16.12. Worstbrock, “Vergil,” 253.

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ing Naples from the volcano Vesuvius and a statement about the Baths of Virgil (at Baia, near Naples). 20 The most famous of all these early German statements about Virgil as a magician is certainly the passage in the third part of the Otia Imperialia by Gervase of Tilbury († c.1228). Gervase, who was born in the last decade of the eleventh century, spent most of his short life in Italy. He studied in Bologna, stayed in Venice and lived some years in Sicily at the court of the Norman king, William II, who gave him a villa in Nola, a town in the Terra di Lavoro north of Naples. He settled in Arles, where he wrote his famous work for the Emperor, Otto IV. His final years are still the object of much scholarly debate.21 During a stay in Naples, he was informed by his former master in Bologna, Giovanni Pignatelli, at that time archdeacon of Naples, 22 about “what great wonders Virgil performed in this city,”23 for instance, the marvellous machines and charms he created to protect Naples. Many of them were also reported by Conrad von Querfurt, but what is completely new is the description of the search for Virgil’s lost burial place by a man from Britain, a man of great learning: proficient and highly talented at the trivium and quadrivium, he had achieved much in medical studies, and was unrivalled in astronomy, 24

who was given permission by King Roger II of Sicily (1095–1154) to take possession of Virgil’s bones. Thanks to “arte sua,” he discovered the grave, hidden in a mountain, where Virgil’s corpse still lay undisturbed. At the poet’s head was a book, “in which the art of magic was written down, along with other signs relating to his practice of that art.”25 The inhabitants of Naples refused to give up the bones, so he could take away only the book, which was later seen by Gervase himself by permission of the cardinal of Naples, under the pontificate of Pope Alexander III. 20 21 22 23 24 25

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, in M.G.H., SS. 21, ed. Johann Martin Lappenberg (Hannover: Impensis bibliopolii aulici Hahniani, 1869), 192–96. Banks and Binns, “Introduction,” in Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia. Recreation for an Emperor, ed. and trans. S. E. Banks and James Wallace Binns, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), xxv–xxxvii. Banks and Binns, “Introduction,” xxvi. “Quanta miranda Virgilius in hac urbe fuerit operatus” (Otia Imperialia, iii, 12, 580). “summe litteratus, in trivio et quadrivio potens et accutissimus, in fisica operosus, in astronomia summus” (Otia Imperialia, iii, 112, 802). “in quo ars notaria erat inscripta, cum aliis studii eius caracteribus” (Otia Imperialia, iii, 112, 802).

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Gervase admits to having made some successful experiments following the book’s instructions. Virgil’s bones had previously been an object of interest to other authors. For example, John of Salisbury noted in his Polycraticus that a French scholar was interested in the poet’s corpse, 26 while Conrad of Querfurt writes that Virgil’s bones were kept in a castle by the sea in Naples, namely the Castel dell’Ovo.27 As none of these authors mentions any book, it is evident that Gervase of Tilbury added a new piece of information that he had found elsewhere or, more simply, had just invented. Another particularity of Gervase’s text lies in the fact that he mentions the existence of a book of ars notoria in connection with Virgil. As Lynn Thorndike defines it, the Ars Notoria, or Notory Art, . . . seeks to gain knowledge from a communion with God by invocation of angels, mystic figures, and magical prayers. We are told that the Creator revealed this art through an angel to Solomon one night while he was praying, and that by it one can in a short time acquire all the liberal and mechanical arts. 28

More recent studies have demonstrated that the ars notoria was not transmitted directly from Eastern or Arabian culture, but spread from Northern Italy, more specifically from Bologna, starting at the beginning of the thirteenth century.29 Gervase of Tilbury’s citation is hence one of the oldest pieces of evidence about a theurgic practice which had no demoniac implications. On the contrary, it was mainly used in order to increase a person’s memory and instill knowledge. The period spent by Gervase of Tilbury in Bologna may explain the existence of a book of ars notoria connected to Virgil in his Otia Imperialia. 30 At Gervase’s time, a tradition concerning the poet’s extensive knowledge of the liberal and mechanical arts that were used to help the people of Naples had already been established. Ascribing these abilities to a knowledge of the recently discovered ars notoria was a very small step. Further evidence of this 26 27 28 29

30

John of Salisbury, Ioannis Saresberiensis, ii, 23, 132. Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, v, 194. Lynn Thorndike, A History of Magic and Experimental Science, vol. II (New York: Columbia University Press, 1923), 279. Julien Véronèse, “The ars notoria in the Medieval and Early Modern Period: Study of a Manuscript Tradition of Theurgic Magic (XIIth–XVIIth century),” Societas Magica Newsletter 10 (2003): 7; Julien Véronèse, L’ars notoria au Moyen Age. Introduction et édition critique, Micrologus’ Library, Salomon Latinus 1 (Florence: Sismel Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2007), 17 and 24. Véronèse, L’ars notoria, 24.

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association of Virgil with the ars notoria comes from the Dolopathos of John of Alta Silva, a monk in Lorraine, which was written at roughly the same time. In John’s work, Virgil is teacher to prince Lucinius and writes a book that permits his pupil to learn in a very short time, which is one of the characteristics of ars notoria.31

Gervase of Tilbury and the German Reception

Gervase’s Otia Imperialia were contemporary with Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, the first German text alluding to Virgil as a magician, but there is no evidence of any direct contact between Wolfram and Gervase. We likewise have no evidence that Wolfram might have known or read the Otia Imperialia, since the manuscript diffusion of Otia Imperialia does not suggest any contact between the two authors: Gervase worked on a draft copy of Otia Imperialia (Vatican City, Vat. lat. 933 [N]) until the second decade of the century, 32 and, as far as we know, during the first decades of the thirteenth century, Gervase’s work had principally been copied in France and southern England, but never in Germany. 33 The lack of manuscripts in German territories does not, however, exclude their existence a priori, or, at least, a dissemination of the work and recent editors admit that “there is ample evidence that the book was produced over a substantial period of time and subjected to constant correction and improvement.”34 As was often the case in the Middle Ages, other, earlier versions of the text were already circulating, and it is more than likely that the Otia Imperialia were known also to the German public: its dedication to Emperor Otto IV of Braunschweig should be sufficient proof of this. Moreover, the creators of the famous world map of Ebsdorf (Braunschweig) were unquestionably familiar with the Otia Imperialia.35 Conrad of Querfurt and Gervase of Tilbury, two authors who speak about Virgil as a magician in the years around 1200, thus imported the notion of Virgil the magician from southern Italy to Germany. Gervase then augmented his marvellous narration about Virgil by adding the 31 32 33 34 35

Johannis de Alta Silva, Dolopathos, sive De rege et septem sapientibus, in Historia septem sapientum 2, ed. Alfons Hilka (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1913), 13–23. Banks and Binns, “Introduction,” lxiii. Banks and Binns, “Introduction,” lxiii. Banks and Binns, “Introduction,” lxxx. Banks and Binns, “Introduction,” xxxv, lxxxvi.

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book of ars notoria, about which he had presumably heard in Bologna. Furthermore, Gervase and Conrad also played a considerable role in the courts of the emperors of the Holy Roman Empire and were consequently well-known in their time in German courts. In the same years, Wolfram von Eschenbach was affiliated with the court of Hermann of Thuringia, who was an important person in the political dynamics of that period. It is hard to believe that Wolfram did not know about the works of Conrad of Querfurt and Gervase of Tilbury, especially since Wolfram reveals in his literary works that he knew the French and German poetic production of his times, and was also an omnivorous reader of every kind of text. The representation of Virgil as Clinschor’s ancestor connects Wolfram to the creation of the image of Virgil as a magician, a figure that was well on the way to being defined in the same years. We could almost say that Wolfram was à-la-page. In the few lines devoted to Virgil, Wolfram indirectly shows substantial knowledge about the new stories concerning him: he came from Naples, more precisely from the Terra di Lavoro (Terra de Lâbûr), where the Campi Flegrei (namely Avernus), Baia, and so on are located. Virgil came from a city where he worked many marvels and his grandson was also a man who knew magic arts, that is to say, Virgil had transmitted his wisdom to him. All the attributes that would characterize Virgil in subsequent poetic production can already be found here.

Virgil in Middle High German Poems

But it is thanks to two thirteenth-century poems, Zabulons Buch and Reinfried von Braunschweig, that the existence of the book of ars notoria in connection with Virgil is clearly introduced into German narrative.36 36

About Zabulons Buch cf. Karl Simrock, Der Wartburgkrieg (Stuttgart: Cotta’scher Verlag, 1858), 184–229 and 300–05; Tom Albert Rompelman, Der Wartburgkrieg (Amsterdam: H. L. Paris, 1939), 70; Günter Schweikle, Parodie und Polemik in mittelhochdeutscher Dichtung. 123 Texte von Kürenberg bis Frauenlob samt dem Wartburgkrieg nach der Großen Liederhandschrift C (Stuttgart: Helfant Texte, 1986), 131–39; Burghart Wachinger, “Der Wartburgkrieg,” in Die deutsche Literatur des Mittelalters. Verfasserlexikon, ed. Kurt Ruh, vol. 10 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1999), 753–56; Alessandro Zironi, Enigmi di sapienza nel Medioevo tedesco, Studi e testi di linguistica e filologia germanica (Padova: Unipress, 2001), 205–99. For Reinfried von Braunschweig cf. Alfred Ebenbauer, “Reinfried von Braunschweig,” in Die deutsche Literatur des Mittelalters. Verfasserlexikon, ed.

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Their authors recalled information that had been circulating in Germany since the beginning of the century, including the passage from Parzival. In both poems Virgil travels to the magnetic mountain in order to find a treasure. After many adventures which recall episodes and passages in Herzog Ernst,37 Virgil finds a demon imprisoned in a glass in the form of a fly. After having been granted his freedom by Virgil, the devil reveals to him the existence of the book of Zabulon and leads the poet to the place where it is hidden. This is the version from Zabulons Buch: I’ll reveal to you how you’ll patronize all arts. Nearby me lies a book About which, Virgil, I want to tell you. So, hear: With it you will be superior to all clerics, It stays by me And you will take What Zabulon wrote with his own hands. 38

The demon describes the place where the book is to be found: for one thousand years, an iron statue had hidden it. In the head of the statue there is a letter. Virgil goes with the demon to the place where the statue stands, breaks the statue and takes the book. 39 That is all the text tells us 37

38

39

Kurt Ruh, vol. 7 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1989), 1171–76. The structure of Herzog Ernst is far too complex to discuss here and would lead our investigation too far from its main purpose. For a useful presentation of Herzog Ernst cf. Gustav Ehrismann, Geschichte der deutschen Literatur bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters, zweiter Teil, Die mittelhochdeutsche Literatur, I, frühmittelhochdeutsche Zeit (München: C. H. Beck’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1922), 39– 58; Bernhard Sowinski, “Nachwort,” in Herzog Ernst, Ein mittelalterliches Abenteuerbuch (Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam jun., 1979), 405–29; Hans Szklenar and Hans-Joachim Behr, “Herzog Ernst,” in Die deutsche Literatur des Mittelalters. Verfasserlexikon, ed. Kurt Ruh, vol. 3 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1981), 1170–91. “ich wil dir offenlîch verjehen, du wirst noch künste rîch. / ein buoch hie nâhe bî mir lît, / des wil ich wîsen dich, Virgilius, wizzez endelîch, / dâ mit du allen pfaffen obe ligst, / dâz bî mir bleip, / und an gesigst, / daz Zabulon mit sîner hende schreip” (Zabulons Buch 32, 10–16; Zironi, Enigmi di sapienza, 236). “An iron figure stands nearby / Which has hidden the text for a full thousand years. / That it was made by magic means / No one can doubt. / A letter lies in its head, from which it gets its force / It grasps strongly a stick in its hands: / I give you the power to control all this;” “He broke the figure without any effort. / Cunningly the book was in Virgil’s hands / And he took it with him over the sea” (“Ein êrîn bilt stêt nâh hie bî, / daz dâ der schrift gehuotet hât vollîchen tûsent jâr. / daz ez mit zouber dar gemachet sî, / vervâhet niht ein hâr. / Ein brief im in dem höupte lît, dâ von ez hât die kraft, / gewaltic einen klüpfel füert ez mit der hende sîn, / des gibe ich dir meisterschaft.” “Er brach daz bilt gar âne wer, / mit listen wart Virgilius daz buoch in sîne hant; / er fuort ez mit im hin über daz

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about how Virgil came into possession of Zabulon’s book, but we can assume that the iron statue was probably an automaton like the ones Virgil made and which were typical of most of the stories involving him as a magician. 40 The episode is described in greater detail in Reinfried von Braunschweig. The interminable, yet incomplete poem devotes more than 700 lines to the scene.41 The poem says that Virgil took three (!) necromantic books which had been written by Savilôn (ll. 21028–29). Together with Reinfried, Virgil discovers Savilôn’s secret place, the entrance to which is barred by a heavy stone (ll. 21283–91). Inside the cavern, they see an automaton with a hammer in his hand and, sitting on a chair, an old man who is apparently dead but is in reality in a death-like state of unconsciousness. 42 At his feet they see a book tied with a chain to the wall (ll. 21292–99) (now there is only one book!). The automaton had been made in order to strike anyone who might try to steal the book from the man’s feet. (ll. 21485–94). A small letter is hidden in the old man’s ear (ll. 21510–11). Virgil suddenly seizes the book, and the automaton strikes the old man dead (ll. 21682–85). Obviously the old man was Savilôn himself, who preferred in his old age to hide in a cave that he had built with the help of some demons. He wanted to keep secret what he had read in the stars when he was a young man, namely the birth of Jesus to a virgin. In Reinfried von Braunschweig, Savilôn is an Athenian prince with a Jewish mother and a pagan father (ll. 21315–16; 21357–59). He is the first man to understand astronomy, necromancy and all the forbidden arts: He was the first who ever understood astronomy, for he―thanks to his wisdom―knew it and necromancy just as he appreciated all arts that are forbidden. 43

40 41 42 43

mer”; Zabulons Buch 33, 5–11; 34, 1–3: Zironi, Enigmi di sapienza, 238). John Webster Spargo, Virgil the Necromancer: Studies in Virgilian Legends (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1934): 117–35; Ziolkowski and Putnam, The Virgilian, 826–28. Reinfrid von Braunschweig, ed. Karl Bartsch, Bibliothek des Litterarischen Verein 109 (Stuttgart: Litterarischer Verein, 1871), 610–31, ll. 20989–21720. “He sat on a chair / dead still living” (“er ûf einem sezzel saz / tôt noch lebende”; Reinfrid von Braunschweig, 625, ll. 21498–99). “Er was der êrste dem ie wart / astronomîe bekant, / wan er mit sînen sinnen vant / sî und negromanzîe / swie daz diu kunst nu sîe / verboten iedô was sî

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He wrote his prophecy in a brief letter whose content will be read by Virgil: Then he saw the letters and also the graphemes: this was even carved. Then Virgil could read that also Octavian was emperor in Rome and that from the pure lovely maiden mother Mary was born God as man on the earth. 44

As far as the book is concerned, we do not know its subject matter. The anonymous author of Reinfried von Braunschweig reveals only the disappointing information that “they found written in the book / many marvellous marvels.” 45 We can certainly agree with Oldoni when he stresses that the content of Virgil’s book is never revealed because the biography and the works of the poet do not permit any speculation about magic or necromantic practices. 46 Only the revelation about the birth of Jesus is disclosed. The juxtaposition of the disclosed message of salvation and the obscure content of the liber Virgilii may explain how Virgil was still perceived by German poets in the thirteenth century: rather than being a sorcerer or necromancer, Virgil is the unconscious instrument of God’s plan for salvation. 47 Zabulons Buch and Reinfried von Braunschweig are two texts which narrate the previous events, thus clarifying how Virgil was to become a magician. As the battle of Acre is cited in Reinfried von Braunschweig, there is no doubt that the poem was written after 1291. Some years before, 44

45 46 47

wert” (Reinfrid von Braunschweig, 620, ll. 21328–33). “dô man die karakter sach / und ouch der figûren schrift. / diz waz eben in der trift, / dô diz vant Virgilîus, / daz ouch Octavîânus / ze Rôme lepte keiserlîch / und diu reine minneclîch / Mariâ muoter magt gebar / got mensch ûf die erden har” (Reinfrid von Braunschweig, 630, ll. 21672–80). “Funden and dem buoch geschriben / wunderlîcher wunder vil” (Reinfrid von Braunschweig, 619, ll. 21308–09). Oldoni, L’ignoto Liber Maronis, 369. Otto Neudeck, “Möglichkeiten der Dichter-Stilisierung in mittelhochdeutscher Literatur: Neidhart, Wolfram, Vergil,” Euphorion 88 (1994): 351; Sonja Kerth and Elisabeth Lienert, “Die Sabilon-Erzählung der ‚Erweiterten Christherre-Chronik’ und der ‚Weltchronik’ Heinrichs von München,” in Studien zur Weltchronik Heinrichs von München, ed. Horst Brunner, vol. 1, Wissensliteratur im Mittelalter 29 (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1998), 435.

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probably about 1280, Jans Enikel composed his Weltchronik, in which Virgil is said to be “the son of Hell.”48 In Enikel’s chronicle, however, Virgil is not involved in the discovery of messages, prophecies or books, but becomes a magician because he frees a crowd of demons who had been imprisoned in a bottle. At the very end of the thirteenth century, the figure of Virgil is transformed into a simpler character, where magic is interpreted as demoniac knowledge; here, what arouses the reader’s interest is the telling of marvellous facts without any complicated moral implications.

Conclusion

Wolfram von Eschenbach is the writer who transfers Virgil from clerical culture to the public of the courts. Otto Neudeck stressed that Wolfram did not introduce any new aspects into his characterization of the poet:49 this operation was carried out by the later poets who linked Virgil to Wolfram von Eschenbach. They were both poets, whose reputation depended on admiration for their profound knowledge of the seven arts rather than on their aesthetic and lyrical talents. Moreover, in the speculation of the medieval reader, both Wolfram’s Parzival and Virgil’s fourth Eclogue conveyed the idea of the eschatological promise which had to be interpreted and deciphered, in other words, disclosed. In Parzival, Flegetanis reads the revelation of the Grail in the celestial spheres. Virgil is a pagan because he lived before the birth of Christ, but he is at the same time a Christian, because he becomes instrumentum Dei, just like Flegetanis, in Wolfram’s work. Zabulons Buch and Reinfried von Braunschweig, which were composed during the thirteenth century, present Virgil as a messianic actor in representations where the exotic and much-appreciated atmosphere and scenarios of the marvellous East conveyed by the widely-known poem Herzog Ernst are fused with new stories from Italy and England, both of which were in close contact with the northern and central cultural areas of Germany, Lorraine, Thuringia and Braunschweig. Thanks to these writers, the figure of Virgil became known to a wider public and 48 49

“der helle kint,” in Jans Enikel, Jansen Enikels Weltchronik, ed. Philipp Strauch, in M.G.H., Deutsche Chroniken 3 (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1900), 462, l. 23270. Neudeck, Möglichkeiten der Dichter-Stilisierung, 352.

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connected with magic, necromancy, forbidden arts, and finally with a book pertaining to Christian revelation, the ars notoria, composed by Solomon, the wise king of the Jews. Virgil, who knew the ars notoria in his turn, was the wisest of the pagan poets, just as Wolfram was the champion of an obscure culture that had extended beyond the walls of monasteries, the desks of universities and the studia of the clerics to reach the halls of the courts, where, amidst poetic lines about knights, damsels, demons and saints, the secrets of the seven arts were finally disclosed to a lay audience.

Obscuritas legum: Traditional Law, Learned Jurisprudence, and Territorial Legislation (The Example of Sachsenspiegel and Ius Municipale Maideburgense) Hiram Kümper

Jurisprudence deals intrinsically with authoritative texts. Like theology, it is entangled with script and its understanding, which is why both disciplines are usually considered hermeneutic. It is then no wonder that both share a common problem as well: the authoritative texts to which both are bound may be quite old. And this is why legal hermeneutics sometimes faces challenges―or even fails.1 Like any other text, a lawbook that has been preserved for a long time with only a few or even no adaptations, may certainly become obscure. The consequences of that obscurity will be the focus of this paper. The argument will be unfolded in three steps. First, I will introduce both the Saxon Mirror and the Magdeburg Law as parts of a common Saxon Law (ius Saxoniae), as an insoluble amalgam, and as incredible successes in medieval and early modern Europe over a period of at least five hundred years.2 I will then, secondly, go on to discuss briefly the problems that arose through the continuing use of outdated legal texts 1

2

The body of literature on this problem is already vast. To name but one title, Obscurity and Clarity in the Law: Prospects and Challenges, ed. Anne Wagner and Sophie Cacciaguidi-Fahy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), provides multiple challenging perspectives. I have tried to trace this enormous influence in my doctoral thesis: Sachsenrecht: Studien zur Geschichte des sächsischen Landrechts in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2007). There are quite a number of works published in English on the Saxon Mirror, including a translation: Maria Dobozy, ed., The Saxon Mirror: A Sachsenspiegel of the Fourteenth-Century (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), but only a few on the Magdeburg Law. For readers who are unfamiliar with German the bi-lingual popular book Saxon Mirror and Magdeburger Law: The Groundwork for Europe (Potsdam: Handel und Wandel, 2005), is a good starting point.

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that had become linguistically obscure, and present contemporary voices that called for a reaction to their use. As we will see, however, none of those contemporaries was interested in ceasing to use these texts or replacing them with some more modern or more efficient code. Rather, people were astonishingly keen to keep their legal tradition. In a third step, I will review a number of very different attempts to adapt this traditional Saxon law to the interests and needs of a changing juridical culture from medieval to early modern times.

Ius Saxoniae: The Saxon Mirror and Magdeburg Law as a Legal Amalgam

The Saxon Mirror (Sachsenspiegel) is the earliest in a series of vernacular law-books that gave German legal culture its character throughout the later Middle Ages.3 It was written in the first quarter of the thirteenth century by one Eike from the small village of Repgow near Magdeburg and Halberstadt in the then comparatively newly colonized areas east of the river Elbe. Six charters dated between 1209 and 1233 prove that von Repgow was a historical person.4 Apart from that, everything we know or presume about him rests upon the little he says about himself in the rhymed preamble to his law-book. According to these few verses, he had first written his book in Latin and was then encouraged to translate it into German by Earl Hoyer von Falkenstein. The Latin original is lost, but the German version had tremendous success and is preserved in some 450 manuscripts, including fragments. The Saxon Mirror comprises a collection of customary laws, mostly dealing with the rural culture from which Eike came and thus with the rights and laws of both peasants and rural nobility. His Mirror is divided into two major parts: a part dealing with land-law (lantrecht), which is subdivided into three books, and a part dealing with feudal law (lenrecht). However, Eike also included a number of laws dealing with impe3

4

The so-called Mühlhäuser Rechtsbuch is generally considered to have been written at approximately the same time; cf. Hans Patze, “Zum ältesten Rechtsbuch der Reichsstadt Mühlhausen in Thüringen aus dem Anfang des 13. Jahrhunderts,” Jahrbuch für die Geschichte Mittel- und Ostdeutschlands 9/10 (1961): 59–126. Helmut Coing, Epochen deutscher Rechtsgeschichte (Munich: Beck, 1967), 26, has termed Germany’s later Middle Ages “the era of law-books” (“Rechtsbücherzeit”). These can be easily accessed in a reprint in Alexander Ignor, Über das allgemeine Rechtsdenken Eikes von Repgow (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1984), 325–30.

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rial law and with what we would nowadays probably call “public law,” some of which turned out to be excitingly influential. For instance, the seven electoral princes, who for centuries elected the German king, and thus the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, appear in the Saxon Mirror for the first time.5 The Magdeburg Law, or Ius Maideburgense, as contemporaries often called it, was, like Eike’s Saxon Mirror, compiled privately by one or more anonymous people at roughly the same time, probably only a little after Eike translated his Mirror into German. The text’s development is even more complex than that of the Saxon Mirror, although it has not been as well-researched, and it did not achieve its most widely-disseminated form, the Vulgata, until the end of the thirteenth century.6 We still lack a modern edition of the text today.7 The activities of the Magdeburg Panel of Judges (Schöppenstuhl), a council of lay jurists that became the central authority for interpreting the law in the towns that claimed to follow the “Saxon Law,” have been markedly more prominent in legal historical research. Some of these cities were explicitly given the privilege to follow Magdeburg Law by their town lords; others had produced their own lawbooks, either privately or at the demand of a city’s council, to make sure their local laws were compatible with Saxon Law. Whenever these towns were uncertain about the application of a particular rule of the law, they asked for help in its interpretation from the Magdeburg Panel of Judges, 5

6

7

This is not the place to discuss the still heavily debated origins of the electoral princes’ collegium. The last contribution to this debate is Frank-Reiner Erkens, “Anmerkungen zu einer neuen Theorie über die Entstehung des Kurfürstenkollegs,” Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 119 (2011): 376–81; and the last survey of the conflicting positions was carried out by Thomas Ertl, “Alte Thesen und neue Theorien zur Entstehung des Kurfürstenkollegiums,” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 30 (2003): 619–42. The Magdeburg Law has probably not been as well researched as the Saxon Mirror because legal historians of the nineteenth century judged it unsuccessful in its attempt to harmonize Saxon and learned legal tradition; cf., for instance, Otto Stobbe, Geschichte der deutschen Rechtsquellen, vol. 1 (Braunschweig: Duncker & Humblot, 1860), 379, 387. There are five different editions from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, none of which meets modern standards. The division and sequence of the chapters and paragraphs differs from one manuscript, and one edition, to another, and consequently none of the editions may be said to be the “standard” one. In this essay, I will refer to Alexander von Daniels, ed., Dat buke wichbelde Recht: Das saechsische Weichbildrecht nach einer Hs. der Kgl. Bibliothek zu Berlin von 1363 (Berlin: Dümmler, 1853). The manuscript behind this edition is the same that Homeyer used for his edition of the Saxon Mirror (see footnote 14).

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or another one of the similar panels (Oberhöfe) that quickly developed in the “lands of Saxon Law” in towns like Kraków, Wrocław, Olomouc, and Opava. 8 The Magdeburg Panel, however, remained the most authoritative and famous of these panels until far into the sixteenth century, even after it was officially abolished by Emperor Charles V in 1547. Responses sent out by the Magdeburg Panel were collected in manuscripts and later in print from the fifteenth century onwards, and served as model cases for those judging by Magdeburg Law. The archive of the Magdeburg Panel, unfortunately, burned during the sack of Magdeburg by Tilly’s troops in 1631; so attempts have been made over the last century to collect as many of these charters as possible in order to reconstruct from them the basic ideas of Magdeburg Law.9 The combined influence of the Saxon Mirror and the Magdeburg Law, as materialized in both the actual town-law (Weichbildrecht) and the letters of the Magdeburg Panel of Judges, was enormous. “Common Saxon Law” (ius commune Saxonum) became a catchword during the rise of literacy in German legal culture, especially in the Eastern parts of the Empire and the neighbouring kingdoms, as early as the thirteenth century, but most intensively during the fourteenth and fifteenth. Lawbooks were composed in cities in Poland, Moravia, Belarus, Hungary, and the Baltic. Manuscripts of both the Saxon Mirror and the Ius Maideburgense, both often compiled in one manuscript, circulated throughout Central and Eastern Europe, and towns in Silesia, Prussia, or Bohemia asked the Magdeburg Panel of Judges for juridical advice.10 The inseparability of the two law-books is also illustrated by the fact that even the Magdeburg Panel frequently referred to the Saxon Mirror 8

9

10

The German term Oberhof is usually applied to a panel comparable to a Superior Court, which had a codified procedure for giving juridical advice and whose judgments could not be appealed. The Magdeburg Panel of Judges was more informal, but—perhaps for this reason?—the most influential of these panels. These few sentences must suffice to sum up the complex history and influence of the Magdeburg Panel of Judges. For a more detailed account cf. Heiner Lück, “Der Magdeburger Schöffenstuhl als Teil der Magdeburger Stadtverfassung,” in Hanse – Städte – Bünde: Die sächsischen Städte zwischen Elbe und Weser um 1500, vol. 1, ed. Matthias Puhle (Magdeburg: Stadtmuseum Magdeburg, 1996), 138–51. An on-going transnational research project at the Sächsische Akademie der Wissenschaften Leipzig (Germany) will certainly shed more light on this highly complex process of legal transmission within in the next few years. For more details and a list of publications cf. http://www.magdeburger-recht.eu (last accessed January 11, 2013).

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rather than their own town law (wichbild) when they gave juridical advice on Common Saxon Law, or even when Magdeburg itself was a party to a legal conflict. 11 In 1387, for instance, four prominent mediators (“gekorn schidelude”), amongst them the bishops of Halberstadt and Brandenburg, issued a charter concerning a legal dispute between Magdeburg and its archbishop Albrecht over a salt spring in Groß-Salze (nowadays Schönbek in Saxony).12 In their charter they paraphrased the Magdeburg aldermen’s complaint: the archbishop’s men had taken possession of the brine and dispersed our burghers and other people, both clerics and laymen, [and therefore acted] against this chapter of the common land-law which states: “One shall not expel anyone from his property holding . . . .” 13

This refers to II 24 § 1 of Eike’s Saxon Mirror. 14 From the fourteenth century onwards compilers of law-books and the Magdeburg Panel of Judges distinguished increasingly between the Saxon land-law (landrecht) and town-law (wichbild) but they still tried to compile global depictions of the Saxon Law for use in both rural and urban contexts.

Saxon Law and Legal Traditionalism

The success of Saxon Law, however, was not without its draw-backs and caveats, especially in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. On the one hand, a growing number of contemporaries noted the differences between customary Saxon law and the learned tradition of the ius commune, that from the fourteenth century onwards increasingly gained 11 12 13

14

A number of examples are provided in Kümper, Sachsenrecht, 231–40. Gustav Hertel, ed., Urkundenbuch der Stadt Magdeburg (Halle: Otto Hendel, 1896), 399–403 (No. 629). “sek des bornen heft undirwunden und unse borgen mit den andirn papen und leyen entweret wedder dat capittel des gemeynen lantrechtis, dare steyt: ‘men schal nymande ute sinen weren wissen . . .’” (Hertel, Urkundenbuch, p. 402). The English translation, as elsewhere in this article where not explicitly stated otherwise, is mine. “No one may expel a person from his property holding by court order, even if he came into it unlawfully, unless the claimant can dispossess him with a legitimate claim when he is present . . .” (Dobozy, Saxon Mirror, 100); “Man ne sal niemanne ut sinen geweren wisen von gerichtes halven, al si he dar mit unrechte an komen, man ne breke sie eme mit rechter klage, dar he selve to jegenwarde si . . . ” (Carl Gustav Homeyer, ed., Des Sachsenspiegels erster Theil oder das sächsische Landrecht, 3rd ed. [Berlin: Dümmler, 1861], 214).

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recognition north of the Alps, as well as other legal customs, such as French, Polish, or Flemish ones. On the other hand, legal practitioners were more and more concerned about the inner structure of both the Saxon Mirror and the Ius Maideburgense; to them both seemed to have been compiled without any system―a lack that pained the growing number of German jurists who had been trained in the learned laws at Europe’s universities. The encounter with other legal traditions was not completely problematic; it had its positive aspects as well. Indeed, for many German jurists, Saxon Law must have seemed more attractive than other traditions―as its broad reception suggests. When Emperor Charles V. proposed his plans for a new penal code―the later Constitutio Criminalis Carolina, issued in 1532―at the Augsburg Reichstag in 1530, the Electors of Saxony and Brandenburg refused to give up their Saxon Law that has been in use by their ancestors as long as man can remember, and therefore they would stick to their laws and would not accept the new penal code. 15

The lack of systematization of both the Saxon Mirror and the Ius Maideburgense was more problematic because it was harder to find any reason for it. Indeed, there is no apparent reason for this lack of order in both the Mirror and the town law-book.16 Some chapters do clearly belong together, but others give the impression of having been inserted randomly in the collections. Here, for example, are the opening chapters of book III of the Saxon Mirror:17 III 1 Concerning the rape of a girl or a woman, and all those who follow the hue and cry for a red-handed deed. III 2 Concerning priests and Jews who carry arms. III 3 No woman bearing a child and no feebleminded person may be sentenced. III 4 When a person demands back what he transferred or sold. III 5 Whatever a person lends or transfers for safe keeping. 15

16 17

“. . . das se von oeren seczichen rechten, welge uber menschengedencken by oene gehalten, nicht abstehen wolln, soltn by denselbigen verharren und deysse nuwe halzsgerichts ordenungh nicht annemen noch in deyselbige bewilligen haben” (Herbert Grundmann, ed., Valentin von Tetleben: Protokoll des Augsburger Reichstages 1530 [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1958], 89). A number of studies have tried to find one. Instead of naming them all I refer the reader only to Ignor, Über das Allgemeines Rechtsdenken, who discusses them all and gives his own interpretation. Translations are taken from Dobozy, Saxon Mirror, 56–57.

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If a servant loses his master’s property at dice. A Jew need not be a Christian man’s guarantor. If one accepts belongings as collateral. Some of the chapters seem to be linked thematically, but others do not. The Mirror jumps back and forth between matters of procedure, of penal law, of the law of obligations, etc. The same is true for its civic equivalent, the Ius Maideburgense. Here is a more or less random snippet from the chapters of one fourteenth-century manuscript of the Ius: 18 LXVII If someone claims moveable goods from someone else. LXVIII No adult judge may entitle a guardian for his court. What happens if a man is asked for a judgment and is unwilling to respond. LXIX On minor wounds. If a suit is barred. On major wounds. LXX If someone sells a horse to someone else. LXXI On theft. LXXII On theft during day light. Like the Saxon Mirror, the Ius Maideburgense looks sloppy to the modern reader―and it seems that it did so already to rather close contemporaries. From at least the fifteenth century, there were efforts to revise the Saxon Mirror both to bring it up to date and (even more importantly) to give it a clear order. Early traces of these efforts can only be guessed at. In a letter written in early 1411, Johannes Stalberg, an abbreviator from Northern Germany working at the papal court, praised his friend Dietrich von Niem for the positive effects of his engagement with the Saxon law (“sentencias Saxonicas”), and also referred to Dietrich’s corrective work on the Mirror―sadly without providing details.19 In 1493, the Common Superior Court of Altenburg and Leipzig proposed, in the course of a discussion about new procedures, “that the Saxon Mirror be reformed so that one may continue to judge by common Saxon Law.”20 It might well be that this proposal was a reaction to the rule Prince Albrecht had imposed on the Superior Court just a few years 18 19 20

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Von Daniels, Dat buke wichbelde Recht, col. 74. Hermann Heimpel, Dietrich von Niem (c. 1340–1418) (Münster: Aschendorff, 1932), 317: “O quam laudabilis et felix vestre huius sapiencie et studii litterarum infinitorumque laborum vestrorum finis, qui correctione des Spigels.” “Item dass der Sachsenspiegel gereformiret werde also das man noch landleufiges Sechsisches Recht spreche” (Theodor Muther, “Kleiner Beitrag zur Geschichte der sächsischen Konstitutionen und des Sachsenspiegels,” Zeitschrift für Rechtsgeschichte 4 [1864]: 169).

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before, in 1488:

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At this court, everything shall be judged by Saxon Laws, as far as they are lawful, still in use, and clearly expressed. But everything that is not regulated, is obscure or is incomprehensible shall be judged and explained according to the common laws [scil. the ius commune]. 21

The Saxon jurists in Altenburg and Leipzig in 1493 probably feared the implementation of the learned laws, the ius commune, by virtue of the prince’s ruling. Only few decades later, when Prince Johann Friedrich outlined new procedures in 1534, the Court refused to follow them because they did not go far enough in terms of legal reformation: “Especially the obscure book of the Saxon Mirror with its many double meanings has caused many unlawful judgements and quarrel in our lands.”22 The passage that I quote here goes on for some time and gives a very graphic impression of how annoyed the panel was with the situation. Prince Johann Friedrich did not, however, reform the Saxon Mirror. He replied that such an endeavour was impossible at that moment and the longed-for reform had to wait a number of years. In the meantime, a number of aids had been developed to address the problems the voiced by the Common Superior Court of Altenburg and Leipzig in 1493.

Explaining and Systematizing Saxon Law: Early Glosses, Commentaries, and other Exegetic Aids―from Manuscript to Print

We might well start with one outstanding example of the ways in which efforts were made to render the Saxon Mirror more useful. Four manuscripts of the text, all beautifully illuminated, have caught scholarly interest since at least the middle of the eighteenth century. All stem from one and the same lost ancestor and therefore share many visual aspects.

21

22

“Es sullen auch alle Sachenn vor dem gerichte nach Sechßigischenn Rechtenn, wu das rechtlich vnd bestendigk, ausgedruckt, vorsprochenn werddenn wu es aber vnaußgedrucket tunkel adder vnvornemlich ist, Sal es erföllunge vnd dewtunge nach gemeynen Rechtenn nehmen” (Christian Gottfried Kretschmann, Geschichte des Churfürstlich Sächsischen Oberhofgerichts zu Leipzig von seiner Entstehung 1483 an bis zum Ausgange des 18. Jahrhunderts: nebst einer kurzen Darstellung seiner gegenwärtigen Verfassung [Leipzig: Crusius, 1804], 36). “Sunderlich das vnvorstentlich Buch des Sachssenspiegels des zwespoldigen vorstandt vilerley vnbiliche vrtail gefallen vnd im lande vil Zcang vnnd hadder” (Muther, “Kleiner Beitrag,” 170–71).

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I will not discuss the famous illustrations here at any length since their function is still uncertain despite the multitude of plausible interpretations that have already been proposed.23 Most researchers now agree that these illustrations are far more than mere decorations, but hardly anyone would still propose that the scenes served as a way of transmitting the legal ideas of the Mirror to the illiterate, as some sort of consuetudines pauperum, so to speak. They might indeed have helped readers understand the text, but they are by no means a substitute for it. Rather, these illustrations might be seen as a sort of explanatory commentary, as well as a mnemonic device to help find articles quickly.

Fig. 1: Scene from one of the Saxon Mirror’s codices picturati (Wolfenbüttel, HerzogAugust-Bibliothek, Cod. Guelf. 3.1. Aug. 2o, fol. 34r). 24 23

24

They are discussed in Dagmar Hüpper, “Funktionstypen der Bilder in den Codices picturati des Sachsenspiegels,” in Pragmatische Schriftlichkeit im Mittelalter: Erscheinungsformen und Entwicklungsstufen, ed. Hagen Keller, Klaus Grubmüller, and Nikolaus Staubach (Munich: Fink, 1992), 231–49. A comprehensive discussion in English of the most important aspects of the quest may be found in Madeline H. Cavines and Charles H. Nelso, “Silent Witnesses, Absent Women, and the Law Courts in Medieval Germany,” in Fama: The Politics of Talk and Reputation in Medieval Europe, ed. Thelma Fenster and Daniel Lord Smail (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2003), 47–72. Drawing taken from Christian Ulrich Grupen, Teutsche Alterthümer zur Erleuterung des Sächsischen und Schwäbischen Land- und Lehn-Rechts (Hannover: J.W.

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In another small group of manuscripts, all dating from the fifteenth century and seemingly from the diocese of Hildesheim, not too far from the Saxon Mirror’s place of origin, the sequence of the articles is rearranged into what was apparently a clearer order for the compiler of their archetype, although this new order is no clearer than the old one in many places, at least for a modern reader. 25 Indices likewise appear slowly in manuscripts of the Saxon Mirror from the fifteenth century onwards. These indices usually have little in common with modern ones, but they do combine alphabetical groupings with thematic ones. Burgen / wu man umbe vorgeburgette schult clagen sol vij Behalden / was eyn man zcu behalden thut xiiij ab der stirbit, dem icht zcu behalden getan ist xvj Burghafftig / wer der sy xxxiij Dingslete zcu vorbithen j wer zcu dinge komen sal j Dÿbe / was diben ader robern abegeÿagit wirt xv Wer umbe dube gefangen wirt xxxj

Fig. 2: Index for a manuscript of the Richtsteig Landrecht (Göttweig, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. 364rot, fol. 526r). 25

Schmidt, 1746), 104. Cf. Kümper, Sachsenrecht, 160–61.

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Glosses were yet another means of adapting the Saxon Mirror to new circumstances and making it more useful―and one of these new circumstances definitely was the spreading of the learned laws, the ius commune, in northern Europe. We have already mentioned some of the Saxon jurists’ distrust of, and even resistance to this movement. Others, however, thought rather of harmonizing the two legal spheres. Already sometime in the 1330s, Johann von Buch (c. 1290–c. 1356), a learned jurist who had been trained in Bologna, annotated the land-law of the Saxon Mirror with corresponding passages from the ius commune. This widely recognized gloss (glossa) was particularly influential for the development of Saxon Law in two ways: first, Johann came up with the idea that the Saxon Mirror was modelled upon a privilege that Charlemagne had given the Saxons after their defeat and Christianization, and that Eike had merely translated this privilege and added a few chapters of his own―which, consequently, Johann did not gloss. Second, his gloss succeeded in harmonizing and explaining the contradictory and obscure passages of the Mirror. Johann even went so far as to quietly reconfigure the Saxon Law in a number of ways. 26 The gloss soon spread in a vast number of manuscripts along with the Saxon Mirror and was even frequently quoted as an authoritative source along with the Mirror and the Magdeburg Law. The latter also was glossed during the fifteenth century. Johann’s gloss was followed by a number of others, and also further adapted, so that the history of the text has grown very complex, but almost any edition suffices to give us an impression of the effect of the gloss on the presentation of the Saxon Mirror and its practical use. Fig. 3 is an example of the way the text is presented in a number of similar editions from the sixteenth century. Three phrases from an article of the Saxon Mirror, printed in bold, are glossed, with their first words figuring as indices: Es mag auch kein weib/etc., Zueignn/etc. and Spreche sie aber das es ihr/etc. The gloss explains or specifies certain details and adds parallels or evidence from other legal sources―notably the Magdeburg Law, abbreviated with Weich. Moreover, in this specific edition, a number of Latin allegationes have been inserted between the text of the Saxon Mirror and the gloss. The redundancies between these allegations and the gloss remind us that three texts―the Saxon Mirror, the gloss, and the allegations―have been compiled here. 26

Details are provided by Bernd Kannowski, Die Umgestaltung des Sachsenspiegels durch die Buch’sche Glosse (Hannover: Hahn’sche Buchhandlung, 2008).

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Fig. 3: Printed text of a Saxon Mirror with Gloss (Christian Zobel, Leipzig, 1569)

Article III 78 provides a good example of the way in which Johann glossed the Saxon Mirror. This article reads:

27

[§ 1.] The king and every judge preside over capital crimes and serious felonies, the property of each of his men and kin, and does not act disloyally thereby. [§ 2.] In turn, the man may on behalf of his king and judge certainly oppose any injustice and help resist it in all ways possible. Even where his kin or lord is concerned, he does not act disloyally. 27

Dobozy, Saxon Mirror, 136; “[§ 1.] Die koning unde iewelk richtere mut wol richter over hals unde over hant unde over erve iewelkes sines mannes unde mages,

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Maria Dobozy, whose translation is quoted here, understands the second paragraph as an imperative for judicial assistance. This is in line with the currently accepted interpretation of the paragraph,28 but some scholars read § 2 in another way. They―including me―would translate it rather as: [§ 2.] A man must also resist injustice perpetrated by his king or judge, and help in resisting it all the time, and also his kin or lord, and does not act disloyally.

Both translations are justified linguistically, but Johann von Buch must have understood III 78 § 2 in the second way. Still, he could not imagine anyone actively resisting the Roman king and so he comments: Note with care that he writes: his king, and not: the king. For by saying his king he means just any king, such as the king of Bohemia or of Denmark. One may lawfully resist these kings and their judges. Had he said the king, he would have meant the Roman king. And this would have been unjust, for nobody may lawfully resist him. . . . 29

Johann von Buch was doubtlessly the most influential glossator of the Saxon Mirror, but he was not the only one. Numerous less known legal writings blossomed from the fifteenth century onwards to explain certain passages of the Mirror and Magdeburg Law, written not only by practitioners from the Panels of Judges (Schöffenstühle) but now also by legal professors of the emerging German universities, especially from Leipzig. One of the more famous examples might be Dietrich von Bocksdorf, who composed a number of small pieces to adapt the Saxon Mirror to contemporary situations. 30 As time went on, the printed editions of

28 29

30

unde ne dut dar an weder sine trüwe nicht. [§ 2.] De man mut ok wol sime koninge unde sime richtere unrechtes wederstand, und san helpen weren to aller wis, al si he sin mach oder sin herre, unde ne dut dar an weder sine trüwe nicht” (Homeyer, Des Sachsenspiegels Erster Theil, 374). I discuss this problem in more detail in Kümper, Sachsenrecht, 555–62. “Vnde sineme koninge et cetera. Dit nym behendeliken, dat hir steyt: Sineme koninge, vnde nicht: Deme koninge. Wente dar mede, dat he secht: Sime koninge, dar mede menet he sunderlike koninge, alse den koningh van Bemen edder dene van Denemarken. Dessen koningen mot men wol alle des wedderstan, des men eneme richtere wedderstan mod. Hedde he auer gesecht: Deme koninge, so hedde he de Romeschen koningh ghemenet. So were dat vnrecht ghewesen, we deme en man nemand wedderstan . . .” (Franz-Michael Kaufmann, ed., Glossen zum Sachsenspiegel-Landrecht. Buch’sche Glosse, vol. 3 [Hannover: Hahn’sche Buchhandlung, 2002], 1459; italics are all taken from the original). Cf. Christoph H. F. Mayer, “Dietrich von Bocksdorf († 1466) – Kleriker, Jurist, Professor. Zugleich zur ‚Unvernunft’ heimischer Gewohnheit im Zeitalter der Rezeption,” in Tangermünde, die Altmark und das Reichsrecht: Impulse aus dem

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the Mirror and the Magdeburg Law became more academic in their editorial design to suit the new needs of legal culture. The most successful editions of both law-books were published in Leipzig, beginning in 1535. They were edited by the law professor Christoph Zobel (1499–1560) who added to them material drawn from both juridical writings and legal practice.31 After his death, his son-in-law continued to publish editions of the Mirror, the last being printed in Heidelberg in 1614.32

Fig. 4: A remissorium from a Saxon Mirror edited in 1536 by Chistoph Zobel (Leipzig)

One of the most characteristic innovations of the early printed editions is the inclusion of a remissorium or repetitorium (Fig. 4) to make the Mirror more accessible.33 This new type of indexing had emerged already within

31 32 33

Norden des Reiches für eine europäische Rechtskultur, ed. Heiner Lück (Stuttgart: S. Hirzel, 2008), 92–141. A detailed study on this fascinating jurist will soon be published by Marek Wejwoda (Leipzig). On Zobel cf. Konrad Krause, Alma mater Lipsiensis: Geschichte der Universität Leipzig von 1409 bis zur Gegenwart (Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 2003), 49–50. A handlist of all these editions and their content is provided in Hiram Kümper, ed., Secundum Iura Saxonica: Sechs prozessrechtliche Traktate der frühen Neuzeit (Nordhausen: Bautz, 2005), 106–11. More examples than the ones mentioned here are discussed in Kümper, Sachsen-

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manuscript culture and replaced the thematic indices (like the one shown in Fig. 2) in many manuscripts. The afore named Dietrich von Bocksdorf, for instance, compiled a huge but as yet unedited repertorium that included references to the Saxon Mirror, the Magdeburg Law, and the law-book of Meissen, a close relative of both the law-books. 34 In view of the popularity of the Saxon Law in the sixteenth century, on the one hand, and the number of different editions available on the book market, on the other, an edition’s comprehensiveness and ease of use must have been major selling points. Figure 5, for instance, shows a table from a 1545 edition of the Saxon Mirror in which its editor, Nikolas Wolrab, lists all the advantages of his new edition. • the text and a gloss in both German and Latin • the subdivision of the capitula into paragraphs • additiones to each article • a revision of all allegationes to the learned laws • an alphabetical repertorium The allegationes that Wolrab mentions have already been shown above in Fig. 3. Some were attributed to Dietrich of Bocksdorf, others were added by unnamed jurists, and still others probably by the editors, like Christoph Zobel, themselves. The growing concern about the divergences between traditional Saxon Law and the learned laws ultimately generated another type of literature, the differentiae juris, which can also be considered an effort to interpret the obscurities of the Saxon Law. These were thematic compilations that sought to resolve apparent contradictions between the two traditions with respect to specific points. Sebastian Stelbagius’s Epitome (Fig. 6) offer one example of this genre.

34

recht, 180–87. There is no edition. A manuscript probably written in 1464 by one of Bocksdorf’s pupils is preserved in Zwickau, Ratsschulbibliothek, Ms. II, VIII, 28.

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Fig. 5: Editorial report for a Saxon Mirror printed in 1545 by Nikolaus Wolrab (Leipzig)

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Fig. 6: Sebastian Stelbagius, Epitome sive summa universae doctrinae iusticiae legalis (Bautzen, 1564)

The Compendium juris civilis et Saxonici, which was written sometime around 1537 by Konrad Lagus, but not printed until 1597, provides another example of an effort to address the obscurities of the Saxon Law. 35 The Saxon Mirror, Lagus complained, was “written in such a disorderly

35

Cf. Theodor Muther, Zur Geschichte der Rechtswissenschaft und der Universitäten in Deutschland. Gesammelte Aufsätze (Jena: H. Dufft, 1876), 319–23. On Lagus cf.

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manner that not one single piece is in the right place, but it switches back and forth between this and that.”36 Stelbagius and Lagus, however, were already headed down the path to the usum modernus pandectarum, the specific form of academic German jurisprudence that struggled with the discrepancies between traditional and learned laws until virtually the end of the Old Empire in 1806.

The Constitutiones electorales Saxonicae Divi Augusti and Melchior Kling’s Revised Saxon Mirror―a Postscript?

We have now seen a number of different attempts to keep a law-book that had become obscure in terms of both its meaning and its structure accessible within a changing juridical culture. Some, especially editors, who wanted their books to be sold, were more optimistic about this possibility than others. Pessimists, on the other hand, emphasised the obscurity―especially in terms of structure―of the old-fashioned lawbook. Among them was Melchior Kling (1504–1571), a professor of Canon Law at Leipzig University.37 The Saxon Mirror, Kling asserted in a letter to the Elector August of Saxony, was written without any systematic order (“gantz ane ordnung”) so that no-one could actually follow its rules (“das sich schir Niemandts darein Richten kan”)―and still it was used in every-day juridical practice (“Vnd ist doch in teglicher vbung”). This is why he, Kling, had planned “to systematize” the Saxon law “so that everyone could easily understand it and find his way through it.”38 His

36

37 38

Hans Erich Troje, “Konrad Lagus (um 1500–1546) und die europäische Rechtswissenschaft,” in Wittenberg: Ein Zentrum europäischer Rechtsgeschichte und Rechtskultur, ed. Heiner Lück and Heinrich de Wall (Cologne: Böhlau, 2006), 150–73; and Gerhard Theuerkauf, Lex, Speculum, Compendium iuris: Rechtsaufzeichnung und Rechtsbewußtsein in Norddeutschland vom 8. bis zum 16. Jahrhundert (Cologne: Böhlau, 1968), 183–216. “. . . so unordentlich geschrieben, das darinnen kein stücke schier ist, wie es sol, in sonderheit vorgenommen, sondern hin und herwider von diesen und von jenen rechtsfällen” (Konrad Lagus, Compendium juris civils et Saxonici [Magdeburg: Francken, 1597], 4). On his life and writings cf. Rolf Lieberwirth, “Melchior Kling (1504–1571), Reformations- und Reformjurist,” in Wittenberg: ein Zentrum europäischer Rechtsgeschichte und Rechtskultur, ed. Heiner Lück (Cologne: Böhlau, 2006), 35–62. “in eine solche ordnung zu bringen das es ein Jeder leichtlich verstehen vnnd sich drein richten solt” (Melchior Kling, Das Gantze Sechsisch Landrecht mit Text und

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idea was actually fairly simple and in perfect keeping with the legal thinking of contemporary jurists trained in the learned laws. Instead of the traditional three books of the Saxon Mirror, he divided the material into four books: one on the legal personae (the king, dukes, suitors, testators, etc.), a second on procedures (citation, sentences, appellation, etc.), a third on various kinds of suits brought for civil matters, such as the law of obligations, inheritance, etc., and a fourth on penal law. According to this plan, Kling hoped to write it in easily understandable German words, with the grace of God, so that not one single line in the whole Saxon Mirror would remain that was not placed in the proper chapter. 39

How did Kling realize this plan? First, as proposed in his letter, he arranged the articles of the Saxon Mirror in a completely new sequence inspired by the dogmatic structures of the learned laws. He maintained a reference to each article’s place in the existing editions of the Mirror, however, in order to facilitate comparison with those editions and on account of the huge existing literature. He also provided cautious comments on the articles and paragraphs he had newly combined. Here are two examples of his work. The first example (Fig. 7) explains the meaning of article III 58 to the contemporary reader, for whom it might well have been problematic: The imperial princes of the realm shall have as lord no layperson other than the king. A banner fief that makes a man a crown vassal is valid only when it is conferred by the king. Whatever a second man receives before the king does not make him first holder of the estate because another had already been invested with it before. Therefore, the estate cannot elevate him to a crown vassal. 40

This rule had been obsolete for a long time because of the growing complexity of the Empire’s feudal landscape. Kling updates the article by 39

40

Gloß in eine richtige Ordnung gebracht [Leipzig, 1572], introduction [no pagination or foliation]). “wolte es mit gueten verstendigen deutzschenn wortenn, vermittelst gottlicher hülffe dermassen schreiben das In gantzen Sachssenspiegel nicht ein einige Zeil sein solte, die nicht vnter Iren ordentlich tittl gebrach were” (Kling, Das Gantze Sechsisch Landrecht, introduction). Dobozy, Saxon Mirror, 131; “Des rikes vorsten ne solen nenen leien to herren hebben, wen den koning. It n'is nen vanlen, dar die man af moge des rikes vorste wesen, he ne untva't von deme koninge. Svat so en ander man vor ime untveit, dar n’is jene die vorderste an'me lene nicht, went it en ander vor ime untfeng, unde ne mach des rikes vorste dar af nicht sin” (Homeyer, Des Sachsenspiegels Erster Theil, 354).

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explaining that nobody can become an imperial prince of the realm by other means than by royal investiture. He does not, however, forbid these princes from forming feudal bonds with their equals. In the second example (Fig. 8), Kling first shortens the article. In full the Saxon Mirror III 55 states: None but the king may judge the imperial princes at the level of life and health. As for the Schöffen[-barfreien] class, if they are convicted and sentenced to capital punishment, then only the bailiff may execute them. 41

Fig. 7 and 8: Melchior Kling, Das Gantze Sechsisch Landrecht mit Text und Gloß in eine richtige Ordnung gebracht (Leipzig 1572)

Kling quotes only the second sentence, leaving aside the king’s high jurisdiction over the imperial princes. The Schöffen―or rather Schöffenbarfreie―who are the subject of the second sentence, were a peculiar

41

Dobozy, Saxon Mirror, 130; “Over de vorsten lif unde ire gesunt ne mut neman richtere sin, wan die koning. Over scepenbare vrie lüde, svenne se iren lif verwerken unde verdelet sin, ne mut neman richten wenne die echte vronde bode” (Homeyer, Des Sachsenspiegels Erster Theil, 351).

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class of men in legal history for there is no proof of their existence before the Saxon Mirror and some scholars have supposed that Eike might have invented them.42 Consequently, Kling notes: “This is no longer valid.” 43 Kling, however, had not been the only one complaining to the dukes of Saxony―in 1556, for example, Melchior Osse (1506–1557) also wrote his famous political testament (Politisches Testament an Augustum Churfursten zu Sachssen) to the Elector August of Saxony44―and the success of Kling’s revised edition of the Saxon Mirror, which was published posthumously in 1572, was doubtlessly much reduced by August of Saxony’s issuing the Constitutiones electorales Saxonicae just a few months earlier, even though the Constitutiones dealt only with certain controversial issues that had arisen from the diversity of norms and legal practices in the ducal lands and left a good deal of other matters untouched.45 The Constitutiones thus never replaced either the Saxon Mirror or the Magdeburg Law in juridical practice. Their influence in broad regions of Central and Eastern Europe was unaffected by the Saxon legislation, and both law-books continued to be consulted by practitioners and cited in juridical writings. The innovative approach and conception that lay at the origin of these works was a milestone in the history of an astonishing legal traditionalism within the lands of Saxon Law that perpetually invented new strategies and formats to guarantee the continued accessibility of its central authoritative texts―a history that does certainly not end in the sixteenth century. 46 42

43 44 45

46

The discussion is quite complex and is summarized in Karl Kroeschell, “Von der Gewohnheit zum Recht: Der Sachsenspiegel im späten Mittelalter,” in Recht und Verfassung im Übergang vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit, vol. 1, ed. Hartmut Boockmann, Bernd Moeller, et al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 68–92. “Diß ist auch nicht also in brauch” (Kling, Das Gantze Sechsisch Landrecht, f. 101r). Cf. Oswald Artur Hecker, ed., Schriften Dr. Melchiors von Osse: mit einem Lebensabriss und einem Anhange von Briefen und Akten (Leipzig: Teubner, 1922), 280 and 287. Details on the drafting of the Constitutiones are provided by Hermann Theodor Schletter, Die Constitutionen Kurfürst August’s von Sachsen vom Jahre 1572. Geschichte, Quellenkunde und dogmengeschichtliche Charakteristik derselben (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1857). For a continuation until the early twentieth century cf. Kümper, Sachsenrecht, 285–334.

To Be Born (Again) from God: Scriptural Obscurity as a Theological Way Out for Cornelius Agrippa Noel Putnik

In some of the works of Agrippa von Nettesheim, a Renaissance thinker who was as unorthodox as he was controversial in his blending of various Christian and non-Christian doctrines, one finds a curious phenomenon which might be termed “orthodoxy building.” In this paper I examine the phenomenon in the context of Agrippa’s rhetorical strategies as well as his theological preferences and interpretations. The main argument is that Agrippa’s construction of “orthodoxy” was necessary for his attempted theological synthesis and that, among other means, his interpretation of scriptural obscurities played a significant role in that process. A well-known humanist, occultist, and theologian of his time, Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim (1486–1535) was one of the most important German representatives of a broad philosophical current often labeled Renaissance Neoplatonism. 1 This highly eclectic intellectual trend of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was based on several major developments of the time: 1. the rediscovery of late antique Hermetic and Neoplatonic writings that were later translated into Latin by Marsilio Ficino; 2. the reevaluation and recognition of various previously suppressed or neglected forms of medieval magic, Christian, Jewish, and Muslim alike; 3. a new intellectual climate marked by the emergence of various reform ideas and movements. 1

For a summary discussion of Agrippa’s role in Renaissance Neoplatonism see Charles Nauert, Agrippa and the Crisis of Renaissance Thought (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1965), 8–115. See also Cornelius Agrippa, De occulta philosophia libri tres, ed. Vittoria Perrone Compagni (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 1–10; Marc Van der Poel, Cornelius Agrippa, the Humanist Theologian and his Declamations (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 15–49; and Christopher I. Lehrich, The Language of Demons and Angels. Cornelius Agrippa’s Occult Philosophy (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 25–32.

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Within this contextual framework, Agrippa wrote his numerous treatises and shaped his doctrines with the single purpose of offering crisisstricken Western Christianity his own version of spiritual reform. In a nutshell, he merged various elements of the Kabbalah, late antique Hermetic and Neoplatonic doctrines, and medieval magic with Christian teachings, “enriching” them with some elements of these traditions.2 Such an approach to the crisis of Western Christianity was hardly surprising. Agrippa belonged to a generation of humanists immediately following that of Marsilio Ficino and Pico della Mirandola. He was a younger contemporary of Johann Reuchlin, Abbot Johann Trithemius, Francesco Zorzi, and Lodovico Lazzarelli, to mention only a few wellknown names. He shared with these humanists, to a greater or lesser degree, a peculiar worldview marked by their attempts to construct syncretic philosophical and theological systems that would unify or reconcile Christianity with the above-mentioned traditions. All such attempts were fundamentally heterodox and eclectic in nature.3 On the other hand, Agrippa was also a contemporary of Desiderius Erasmus, John Colet, Martin Luther, and many others who also sought to reform Western Christianity, but without the aid of non-Christian or heterodox doctrines. Agrippa self-consciously aligned himself with these thinkers as well and this double allegiance presents a major problem for interpreting the German humanist’s work and ideas. 4 2 3

4

For a comprehensive overview of the intermingling of these traditions see György E. Szőnyi, John Dee’s Occultism: Magical Exaltation Through Powerful Signs (New York: State University of New York Press, 2004), 41–151. From a huge body of literature treating the peculiar syncretism of these humanists I mention only a few works most directly related to the topic of this paper: Noel L. Brann, Trithemius and Magical Theology. A Chapter in the Controversy over Occult Studies in Early Modern Europe (New York: SUNY Press, 1999); Stephen A. Farmer, Syncretism in the West: Pico’s 900 Theses (1486). The Evolution of Traditional Religious and Philosophical Systems (Tempe, Arizona: Medieval & Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1998); Wayne Shumaker, The Occult Science in the Renaissance. A Study in Intellectual Patterns (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972); Wouter Hanegraaff and R. M. Bouthoorn, Lodovico Lazzarelli (1447– 1500): The Hermetic Writings and Related Documents (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2005); Michael J. B. Allen and Valery Rees, eds., Marsilio Ficino: His Theology, His Philosophy, His Legacy (Leiden: Brill, 2002); Paola Zambelli, White Magic, Black Magic in the European Renaissance. From Ficino, Pico, Della Porta to Trithemius, Agrippa, Bruno (Leiden: Brill, 2007). Van der Poel’s above-mentioned study (see note 1) discusses this “other side” of Agrippa’s thought exceptionally well. See also Lewis Spitz, The Religious Renaissance of the German Humanists (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963);

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Agrippa von Nettesheim is best known as one of the great Renaissance magi. If not a practicing magician (the available biographical data reveal too little in this respect), he was certainly one of the most important theorists of magic of his time. His main work, the famous De occulta philosophia libri tres (Three Books of Occult Philosophy), can be described as a kind of encyclopedia of magic and occultism interpreted within a philosophical framework usually defined as Neoplatonic. The chief goal of the magus, as the author formulates it, is to achieve spiritual ascension, that is, to enter the realm of God and his powers and restore man’s prelapsarian divine position.5 Furthermore, Agrippa proposes magic as the best means to achieve this lofty goal. In articulating his religio-magical program, he relied significantly on the Corpus Hermeticum, a well-known late antique collection of theosophical treatises attributed to the legendary figure Hermes Trismegistus. Given the “other side” of Agrippa’s thought (that is, the “orthodox” Christian side), one wonders how Christianity fits into this highly unorthodox conceptual framework. Although intellectual history has granted Agrippa the role of a Renaissance magus (a failed and disappointed one, I should add), a number of his works show distinctly Christian theological features, and some are even purely exegetical. 6 Recent scholarship has done a lot to bring to light this previously neglected or misinterpreted theological component of Agrippa’s thought, which is strongly Christian in argument and tone.7 Even his main work, the De occulta philosophia, is permeated with instances of biblical exegesis peculiar to his syncretic and eclectic thought.

5

6 7

Paola Zambelli, “Magic and Radical Reformation in Agrippa of Nettesheim,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 39 (1976): 69–103; and Amos Edelheit, Ficino, Pico and Savonarola: the Evolution of Humanist Theology 1461/2– 1498 (Leiden: Brill, 2008). This is the thesis I argue for in my work The Pious Impiety of Agrippa’s Magic: Two Conflicting Notions of Ascension in the Works of Cornelius Agrippa (Saarbrücken: VDM Verlag Dr. Müller, 2010). See also Szőnyi’s concept of exaltation in his John Dee’s Occultism, 19–37. Some examples of Agrippa’s exegetical works are his De originali peccato and Dialogus de homine, as well as the now unfortunately lost commentary on the Epistle to the Romans. Marc Van der Poel and Vittoria Perrone Compagni are currently the main proponents of the “re-Christianization” of Agrippa’s thought; see Van der Poel, Cornelius Agrippa, the Humanist Theologian, passim, and Perrone Compagni’s Introduction in Agrippa, De occulta philosophia, 1–53.

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The claim that Agrippa resorted to Christian doctrine instrumentally, using it merely as a “facade” or a “safety-device” for his heretical teachings, has long been discarded in scholarship as overly simplistic and inadequate for a number of reasons. In the process of building his attempted synthesis, the German humanist was seriously concerned with the question of orthodoxy. I maintain that, for Agrippa, constructing a whole new mode of Christian orthodoxy, rather than just making his heterodoxy “sound” or “seem” orthodox, was the crucial requirement for his synthesis to work at all. 8 What are the basic features of Agrippa’s “new orthodoxy”? First and foremost, it is based on the standard Ficinian notion of multiple revelations. The revelation of Jesus Christ was just the most recent and, admittedly, most sublime confirmation of the original twofold revelation given to Moses and to Hermes Trismegistus.9 In several instances Agrippa almost explicitly equated Christ’s miracle-working with that of magicians, for the simple reason that he saw magical wonder-working as an indicator of one’s spiritual advancement. For a truly illuminated soul, Agrippa believed, it is only natural to perform works of magic and this is the only proper way to understand the miracles of the prophets and the apostles. In other words, magic and Christianity emerged as complementary forms of a single, universal, and primeval spiritual tradition. Furthermore, what goes for Christianity goes for literally every other religious tradition: they all share a common supernatural origin with magic, being nothing but different branches of one and the same ancient revelation. This bold religio-magical syncretism was the backbone of Agrippa’s call for the rehabilitation of magic in the eyes of his Christian audience, but also for the rehabilitation of Christianity itself, which in the eyes of Agrippa and many of his contemporaries had suffered tremendous de8

9

The “safety-device” argument goes back to Lynn Thondike’s History of Magic and Experimental Science, 8 vols. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1923–58), 5:129–38, and was influentially echoed in Frances Yates’s early works, but even she abandoned it in her Occult Philosophy in the Elizabethan Age (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979), 37–47. Nowadays it is almost entirely rejected; see, for instance, Lehrich, The Language of Demons and Angels, 41, and Michael H. Keefer, “Agrippa’s Dilemma: Hermetic ‘Rebirth’ and the Ambivalences of De vanitate and De occulta philosophia,” Rennaisance Quarterly 41.4 (1991): 614–53. However, Paola Zambelli still adheres to this line of interpretation (see below). This “myth of a continuous esoteric tradition,” as Charles G. Nauert puts it, is analyzed minutely in his “Magic and Skepticism in Agrippa’s Thought,” Journal of the History of Ideas 18.2 (1957): 161–82.

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gradation. With many other fellow humanists, he was convinced that, due mostly to the centuries-long influence of rigid Aristotelian scholasticism, Western Christianity had almost lost touch with its spiritual roots.10 One of the symptoms of this loss was the common Christian scornful rejection of magic. Agrippa’s intention was to reanimate this nearly-collapsed Christianity, to bring it back to its suppressed “identity,” a task that required quite a bit of creative exegesis. As one reads in Agrippa’s Dehortatio gentilis theologiae (A Dissuasion against Pagan Theology, c. 1518), his goal was “to enrich the Church of God with the cleansed writings of the pagans.” 11 The “cleansing” of these writings was the starting point of Agrippa’s exegesis. In much simplified terms, it implied making Hermes Trismegistus theologically compatible with Christ and the apostles although Arippa was not especially concerned as to whether the doctors of the Church would accept this compatibility. There is a need for an important remark here. In my view, what Agrippa meant by “enriching the Church of God with the cleansed writings of the pagans” was not Christianizing Hermetism, as is often argued, but rather “Hermeticizing” Christianity. This seemingly minor difference in emphasis conceals an important difference in perspective. The idea that Agrippa sought to Christianize Hermetism implies that the backbone of his religious identification was Hermetic, which would make his allegiance to Christianity a sort of outer layer or protective facade. In other words, this way of thinking would make Agrippa a Nicodemite, an intentionally false Christian, which is what some scholars believe. 12 On the other hand, the idea that Agrippa sought to Hermeticize Christianity implies that he identified with Christianity―that, indeed, he felt himself to be profoundly Christian―even though his understanding of Christianity was highly unconventional and problematic from the standard theological point of view. 13 The difference pertains to the long-debated question of his religious and intellectual identities. Nowadays there seems to 10 11 12

13

Van der Poel, Cornelius Agrippa, the Humanist Theologian, 50–93. “ecclesiam Dei locupletare repurgatis literis ethnicorum” (Henrici Cornelii Agrippa ab Nettesheim, armatae militiae equitis aurati et iuris utriusque ac medicinae doctoris operum pars posterior [Lyon: per Beringos fratres, n.d.], 489–90). Zambelli, White Magic, Black Magic, 115–88. Her thesis on Agrippa’s Nicodemitism echoes Thorndike’s position, although in a very different context, by linking Agrippa to Radical Reformation. See also Van der Poel, Agrippa, the Humanist Theologian, 133–36, on Agrippa’s explicit allegiance to Rome. See footnote 4.

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be a considerable scholarly consensus that Agrippa’s allegiance to Christianity went far beyond mere declarations and attempts to mask his heretical doctrines. 14 With this delicate distinction in mind, I move on to a close examination of some of the rhetorical approaches the German humanist uses in his treatment of Scripture. When, in the pursuit of his synthesis, Agrippa refers to Christian and non-Christian authorities, both camps appear to be on equal terms, that is, to confirm and support each other. In this context it is particularly interesting to examine Agrippa’s treatment of certain biblical obscurities (or what he sees as such) as these could provide him with the opportunity to construct new meanings by selecting and reinterpreting certain passages or phrases. The two main modes of Agrippa’s approach to the Bible are recontextualizing and misquoting. Recontextualizing involves taking a quotation out of its original context and transplanting it into a new context to support one’s claim or argument. What follows is both a simple and interesting example of recontextualizing taken from Agrippa’s De occulta philosophia, a work which at first glance deals solely with magic and occultism. In the fourth chapter of Book III, the German humanist quotes the Apostle Paul: Therefore those who are more religiously instructed do not undertake even the smallest work without divine invocation, as the Doctor of Nations commands in Colossians saying: Whatever you shall do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ giving thanks to God the Father through him. 15

Agrippa thus refers to Colossians 3:17 in a passage on how to practice magic. Agrippa takes the Apostle’s words literally―he quite clearly says “whatever you do”―even though the author of the epistle most certainly could not have had in mind the magical practices Agrippa advocates it in 14

15

In my opinion, this is the position of Van der Poel, Perrone Compagni, and, to some extent, Lehrich, although he is not primarily concerned with the problem of Agrippa’s orthodoxy. On the other hand, scholars like Keefer and Szőnyi tend to emphasize the unsolvable, paradoxical character of Agrippa’s intellectual and religious identity. “Iccirco qui religiosius eruditi sunt nec modicum quodvis opus absque divina invocatione adgrediuntur, sicut ad Colossenses praecipit Doctor gentium inquiens: Quaecumque feceritis in verbo aut opere, omnia in nomine Domini Iesu Christi facite, gratias agentes Deo patri per ipsum” (Agrippa, De occulta philosophia, 409). The English translation is taken from Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, trans. James Freake, with a commentary by Donald Tyson (St. Paul: Llewellyn Publications, 1997), 450. Paul’s words are italicized both in Latin and in English.

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his third book (including, among other forbidden procedures, conjurations and necromancy). Notwithstanding this incongruence, and even though this quotation appears at the beginning of Book III, in which he discusses the forms of magic most strongly condemned by the Church, Agrippa concludes that it is perfectly legitimate to practice magic as long as one does it in the name of Jesus Christ―dixit Paulus! Thus Agrippa supports his problematic argument with scriptural authority, which plays a crucial role in the rhetorical strategy of his works. This simple example shows the general pattern of theological “cherry-picking” common to all Renaissance eclecticists. Quotations with minor changes are already interpretations if the changes are significant enough and if one has reason to suspect that they are intentional. No doubt, mistakes are often accidental as medieval and Renaissance authors tend to quote from memory. However, sometimes it is evident that what looks like a lapsus memoriae could well be a deliberate alteration. In Agrippa’s case, the matter is further complicated by the fact that, unlike many other humanists of his day, he did not know Greek well.16 Consequently his studies of the Bible were based on the Vulgate in the same way his readings of Plato and Corpus Hermeticum were largely confined to Ficino's translations. Neither Agrippa’s works and correspondence nor any known biographical data reveal anything, moreover, about what version or versions of the Vulgate the German humanist read.17 It may thus be that what in some cases looks like deliberate misquotation is in fact an alternative reading from one of the numerous copies of the Vulgate circulating in Europe at the time. Any analysis of Agrippa’s use of biblical references will therefore be tinged with a certain degree of speculation. I believe, however, that we can 16

17

This was aptly demonstrated by Nauert, Agrippa, 119, who concludes: “For all practical purposes Agrippa's significant readings were confined to books available in Latin, though he may have been able to draw on Hebrew and Greek texts to a limited extent.” Agrippa admits this himself in his work De beatissimae Annae monogamia, as also shown by Nauert. See Nauert, Agrippa, 116–19. Neither Keefer nor Van der Poel provides any data of this kind in their examinations of Agrippa’s use of Biblical references. Even Perrone Compagni’s critical editions of the De occulta philosophia and De triplici ratione cognoscendi Deum provide no help. Van der Poel cuts this Gordian knot by proposing that “since we don’t know which text Agrippa used and since we may assume that he usually (or, at least, occasionally) quoted from memory, it seems best to me to use a modern edition of the Vulgate as point of reference” (personal correspondence, January 28, 2010).

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reduce this element of speculation to an acceptable minimum if the analysis is carefully contextualised and, where possible, strenghtened by indirect philological evidence. This uncertainty must nevertheless be kept in mind when discussing Agrippa’s references to the Bible. One possible example of creative exegesis hidden in a misquotation is to be found in Agrippa’s reference to another famous statement by the Apostle Paul. In the peroration of his second major work, the De incertitudine et vanitate scientiarum atque artium, atque excellentia verbi Dei declamatio (Declamation on the Uncertainty and Vanity of Sciences and Arts, and the Excellence of the Word of God), Agrippa paraphrases Paul’s words as follows: “Therefore remove the veil of your intellect . . . and soon with unveiled face you will climb from glory to glory.”18 However, II Corinthians 3:18 reads slightly differently: “But we all, with unveiled face . . . are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory.”19 Apart from some obviously insignificant changes caused by paraphrasing, one notices that Paul’s passive verb transformamur (“we are being transformed”) is replaced by an active one, transcendetis (“you will climb”).20 Thus the whole passage acquires a subtly Hermetic―and even Pelagian―tonality. Instead of being transformed by God, it is we, by virtue of our own efforts, who climb or transcend to glory. This difference corresponds closely to the main incongruity between the Christian and the Hermetic paradigms of spiritual ascension―in fact, so closely that 18

19

20

“Amovete ergo nunc velamen intellectus vestri . . . et mox revelata facie transcendetis de claritate in claritatem” (Agrippa, Operum pars posterior, 312). The translation is taken from Keefer, “Agrippa’s Dilemma,” 640. Keefer was the first to bring up this particular example. “Nos vero omnes, revelata facie . . . in eandem imaginem transformamur a claritate in claritatem” (Biblical text here and elsewhere is taken from Vulgata Clementina, http://vulsearch.sourceforge.net/html/2Cor.html [last accessed: December 27, 2012]). The translation here and elsewhere is taken from the New American Standard Bible, http://nasb.scripturetext.com (last accessed: December 27, 2012), which conveniently renders the Latin transformamur as “we are being transformed.” Transformamur is the Latin translation of Paul’s verb μεταμορφούμεθα, which exhibits only the passive meaning in New Testament Greek (see Frederick William Danker, ed., A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and other Early Christian Literature [Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 2000], 639–40). Agrippa’s alteration cannot therefore be a philological criticism of the Vulgate based on his insight into the Greek original, especially given his limited knowledge of Greek. For the same reason it seems far-fetched to suppose that any available version of the Vulgate would render the strongly passive verb μεταμορφόομαι the way Agrippa did.

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one must think of a deliberate alteration, or at least of a semi-conscious adjustment to the author’s own worldview.21 One of the most interesting cases of misquotation, or at least dubious quotation, is linked to Agrippa’s Hermetic interpretation of the Christian mystery of spiritual rebirth or regeneration. As M. H. Keefer rightly points out, the Hermetic-Christian doctrine of spiritual rebirth is a central tenet of Agrippa’s faith. It is the nucleus to which all the other elements of his synthesis were added subsequently. His exegesis of this relatively frequent and relatively obscure notion from the New Testament undoubtedly reveals Hermetic and magical implications. In his early treatise titled De triplici ratione cognoscendi Deum (On the Three ways of Knowing God, 1516), which is usually regarded as the first autonomous expression of his theological views, Agrippa examines the notion that we can know God only through faith. In the course of a long series of quotations and references to biblical and patristic texts, he refers to the expression “to be born (again) from God” used by the Apostle John. There is a curious textual confusion about this reference. In the margin of the 1529 Opera edition, published in Antwerp, 22 Agrippa writes: “Therefore, John says that such a soul is born again from God.” 23 He refers the reader to 1 John 3:9, which in fact reads: “No one who is born of God practices sin.”24 Since Agrippa personally oversaw the preparations for the printing of the 1529 edition of his Opera, this is not likely to be a printer’s error. On the basis of this minor alteration Marc Van der Poel seems to suggest that the German humanist added the word iterum (again) in order to adjust this biblical reference to the conceptual framework of Neoplatonism and the Hermetic doctrine of spiritual rebirth. 25 Indeed, the Johannine reference mentioned in the margin does not contain the word iterum, but does the addition of this word really mean that Agrippa was trying to change the theological sense of the quotation? No doubt, such an effort would be in accordance with the general practice of the time, but in this case, I do not think that the alteration was 21 22 23

24 25

See Keefer, “Agrippa’s Dilemma,” 639–40. The Hague, Royal Library, 229 G 41. “Ideo huiusmodi animam Ioannes ait nasci iterum ex Deo” (De triplici ratione cognoscendi Deum 5, ed. in Vittoria Perrone Compagni, Ermetismo e Cristianesimo in Agrippa. Il De triplici ratione cognoscendi Deum [Florence: Edizioni Polistampa, 2005], 144; my translation). “omnis qui natus est ex Deo peccatum non facit.” Van der Poel, Cornelius Agrippa, the Humanist Theologian, 73.

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necessarily intentional. There are a few passages in the Gospel of John that do contain the word again, although in the form denuo. The best known is John 3:3: “Jesus answered and said to him, ‘Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’” 26 This is in reply to Nicodemus the Pharisee, who wonders how can a man enter his mother’s womb and be born again. Jesus explains that it means being born of the Spirit and concludes (John 3:7): “Do not marvel that I said to you: ‘You must be born again.’” 27 One finds a similar expression in 1 Peter 1:23: “for you have been born again not of seed which is perishable but imperishable, that is, through the word of God.”28 Thus it might well be that Agrippa had in mind another biblical passage, which did contain the word again. In that case, the mistaken reference on the margin remains enigmatic. In other words, it is not always easy to distinguish a mistake from intentional misquotation. However, although the German humanist may have deliberately misquoted less often than thought, some examples clearly reveal such an approach. The way Agrippa comments on the Johannine reference is explicitly Hermetic and Neoplatonic: Therefore, John says that such a soul is “born again from God,” inasmuch as the light of the supreme God―just like the ray of the Sun, which diminishes its body and turns into a fiery nature―flows down through angelic minds all the way to our soul merged in the body and stimulates it to strip off all its carnality and become a son of God. 29

The way Agrippa interprets John’s words is remarkable. In nuce, the standard Christian understanding of spiritual rebirth implies starting a new life marked by Holy Communion. To be born again is to begin anew in Christ; it implies developing a new nature, new principles, new affections, and new aims. A Christian is born again ἄνοθεν, that is both denuo (again) and desuper (from above). A classical reference for this notion is found in Colossians 3:9: you laid aside the old self and have put on the new self who is being renewed

26 27 28 29

“Respondit Iesus et dixit ei: amen amen dico tibi nisi quis natus fuerit denuo non potest videre regnum Dei.” “Non mireris quia dixi tibi oportet vos nasci denuo.” “Renati non ex semine corruptibili sed incorruptibili per verbum Dei.” “Ideo huiusmodi animam Ioannes ait ‘nasci iterum ex Deo,’ siquidem Dei summi lumen – quemadmodum radius solis, corpus attenuans et in igneam convertens naturam – per mentes angelicas usque ad animam nostram defluens, instīgat animam carni immersam ut denudata ab omni carnalitate fiat Dei filius” (De triplici ratione cognoscendi Deum 5, 144–46 [my translation]).

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to a true knowledge according to the image of the One who created him. 30

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One could also think in this connection of Romans 12:2: “do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”31 In other words, the standard doctrinal understanding of spiritual rebirth implies an imitatio Christi so strong that it ultimately changes one’s nature. What remains theologically obscure, however, is how far this change goes. What does it imply, in anthropological and eschatological terms, to become the novus homo of Saint Paul? It will suffice here to mention the early theological controversies over the issue of the Resurrection and Paul’s σῶμα πνευματικόν (spiritual body) from 1 Corinthians 15:44 to suggest that from the very beginning the Christian concept of rebirth has been veiled with certain obscurities. 32 It is these obscurities that Agrippa exploits in order to import and legitimize the Hermetic notion of spiritual rebirth, which differs significantly, if not fundamentally, from that of doctrinal Christianity. This Hermetic idea, especially as found in discourses I, IV, VII, and XIII of the Corpus Hermeticum, is rigidly dualistic. What needs to be born again is the soul, whereas the body is the principal cause of ignorance and suffering. It is “the odious tunic that strangles you and drags you down,” “the garment of ignorance, the foundation of vice, the bonds of corruption, the dark cage, the living death, the sentient corpse, the portable tomb,”33 and one must rip it off in order to achieve regeneration. Moreover, one finds in discourse XIII an explicit discussion on the immaterial body that closely resembles Paul’s “spiritual body,” a body that is not different from the soul.34 Another crucial difference between the Christian paradigm and the Hermetic one is that in the latter regeneration serves one sole purpose: that of the soul’s becoming god. Hence Agrippa reinterprets John’s con30 31 32

33 34

“Expoliantes vos veterem hominem et induentes novum eum qui renovatur in agnitionem secundum imaginem eius qui creavit eum.” “Nolite conformari huic saeculo sed reformamini in novitate sensus vestri.” See, for instance, Caroline Walker Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), 3–6, and Charles Francis Digby Moule, “St. Paul and Dualism: the Pauline Conception of Resurrection,” New Testament Studies 13 (1965–66): 106–23. Hermetica. The Greek Corpus Hermeticum and the Latin Asclepius in a New English Translation, with Notes and Introduction,” ed. and trans. Brian P. Copenhaver (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 24 (discourse VII). Hermetica, 49–54.

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cept of rebirth by emphasizing the bodily enslavement of the soul and the necessity of stripping off all its carnality. This is why he employs light imagery like Al-Kindi’s ray-theory and Plotinus’s analogy of the Sun (“just like the ray of the Sun, which diminishes its body and turns into a fiery nature” 35) in order to describe the emanation of God’s mercy. In other words, Agrippa’s exegesis results in a compound of theological opposites so complex that it could easily lead readers into utter confusion―or, on the other hand, provoke them into revisiting some old anthropological obscurities and reopening some early Christian theological controversies. Agrippa certainly hoped for the latter. Whether he managed to avoid the former is an entirely different problem.

35

See the quotation above, footnote 26.

Obscuritas in Medieval and Humanist Translation Theories Réka Forrai

Despite the continuous attempts of medievalists to dispel it, the qualifier saecula obscura still hangs over the Middle Ages like a dark cloud. Obscurity, moreover, is a literary topos as well as a historiographical one. Medieval culture was often labeled obscure by poets and historians alike: neither the Humanist Petrach, nor the enlightened Gibbon, for example, thought very highly of it. But by calling the Latinity of the Hisperica Famina or that of a labyrinthine scholastic argument obscure, we do nothing more than admit that these texts are inaccessible to us. Languages age and so do translations. Generation after generation, words―regardless of whether they are used to write legal texts, philosophy, poems or private letters―go from clear to blurred, transforming reading into deciphering. All great works of literature in the western canon are re-translated by almost every generation since, after a while, the language of the translation no longer clarifies, but obscures the meaning of the original text. Translation is thus a particularly useful angle from which to study obscurity, especially from the comparative perspective of two historical periods like the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The Renaissance Greek-Latin (re)translation movements justified and glorified themselves by condemning the medieval renderings as obscuring their originals. Judging the medieval period according to our own standards of clearness is a practice we have inherited from the humanists. Many of our misconceptions about the techniques of medieval translation come from taking for granted the humanist critique of them. Rather than arguing that medieval translation practices were not abstruse, I propose to investigate the different understandings of the term obscuritas from Antiquity to the Renaissance. Obscurity was understood in very different, sometimes contradictory ways in ancient, medieval and humanist translation theory. At first glance, two different interpretations of obscurity are apparent. Readers use it critically when

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obscurity is seen as damage done to a clear text by an unskilled translator. Translators, on the other hand, use it apologetically, attributing obscurity to the original text itself. One’s first impression then is that readers blame the translators whenever they fail to understand a text, whereas translators blame the text whenever they are unable to translate it clearly. But on closer reading, much more is involved. In the first case, the term is applied to a faulty translation. Here, obscuritas is an unfortunate new layer covering the original text that has been produced by the shortcomings of the translator’s craftsmanship and has to be removed in order for the text to be understood. In the second case, it describes an inherent characteristic of the source-text. In this instance, the obscure material usually strongly resists the translator’s efforts. Obscurity belongs to the text’s nature: it is intended to slow down and deepen the reading process. I will distinguish between these two approaches by calling them rhetorical and philosophical obscurity. Thus I argue for the existence of a positive dimension of obscurity in the Middle Ages, which is lost in humanist rhetoric. Already in classical Antiquity, Romans thought there was something inherently obscure in the Greek language. For Lucretius (c. 99–55 BCE), translating Greek philosophical ideas into Latin verses meant also a purification and simplification of an overly complicated system. In this process, the poverty of Latin is turned into an advantage: Nor do I fail to understand that it is difficult to make clear the dark discoveries of the Greeks in Latin verses, especially since we have often to employ new words because of the poverty of the language and the novelty of the matters. 1

The simplicity of Latin was seen to be in sharp contrast with the sophistication of Greek. The competitive Roman spirit translated this opposition into the antithetic pair of clearness versus obscurity, straightforwardness versus confusing intricacy.2 1

2

“Nec me animi fallit Graiorum obscura reperta / difficile inlustrare Latinis uersibus esse, / multa nouis uerbis praesertim cum sit agendum / propter egestatem linguae et rerum nouitatem” (Lucretius, De rerum natura, I, 136–39, trans. W.H.D. Rouse [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959; reprint of the revised third edition from 1937], 12–13). Cf. Joseph Farrell, Latin Letters and Latin Culture from Ancient to Modern Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 50–51: “In his doxography Lucretius systematically debunks the idea that Greek is superior to Latin as a medium for poetry and philosophy on every score: its supposedly greater beauty and mellifluous qualities, its larger vocabulary, the ease with which it forms compounds, its capacity for subtle philosophical expression, all are revealed as traps that lead to obscurity, muddled thinking, silliness.”

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In his chapters on obscurity, Quintilian (born c. 35) opposed obscuritas to perspicuitas, clarity.3 According to him, there are many ways to create misunderstandings: excessively complicated4 or excessively concise5 speech can be equally obscure, as are rhetorical figures when they are used carelessly or excessively. He also cautioned rhetors against those who value obscurity as a positive concept, confusing foggy formulation with deepness of thought.6 Ambiguitas is a synonym for obscuritas 3

4

5

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Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 8, II, 1–11, 12–21, trans. H. E. Butler (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1921), 196–208. On perspicuitas in translation theory, see Frederick M. Rener, Language and Translation from Cicero to Tyler (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1989), 77–79. “A greater source of obscurity is, however, to be found in the construction and combination of words, and the ways in which this may occur are still more numerous. Therefore, a sentence should never be so long that it is impossible to follow its drift, nor should its conclusion be unduly postponed by transposition or an excessive use of hyperbaton. Still worse is the result when the order of the words is confused as in the line: In the midmost sea / Rocks are there by Italians altars called” (“Plus tamen est obscuritatis in contextu et continuatione sermonis, et plures modi. Quare nec sit tam longus ut eum prosequi non possit intentio, nec traiectione vel ultra modum hyperbato finis eius differatur. Quibus adhuc peior est mixtura uerborum, qualis in illo uersu: ‘saxa uocant Itali mediis quae in fluctibus aras’”; Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 8, II, 14, pp. 204–05). “Others are consumed with a passion for brevity and omit words which are actually necessary to the sense, regarding it as a matter of complete indifference whether their meaning is intelligible to others, so long as they know what they mean themselves. For my own part, I regard as useless words which make such a demand upon the ingenuity of the hearer” (“Alii breuitatem aemulati necessaria quoque orationi subtrahunt uerba, et, uelut satis sit scire ipsos quid dicere uelint, quantum ad alios pertineat nihili putant: at ego uitiosum sermonem dixerim quem auditor suo ingenio intellegit”; Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 8, II, 19, pp. 206–07). “Such expressions are regarded as ingenious, daring and eloquent, simply because of their ambiguity, and quite a number of persons have become infected by the belief that a passage which requires a commentator must for that very reason be a masterpiece of elegance. Nay, there is even a class of hearer who finds a special pleasure in such passages; for the fact that they can provide an answer to the riddle fills them with an ecstasy of self-congratulation, as if they had not merely heard the phrase, but invented it” (“Ingeniosa haec et fortia et ex ancipiti diserta creduntur, peruasitque iam multos ista persuasio, ut id [iam] demum eleganter atque exquisite dictum putent quod interpretandum sit. Sed auditoribus etiam nonnullis grata sunt haec, quae cum intellexerunt acumine suo delectantur, et gaudent non quasi audierint sed quasi inuenerint”; Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 8, II, 21, pp. 208–09).

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in his rhetorical terminology.7 While a rhetorician should avoid obscurity, a philosopher can choose to use it, if so he pleases. Late Antique philosophical commentaries often claimed to clarify the thoughts of intentionally obscure or ambiguous philosophers like the pre-Socratics or Aristotle. In this case, the degree of a text’s obscurity was considered a measure of the difficulty of its themes and arguments. Calling a philosopher obscure was not a critical judgment, but an observation about the level of complexity of the work. This obscurity could be caused by the complicated subject matter, the philosopher’s knotty argument, or the reader’s level of understanding. According to Cicero (106–43 BCE), philosophical obscurity has two acceptable sources: a philosopher may choose to write obscurely or his subject-matter may require it.8 7

8

“Above all, ambiguity must be avoided, and by ambiguity I mean not merely the kind of which I have already spoken, where the sense is uncertain, as in the clause Chremetem audivi percussisse Demean, but also that form of ambiguity which, although it does not actually result in obscuring the sense, falls into the same verbal error as if a man should say visum a se hominem librum scribentem (that he had seen a man writing a book). For although it is clear that the book was being written by the man, the sentence is badly put together and its author has made it as ambiguous as he could. Again, some writers introduce a whole host of useless words; for, in their eagerness to avoid ordinary methods of expression, and allured by false ideals of beauty they wrap up everything in a multitude of words simply and solely because they are unwilling to make a direct and simple statement of the facts: and then they link up and involve one of those long-winded clauses with others like it, and extend their periods to a lengths beyond the compass of mortal breath” (“Vitanda in primis ambiguitas, non haec solum, de cuius genere supra dictum est, quae incertum intellectum facit, ut ‘Chremetem audiui percussisse Demean,’ sed illa quoque, quae etiam si turbare non potest sensum in idem tamen uerborum uitium incidit, ut si quis dicat ‘uisum a se hominem librum scribentem’. Nam etiam si librum ab homine scribi patet, male tamen composuerit, feceritque ambiguum quantum in ipso fuit. Est etiam in quibusdam turba inanium uerborum, qui, dum communem loquendi morem reformidant, ducti specie nitoris circumeunt omnia copiosa loquacitate, eo quod dicere nolunt ipsa: deinde illam seriem cum alia simili iungentes miscentesque ultra quam ullus spiritus durare possit extendunt”; Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 8, II, 16–17, pp. 204–07). “Obscurity is excusable on two grounds: it may be deliberately adopted, as in the case of Heraclitus, ‘The surname of the Obscure who bore,/So dark his philosophic lore’; or the obscurity may be due to the abstruseness of the subject and not of the style – an instance of this is Plato’s Timaeus” (“Duobus modis sine reprehensione fit, si aut de industria facias ut Heraclitus – cognomento qui σκοτεινός perhibetur quia de natura nimis obscure memoravit – aut cum rerum

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Since the late Antique and medieval Greek-Latin translation canon consisted mostly of philosophical and theological works, this concept of philosophical obscurity was more prevalent than the rhetorical one. But translators still faced the question of what they should do with such obscure passages? Should they leave them obscure or attempt to simplify and clarify them? In philosophical education this was the duty of the commentator, but it was not clear whether translators were also commentators or whether they should leave interpretation to someone else. Rufinus of Aquileia (340/345–410), for example, chose to emend Origen’s (184/185–253/254) work as well as translate it. In his prologue, he affirmed that Origen’s On the Principles was in all respects difficult and obscure, and that its subject-matter gave philosophers countless troubles. 9 This statement was followed by a brief description of his methodology, in which he admitted that he rearranged Origen’s passages as he had found it suitable, in order to clarify obscure ones―he claims, however, that he did that using Origen's own words from elsewhere. 10

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obscuritas non verborum facit ut non intelligatur oratio, qualis est in Timaeo Platonis”; Cicero, De finibus II, V, 15, trans. H. Rackham [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1914], 94–95). He then goes on to mention a third type of obscurity, which has no explanation and is the fault of the writer. Cf. Jonathan Barnes, “Metacommentary,” in Oxford Studies of Ancient Philosophy 10 (1992): 267–81. See also Jaap Mansfeld, “Insight by hindsight: Intentional Unclarity in Presocratic Proems,” in Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies, 40 (1995): 225–32. For a detailed discussion of the understanding of ambiguum and dubitabilis in medieval philosophy see Dragoş Calma, “Du bon usage des grecs et des arabes. Réflexions sur la censure de 1277,” in Christian Readings of Aristotle from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance, ed. Luca Bianchi, Studia Artistarum 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 115–84. “et praecipue istos, quos nunc exigis ut interpreter, id est peri archon, quod uel de principiis uel de principatibus dici potest, qui sunt re uera alias et obscurissimi et difficillimi. De rebus enim ibi talibus disputat, in quibus philosophi omni sua aetate consumpta inuenire potuerunt nihil”; Tyrannii Rufini Opera, ed. M. Simonetti, CCSL 20 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1961), 246. Cf. Marguerite Harl, “Origène et les interprétations patristiques grecques de l’‘obscurité’ biblique,” Vigiliae Christianae 36, 4 (1982): 334–71. “If, however, speaking as he does to men of knowledge and discernment, he has occasionally expressed himself obscurely in the effort to be brief, I have, to make the passage clearer, added such remarks on the same subject as I have read in a fuller form in his other books, bearing in mind the need for explanation. But I have said nothing of my own, simply giving back to him his own statements found in other places” (Origen, On First Principles, trans. G. W. Butterworth [New

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Rufinus’s method of dealing with the author’s obscurity is thus an interventionist one: Origen had supposed that his readers would be knowledgable, but Rufinus did not and thus tried to make explicit whatever was implicit in the original. Brevity here is a synonym for obscurity and it was to be avoided because the danger of obscurity in a theological text is that it can lead to heretical interpretation. Rufinus also argued that if knowledgable readers or scribes don’t emend the text, then more obscurities will get generated for the readers. 11 In their debate on translating Origen, Jerome (347–420) and Rufinus thus held opposite views about the role of the translator: Jerome contested Rufinus’s tactic of combining the two functions of translator and commentator. The second most obscure Greek theologian after Origen is arguably Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. He was successfully translated into Latin in the ninth century by John Scottus Eriugena. Eriugena chose a different path from Rufinus. In the preface to his translation of PseudoDionysius, he warned his eventual readers of the danger of finding his version obscure, because he, as a faithful interpreter, had to leave the text impenetrable.12 But he intended this more as a clarification than an apology. In his view, the obscurity was already there in the original, and one way to try to understand it was to use the work of a commentator like Maximus Confessor. 13 Eriugena didn’t consider it his duty to make

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York: Harper and Row, 1966], lxiii); “Si qua sane uelut peritis iam et scientibus loquens, dum breuiter transire uult, obscurius protulit, nos, ut manifestior fieret locus, ea quae de ipsa re in aliis eius libris apertius legeramus adiecimus explanationi studentes. Nihil tamen nostrum diximus, sed licet in aliis locis dicta, sua tamen sibi reddidimus” (Tyrannii Rufini Opera, 246). “(everyone who shall either transcribe or read these books) shall emend it and make it distinct to the very letter, and shall not allow a manuscript to remain incorrect or indistinct, lest the difficulty of ascertaining the meaning, if the manuscript is not distinct, should increase the obscurities of the work for those that read it” (Origen, On First Principles, lxiv); “et inemendatum uel non distinctum codicem non habeat, ne sensuum difficultas, si distinctus codex non sit, maiores obscuritates legentibus generet” (Tyrannii Rufini Opera, 246). “si obscuram minusque apertam praedictae interpretationis seriem iudicaverit, videat me interpretem huius operis esse, non expositorem”; E. Dümmler, Ernst Perels and others, eds. MGH Epistolae 6 Karolini Aevi 4 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1902– 1925), 159. “Fortassis autem qualicunque apologia defensus, non tam densas subierim caligines, nisi viderem, praefatum beatissimum Maximum saepissime in processu sui operis obscurissimas sanctissimi theologi Dionysii Areopagitae sententias, cuius symbolicos theologicosque sensus nuper Vobis similiter jubentibus transtuli, introduxisse, mirabilique modo dilucidasse, in tantum, ut nullo modo dubitarem,

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the text maius apertam (clearer) than it is, but delegated this task instead to the expositor, the commentator on the work. In the case of Rufinus, these were overlapping functions, the translator having full powers over the author. But what seemed to be a possibility in Rufinus’s late Antiquity was not even considered in the Middle Ages. Respect for the authority of the theologian and fear of responsibility for the heretical accusations that might eventually result from combining interpretation and translation reduced the translator’s freedom. Obscurity was thus valued and respected in theological discourse. But what about other literary genres? The Neapolitan translation school that flourished in the ninth and tenth centuries and specialized in hagiographic texts despised obscurity deeply, seeing in it a vice of translation. Admittedly, the sources of this view are also more problematic: condemnation of the previous version was often part of the justification for a new translation and thus cannot always be taken at face value. However, it is not by chance that these criticisms occurred mostly in the context of translating hagiography, that is to say, a type of narrative, and not technical writing. One of the translators, Bonitus, complains both about the absurdity and the obscurity of the earlier version of the Gesta Theodori.14 His colleague, Guarimpotus, in his prologue to the Passio Blasii (BHL 1380– 1379), claimed that the other translation had lost the meaning and the clarity of the original, truth had been replaced by falsity, clearness by obscurity, and wise words had been turned into stupidity.15 He considered it the duty of the translator to groom the text by reordering, cutting out the superficial parts, adding what was missing and clarifying what was unclear. 16 The genre and the use of the texts required a certain

14 15 16

divinam clementiam, quae illuminat abscondita tenebrarum, sua ineffabili providentia hoc disposuisse, ut ea quidem, quae nobis maxime obstrusa in praedictis beati Dionysii libris, aut vix pervia, sensusque nostros fugere videbantur, aperiret, sapientissimo praefato Maximo lucidissime explanante”; Maximi Confessoris, Ambigua ad Iohannem, iuxta Iohannis Scotti Eriugenae latinam interpretationem, ed. E. Jeanuneau, Corpus Christianorum Series Graeca 18, 3 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1988), p. 3, l. 15–25. “Tanta eas absurditate faminum, tantaque obscuritate sensuum replevere”; Bonitus, “Vita Theodori,” in AASS, February, vol. 2, 30–31. “de virissimis falsa, de liquidissimis obscura ac de praeclaris reddire turpia”; Guarimpoto, Passio Blasii, in Paul Devos, “L’oeuvre de Guarimpotus hagiographe napolitain,” Analecta Bollandiana 76 (1958): 157. “inordinata componimus, superflua resecamus, quod deest adhibemus, quodque obscurum est ad liquidum ducere curamus”; Guarimpoto, Passio Blasii, 158.

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level of stylistic attractiveness to facilitate oral understanding. As Guarimpotus also argued, it is important that a text that is intended to be read and listened to in the liturgy should avoid being ridiculed by the audience.17 For these translators of hagiographic texts, there was no obscurity in the source-text. It was caused, rather, by the translator’s miscomprehension, his inadequate skills, or his chosen methodology. Word-to-word translation techniques, which became the standard way to render treatises written in a technical language, be it philosophical, theological, legal or medical, seem inevitably to have produced obscurity. The medieval Corpus Aristotelicum, which was built up during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries with this method, so enraged Roger Bacon that he could suggest only one remedy (which, luckily, he could not carry out): to burn all the manuscripts. 18 This type of criticism escalated with the arrival of Humanism. Let me illustrate it with two incidents: first, a passage from Ambrogio Traversari (1386–1439), an Italian humanist, who, in his preface to his translation of John Climacus’s Scala Paradisi (dedicated to Matteo Guidone, c. 1419) speaks in the following terms about the previous translator of the work:

17 18

Meanwhile they will not in the least deny that his translation is extremely obscure. What therefore is my crime if what was translated obscurely I have tried to render more clear or rather more Latin? Moreover, is it necessary to say how erudite that translator was? They may contend that he revealed himself to be very learned in both languages. I, dissenting completely from them, will affirm truthfully that in neither was he fully adequate. For it will be easily established by anyone who has even a mediocre knowledge of the language that he did not understand correctly most of the Greek. And whoever affirms that he could have been erudite in Latin signifies with little doubt his own ignorance. If they will assert he was a holy man, easily and willingly I will agree. Because he was a saint, however, it does not follow that he was erudite and capable of translating. For holiness is one thing, erudition another. Indeed if he was a saint, he ought not to have attempted what he could not execute

“absurdissima extitit Passio, ut non solum non intellegeretur, verum etiam ridiculum legentibus et audientibus eius incompta denotaret obscuritas”; Guarimpoto, Passio Blasii, 158. “Certus igitur sum quod melius esset latinis quod sapientia Aristotelis non esset translata, quam tali obscuritate et perversitate tradita . . . et sic omnes qui aliquid sciunt negligunt perversam translationem Aristotelis, et querunt remedia sicut possunt . . . si enim haberem potestatem super libros Aristotelis ego facerem omnes cremari, quia non est nisi temporis amissio studere in illis, et causa erroris, et multiplicatio ignorantiae ultra id quod valeat explicari”; Roger Bacon, “Compendium studii philosophiae,” in Fratris Rogeri Baconi opera quaedam hactenus inedita, ed. J.S. Brewer (London: Longmans, 1859), 469.

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properly, nor to have approached this task which exceeded his power. For one causes injury to a learned man by rendering his utterance in an ignorant and rustic way.” 19

The medieval translator referred to was Angelo Clareno (1247–1337), a Franciscan friar from Cingoli. During the two long periods he had spent in Greece―in the Corinthian bay (1295–1297) and in eastern Thessaly (1298/9–1304/5)―he translated a substantial amount of Greek spiritual literature, including the Scala Paradisi of John Climachus, a number of writings of Basil the Great (including the Rule, letters, and prologues to several of his ascetic pieces), and a letter of Saint John Chrysostom to Ciriacus. According to his hagiographer, he had acquired the language through the Holy Spirit, while spending Christmas in a Greek monastery. Another indignant voice was that of Leonardo Bruni (c. 1370–1444). Encountering the earlier version of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics sent him into fits of rage and contempt. In 1417 he attempted to replace this earlier, medieval version with a fresh one by himself.20 In the preface to his translation, he called the medieval version of the Aristotelian text more barbarian than Latin, immature, ignorant, absurd and awkward, and the translator half-Latin and half-Greek, incompetent in both 19

20

“Praeterea traductionem illam esse obscurissimam ne ipsi quidem negabunt. Quod ergo crimen meum est, si quod ille obscurius transtulit, apertius ipse, et aliquanto etiam latinius convertere conatus sum? Porro quam fuerit ille Interpres eruditus quid adtinet dicere? Contendant isti peritissimum illum in utraque lingua exstitisse: ego ab illis longe dissentiens, in neutra illum satis plenum fuisse veraciter adseverabo. Nam graeco pleraque non recte intellexisse cuilibet eius linguae vel mediocriter perito facile constabit: et latine erudite posuisse, qui adfirmat sese imperitissimum esse haud obscure significat. Sanctissimum illum fuisse virum si adseverant; facile, ac perlubenter consentiam: non tamen, quia sanctus fuerit, eruditum etiam fuisse sequitur, atque idoneum ad transferendum. Aliud enim sanctitas est, atque aliud eruditio. Imo vero si sanctus fuit; ne id quidem tentare debuit, quod commode implere non posset, neque id onus subire, quod virium suarum excederet modum. Facit enim iniuriam doctissimo viro, qui illum imperite, ac rustice loquentem reddit;” Ambrosii Traversarii Generalis Camaldulensium latinae epistolae, ed. Laurentius Mehus, 2 vols, (Florentiae: ex Typographio Caesareo, 1759; reprint Bologna: Forni, 1968), vol. 2, col. 962 (book 23, letter 7); trans. Charles L. Stinger, Humanism and the Church Fathers. Ambrogio Traversari [1386–1439] and Christian Antiquity in the Italian Renaissance (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1977), 111. Cf. Hanna-Barbara Gerl, Philosophie und Philologie. Leonardo Brunis Übertragung der Nikomachischen Ethik in Ihren Philosophischen Prämisen (München: Wilhelm Fink, 1981). For related writings of Bruni, cf. Paolo Viti, ed., Leonardo Bruni, Sulla perfetta traduzione (Napoli: Liguori, 2004).

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languages, an author of a work that is altogether unworthy of Aristotle and of the Latin language, perverted, full of twisted words, obscure concepts and a shaky doctrine. 21 The identity of the medieval translator(s) was unknown to Bruni at the time but he used a version that had been translated in the mid-thirteenth century by Robert Grosseteste, bishop of Lincoln, and revised by William of Moerbeke, the famous medieval translator of the entire Corpus Aristotelicum. Moerbeke, Grosseteste and Angelo Clareno had no chance to defend themselves from these accusations of obscurity. Their cause was taken up, however, by Alonso of Carthagena (1384–1456), a converted Jew from Spain, bishop of Burgos, famous church politician, canon lawyer, and learned humanist, who wrote a little treatise against Bruni’s accusations. 22 From Alonso’s defense, it is clear that humanist and medieval translation theories operated in two entirely different conceptual worlds, and thus must be judged according to their own criteria, rather than each other’s and our own. These medieval translators practiced the most widespread method among the medieval guild of translators, that is to say, the so called verbum e verbo method. We would now call it literal translation in English, that is, a word-for-word faithful following of the original. This translation practice conceives of the sentence as a chain, where only two elements have semantic value: the chain itself and the links, or words, of which it is composed, which are defined by their meaning and their position in the chain, and not, for example, by their relation to other links in the chain. 21

22

“O ferreum hominem! Hoccine est interpretari? . . . Ego igitur infinitis paene huiusmodi erroribus permotus, cum haec indigna Aristotele, indignaque nobis ac lingua nostra arbitrarer, cum suauitatem horum librorum, quae Graeco sermone maxima est, in asperitatem conversam, nomina intorta, res obscuratas, doctrinam labefactatam viderem, laborem suscepi novae traductionis, in qua, ut cetera omittam, id assecutum me puto, ut hos libros nunc primum Latinos fecerim, cum antea non essent”; A. Birkenmajer, “Der Streit des Alonso von Cartagena mit Leonardo Bruni Aretino,” in Vermischte Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der mittelalterlichen Philosophie, ed. Clemens Baeumker (Münster: Verlag der Aschendorffschen Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1922), 159. See González Rolán, A. Moreno Hernández, P. Saquiero Suárez-Somonte, Humanismo y Teoría de la Traducción en España e Italia en la primera mitad del siglo XV. Edición y Estudio de la Controversia Alphonsiana: Alonso de Cartagena vs. L. Bruni y P. Candido Decembrio, (Madrid: Ediciones clásicas, 2000) and María Morrás, “El debate entre Leonardo Bruni y Alonso de Cartagena: las razones de una polémica,” Quaderns. Revista de traducció 7 (2002): 33–57.

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Why did medieval translators have such a notorious predilection for literal translation? How, if at all, can such a practice be explained? This question has troubled specialists of medieval translation theory and practice for a long time,23 and although it has not been completely answered, major misconceptions have already been removed: the lack of a good knowledge of Greek or Latin, for example, is no longer considered a sufficient explanation for the phenomenon. The literal method was not chosen because of one’s limited capacities (even if, from certain viewpoints, these capacities, or rather the tools for developing them, were quite limited). Translators were often good rhetoricians when it came to their own prose and the commentaries they often provided on the texts they translated show that they grasped the texts’ meanings perfectly even if they did have problems with Greek and thus rendered it somewhat awkwardly. Word-for-word translation was not therefore a primitive form of interpretation, not the result of a handicap, but a choice. Translators were conscious of the impossibility of creating a perfect translation. A translation was not expected to be explicit, or clear, or, horribile dictu, beautiful. Texts were to be concise and terminologically coherent, and should not attempt to interpret themselves, so to speak. For this, there were commentaries. A text had to be deciphered, and if you manage, promises Alonso, what seemed so repulsive at the beginning, will actually become beautiful and not a syllable will be in the wrong place.24 In the effort of reading, one had to distinguish between text and commentary. 25 This too is a very medieval concept, rooted in late antique educational practice. Hellenistic philosophical and literary exegesis, at least the way it was practiced in schools, was based on literal exposition followed by a paraphrase type of commentary. Thus literal translation is the interlingual application of an originally intra-lingual textual transformation, which in turn was a school-technique of textual exegesis. Jerome 23 24

25

Cf. Paolo Chiesa, “Ad verbum or ad sensum? Modelli e coscienza metodologica della traduzione tra tarda antichitt e alto medioevo,” Medioevo e Rinascimento 1 (1987): 1–51. “sed cum studiosi ingenio vel glossarum auxilio quod conceperit pandere cogitur, sic eius dulce fulget eloquium, ut eius maiestatem mirari cogamur et nedum verbum aliquod, sed nec syllabam deficere arbitremur, quae obmissa videbantur, ex industria sic conscripta cernentes”; Birkenmajer, Der Streit, 167. “textuum ac glossarum non debet similis esse locutio”; Birkenmajer, Der Streit, 167.

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himself says that it is the commentator’s role to make plain what the author expressed obscurely.26 Medieval translations are strongly dependent on this concept of reading. Texts were expected to be obscure and had to be unlocked; they did not unlock themselves. And this in turn brings us to the issue of meaning. Texts did not explain themselves because their explanation did not lie within, but beyond the shell of letters, words, and language in general. Bruni repeatedly defines translation as a rendering from one language to another. 27 Alonso, on the other hand, explicitly says that he does not know Greek and does not even care about it. For one has to understand not what Aristotle wrote down in Greek, but what he thought, what he must have meant.28 For this, one does not need to use Greek texts, but simply sound reasoning, as Greek texts might be faulty themselves, not presenting very clearly what Aristotle should have had in his mind. Also, chances are that Aristotle might have meant something more reasonable than what he actually said.29 According to this reasoning, if someone finds in a Greek text that 2 plus 2 equals 5, one should translate 2 plus 2 equals 4, as there are obvious extralingual elements which support the verity of the second version, and refute the logic of the first. In philosophy, this ultimate external reference point is reason. Different idioms follow and express the same reason; that is why, Alonso argues, there is no need for him to know Greek in order to critically assess the translation. In theology, this reason is God, or his revelation. The external pressure of orthodoxy upon translators played a huge role in shaping translation techniques. Texts were supposed to be faithful not to the literary category of what could be today called the author’s intention, but rather to the religious system of 26

27 28 29

“Commentarii quid operis habent? Alterius dicta edisserunt, quae obscurae scripta sunt, plano sermone manifestant”; Hieronymus, Apologia Adversus Libros Rufini, I, 16 in P. Lardet, ed., Apologie Contre Rufin, SC 303 (Paris: du Cerf, 1983), 44. “Interpretatio autem recta, si graeco respondet, vitiosa, se non respondet. Itaque omnis interpretatio contentio unius linguae ad alteram est”; Birkenmajer, Der Streit, 189. “Non ergo an in Graeco sic scriptum est, sed an sic scribi potuit, ut translator noster edixit illis in locis, ubi dire reprehensus est, inquiramus”; Birkenmajer, Der Streit, 166. “Cum igitur Aristoteles ipse non rationem ab auctoritate, sed auctoritatem a ratione consecutus est, quicquid rationi consonant, haec Aristoteles dixisse putandus est et Graece arbitremur scriptum fuisse, quicquid Latinis verbis translatio nostra sapienter depromit”; Birkenmajer, Der Streit, 166.

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which they were part. Beyond the verbum and sensum, there was a category called veritas that is perhaps much closer than sensum to what we would term “meaning” today. Nevertheless, the task of the translator was not to grasp and to express this truth, but only to present a version of the text that would allow the reader to reach its veritas by himself. A translator was supposed only to make this veritas accessible, rather than express it, since translation was not supposed to interpret in the sense of deciding on a meaning. On the level of terminology, perhaps this can be caught in the distinction between interpretare and intellegere, the first being the task of the translator, the second the task of the audience, that is to say, the reader or commentator. It is along these lines that Boethius distinguishes between his translation and his commentary on the Isagoge of Porphyrus: he was after uncorrupted truth, not beauty of the style, when he translated the work. While he claims he is guilty of translating faithfully, he seems to think this is unavoidable, and should be remedied later via commentaries. 30 That is one of the reasons why the contamination of Latin with Greek and other foreign expressions does not seem as scandalous to medieval scholars as it does to Bruni, who was obviously brought up on Quintilian’s notion of various lexical obscurities to be avoided. Every thought, every concept was thought to have a perfect expression, or rather, a most concise and more precise expression, which needed to be found regardless of the language. A concise foreign word was considered superior to a loose circumscription in Latin, said Alonso. 31 According to Alonso words are like hostages taken in wartime from the enemy.32 And in the war of scientific discussion, one needed to be rigorous and accurate, and not to complicate what is simple. He argued 30

31

32

“Secundus hic arreptae expositionis labor nostrae seriem translationis expediet, in qua quidem uereor ne subierim fidi interpretis culpam, cum uerbum uerbo espressum comparatumque reddiderim. Cuius incepti ratio est quod in his scriptis in quibus rerum cognitio quaeritur, non luculentae orationis lepos sed incorrupta ueritas exprimenda est”; Anicii Manlii Severini Boethii in Isagogen Porphyrii commenta, ed. S. Brandt, CSEL 48 (Vienna: Tempsky and Leipzig: Freytag, 1906), XVIII. “Nonne melius fuit illa, ut iacebant, dimittere, ut sub nostris refulis declinata inter Latina haberemus, significatione earum per descriptiones et sequentia plene percepta – quam circumlocutionibus totam scripturae seriem perturbare?”; Birkenmajer, Der Streit, 169. “quasi ab hostibus capta alienas voces et nomina”; Birkenmajer, Der Streit, 168.

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that one needs to examine the semantic field of the Latin words, rather than looking for superficial equivalence with Greek, as the Latin term should refer back to the essence of the philosophical discourse, rather than to the way it was expressed in Greek. 33 There was, therefore, a crucial difference in the attitude of medieval and humanist translators towards obscurity. For the former, it was a philosophical, theological concept, an admirable quality of dense and concise texts, which could also act as a filter and defend the text from inept readers. Unlocking obscure passages was the role of the commentator rather than the translator. As the Neapolitan hagiographic translations testify, however, not all obscurity was tolerated: narrative texts, especially those used in liturgy, were to be polished in order to facilitate their immediate grasp by the audience. Humanists, on the other hand, operated with the rhetorical concept of obscuritas. Criticism based on such a concept would, however, have been meaningless to medieval translators of philosophical works: they would never have dreamed of trying to find and restore elegantia to the Aristotelian corpus 34―neither would we, for that matter. For humanists, obscurity was a rhetorical vice to be avoided, in contrast with clarity and elegance. Theirs was a purist approach that resented the usage of Greek neologisms or of any technical vocabulary in fact. During the late Renaissance, this conflict over translation methodologies became part of 33

34

“Quisquis tamen ille fuerit, obscuritate arguendus non est, cum in omnibus fere scientiis textuum conditores brevitati studuerunt. Nam sicut alia principem, alia oratorem decet oratio et aliter iudicem, aliter advocatum congruit loqui, sic textuum ac glossarum non debet similis esse locutio: nam breviter textus nos docet, glossule vero quid textus senserit aperire solent; quod tam in liberalibus artibus, quam in naturalibus scientiis ac iurium doctrinis saepe repertum est, ut, his saepe solis verbis plerumque contenti sint, quibus conceptus sensus includi vix valuit, adeo quod plerique rudimenta artium amore brevitatis adinuenta duxuerunt. Non ergo translationis incusandus est, qui recte intellectus breuibus uniuersa conclusit. Procul dubio enim in primis armis quodammodo translatio haec defendere se uidetur et uiolentiam legentis uiriliter propulsare; sed cum studiosi ingenio uel glossarum auxilio quod conceperit pandere cogitur, sic eius dulce fulget eloquium, ut eius maiestatem mirari cogamur et nedum uerbum aliquod, sed nec syllabam deficere arbitremur, quae obmissa uidebantur, ex industria sic conscripta cernentes”; Birkenmajer, Der Streit, 167. The Humanists adhered to Cicero’s statement about Aristotle’s “pouring forth a golden stream of eloquence” (“flumen orationis aureum fundens Aristoteles”; Cicero, Academicorum Priorum Liber II, 38, in Cicero, De natura deorum. Academica, trans. H. Rackham [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1933], 620– 21).

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a larger debate between scholastics and humanists, philosophy and rhetoric.35 As a result, obscurity lost the positive connotations of its semantic field. Medieval translation theory and practice, however, remind us that obscurity is inherent in human discourse: inherent in language, inherent in philosophy, inherent in theology, inherent in translation. It is a manifold and powerful presence that requires a manifold methodology that is genre and audience dependent.

35

Cf. Erika Rummel, Humanist-Scholastic Debate in the Renaissance and Reformation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 11: “The battle lines were drawn and the stereotypes established: all scholastic theologians were obscurantists who had never read classical authors, wrote atrocious Latin, and were interested only in esoteric quibbles, while all humanists were grammarians and wordspinners, interested in form rather than substance, pseudo-Christians whose brains had been addled by reading pagan literature.”

The Darkness Within: First-person Speakers and the Unrepresentable* Päivi M. Mehtonen

If there is union of all the faculties, the soul cannot communicate the fact, even if it so desires (when actually experiencing it, I mean): if it can communicate it, then it is not a union. 1 He lies not who speaks of unity with images, dreams and faces―he who stutters of unity. 2

Many genres that favor first-person narration are described, somewhat routinely, as presenting a first-person speaker even if that same agent may also be the (only) receiver of the utterance. To this group belong solitary speeches or intrapersonal communication such as the private diary, talking to oneself or sub-vocalizing, (internal) praying or repeating what one hears―as well as literature that simulates or parodies these situations and speeches, that is, adopts aspects of “solitary” discourse in texts addressed to an audience. Since God and other spiritual beings have been unfashionable addressees in secular modern communication models, the rough scheme the speaker “I”―the message―the receiver “I” (or an “I–I” model) has been suggested as a way of describing such private discourses that do not add to the information we already have but serve other functions. 3 This paradoxical scheme seems particularly interesting with respect to medieval, early modern and modern texts where the first-person speakers often emphasize the obscurity of the material that they―and they alone―have experienced, or their limited skills or understanding in approaching it. * 1 2 3

This article is part of my larger study A Quest for Abstract Literature: Medievalism and Mysticism, funded by the Academy of Finland (project 125257). The Life of the Holy Mother Teresa of Jesus, in The Complete Works, vol. 1, trans. and ed. Allison Peers (London: Burns & Oates, 2002), 105. Martin Buber, Ekstatische Konfessionen, changed new edition (orig. 1909; Leipzig: Insel-Verlag, 1921), 21. E.g., Yuri M. Lotman, “Autocommunication: ‘I’ and ‘Other’ as Addressees,” in Universe of the Mind: A Semiotic Theory of Culture, trans. Ann Shukman (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1990), 20–35, esp. 22.

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Such genres―to be discussed in more detail in the second part of the article―do not fit well into the influential schema underlying Cicero’s discussion on speaking well and obscuritas in De inventione (c. 84 BCE), a small treatise on rhetorical invention later embellished by medieval commentators. Cicero takes up an (already then) old topic as he explores the different kinds of court cases. The obscure case, genus obscurum, is one “in which either the auditors are slow of wit, or the case involves matters which are rather difficult to grasp.” 4 The communication model implied by this observation is strikingly minimalist as it mentions only the message itself (or the difficulty of “things”) and the receiver―not the speaker―as possible sources of obscurity. This ideal of a good speaker served the aims of public speech and Roman education, but did not work quite as well in the later Christian culture of humilitas and its literary forms. In the medieval commentaries on De inventione, the shortcomings in the communication model were augmented and the classical myth of the perfect speaker discredited. Commentators from Victorinus and Grillius in the fourth and fifth centuries to Thierry of Chartres in the twelfth century added a third component of obscurity: imbecillitas loquentis, that is, speakers who do not understand what they are saying.5 Such speakers may curtail a presentation excessively, fall into inchoate verbosity or offer extremely convoluted arguments. Although obscurity is treated as a vice in these discussions, many authoritative writers participated in cultivating it as a virtue. This is not just the legacy of the early Christian confessional practices―Saint Augustine famously excavating the “dark areas” of memory images in the mind (e.g., Confessiones, Book 10);6 such themes and forms of literature also 4 5

6

Cicero, De inventione. De optimo genere oratorum. Topica, trans. H. M. Hubbell (1947; London: Heinemann and Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993), 1.15.20. Thierry of Chartres, Comm. S. De inv. 1.15.20, in The Latin Rhetorical Commentaries, ed. K. M. Fredborg (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1988), 110. See Päivi M. Mehtonen, Obscure Language, Unclear Literature (Helsinki: The Finnish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 2003), 77–79, for a discussion of the other mentioned sources. On the vaguer concepts of “self” and “identity,” see, for instance, Roy Porter, ed., Rewriting the Self: Histories from the Renaissance (London: Routledge, 1997). It has been suggested that the early Middle Ages “introduced the inwardness of radical reflexivity” (Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989], 131); and that the medieval confessional practices supported strong “techniques of the self” as individual sinners were required to employ various means of publicizing their inner

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leaned on classical topoi in presenting the speaking consciousness and body.7 Moreover, the notion of a “sender I – receiver I” communication is an interesting case within the obscuritas tradition. Consider: a vague prayer, not understood by the one who prays? An obscure diary, not grasped by the diarist him or herself? Indeed, this is in a nutshell a feature not uncommon in mystical literature and the modern novel was influenced by it (from Robert Musil to Samuel Beckett). While genuinely solitary and personal voices remain private and unshared in real life, I will suggest that much first-person literature that balances between narrative and non-narrative forms (e.g., meditative essays, “descriptions” of an inner state, and fiction that adopts such forms) in fact emulates such “I–I” communication. The links between first-person speech and difficult or obscure language also exist in modern theory (without references to medieval or early modern material). Yuri Lotman’s discussion of “autocommunication” or “I–I” system is an extension and critique of an old-school communication model that assumed, according to Lotman, that before the act of communication there exists information or a message known to “me” (the sender) and not to “you” (the receiver). However, in autocommunication the subject is transmitting a message to itself. Such communication is at work, for instance, in diary jottings (“which are made not in order to remember certain things but to elucidate the writer’s inner state”), a prayer, 8 or a second reading of a familiar text. In all these cases, the message is reformulated and acquires new meanings in the process. Particularly interesting here is Lotman’s observation that such autocommunication often tends to be condensed and difficult, even cryptographic, as it does not have to be explained in detail but may still foster a sense of individual existence and self-discovery.9 Likewise, some

7 8

9

thoughts and desires (Foucault, discussed in Kim Atkins, ed., Self and Subjectivity [Oxford: Blackwell, 2005], 208). Such views are stimulating but also so general that they do not lend themselves to the exploration of the ultimate difficulty and construction of the textual I, in its individual occasions and their diverse practices. See, for example, Judith Perkins, The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian Era (London: Routledge, 1995). Although a prayer “may be thought of as a message to an external powerful force rather than a message to oneself,” it is discussed by Lotman as an “I–I” communication. It does not require vocalization to be communicated and it does not add to the information we already have; its functions serve other ends (Lotman, “Autocommunication,” 30). Lotman, “Autocommunication,” 20–21, 32.

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linguists have suggested that related phenomena such as intrapersonal communication or inner speech are often radically elliptic; inner speech “does not possess any separate, idiosyncratic, logical and grammatical structure.”10 These features lend themselves readily to stylization in what could be called pseudo-autocommunication, which emulates the unstructured and unclear features of “private” discourse even when it is addressed to an audience. In the Middle Ages to such difficult and obscure material, in both Cicero’s and Lotman’s sense, belonged the attempts to speak of spiritual inner states that were known to the speaker alone but were under strong cultural and communal pressure to be made public for the benefit of a religious or other cause (to meet, for instance, the demand for hagiographic heroes or role models). Much early mystical literature was close to obscure oral speech and “I–I” communication whereas in the later Middle Ages and early modern period the forms of first-person narration had gone through a process of letterarizzazione, becoming established topoi and devices of a particular poetics.11 While focusing strictly on first-person narration―and leaving aside such vaguer concepts as “self” or “subject”―this essay takes liberty in detecting evolving forms and manifestations of obscure presentation in both medieval and modern material, the latter directly influenced by the former. The first part of this chapter illustrates cases of the “framed I,” where the first-person voice is typically presented speaking in direct discourse embedded in a narrative frame. The second part then discusses more 10

11

Roman Jakobson, “The Sound Shape of Language,” in Selected Writings VIII (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1987), 82. See H. Porter Abbott’s definition of (Samuel Beckett’s) autography or autographical reading as responding to “writing not as a mode of recovery or reconstruction or even fictionalizing of the past but as a mode of action taken in the moment of writing” (Beckett Writing Beckett: The Author in the Autograph [Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1996], x). Such prose invites the reader to think of autobiography, yet repeatedly sabotages both the narrative character and historical authority of autobiography (2, 11). This is vast claim that cannot be documented in the limited space available here. For related work with different materials, see Päivi M. Mehtonen, “The Apophatic First-Person Speaker in Eckhart’s Sermons,” in Modes of Authorship in the Middle Ages, ed. Slavica Ranković et al. (Toronto: The Pontifical Institute for Mediaeval Studies Press, 2012), 79–96; and eadem, “Speak Fiction: Rhetorical Fabrication of Narrative in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia regum Britannie,” in Medieval Narratives Between History and Fiction: From the Centre to the Periphery of Europe, c. 1100–1400, ed. Panagiotis A. Agapitos and Lars Boje Mortensen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2012), 81–101.

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complex examples of the “unframed I,” where the first-person narration―stressing the difficulty of its construction―dominates the text. The seemingly small word ego-ich-I thus evokes a bundle of issues regarding the content, form and the speaker in a text, from the allegedly difficult materia to the self-proclaimed imbecillitas loquentis. How does the (represented) mind think of and express itself and its inner states? What is “I” and how did it become such?

The Framed “I”: Interior and Exterior Action

In early and high medieval long narrative literature―from romance to mystical texts―the first-person speech is often framed as direct discourse embedded in a third-person (or combined third and first-person) context. There is a significant division of work in romance structure: in the embedded direct discourse the first-person narration works as a medium for handling vaguer materials of inner action, fantasy and vision than are allowed in the frame narrative. However, even in the frame narrative the “I” can be an elusive category. In the historical romance, a shift of narrator may serve as a stylistic effect when the writer is processing and interpolating pre-existing material. For instance, in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain (Historia regum Britanniae, c. 1135–1138), the main teller is referred to with “I,” “Geoffrey of Monmouth,” and “he.” The seemingly simple and pseudo-chronological plot offers various cases of first-person narration, sometimes interrupted with epic interventions in the third person. … as I said … Geoffrey of Monmouth will not be silent even about this [the adulterous relation of Mordred, king Arthur’s nephew, with Queen Ganhumara], most noble earl, but, just as he found it written in the British book and heard from Walter of Oxford, a man very familiar with many histories, he will tell, in his poor style, but briefly, of the battles the famous king fought against his nephew, when he returned to Britain after his victory. 12

12

“. . . dixi . . . Ne hoc quidem, consul auguste, Galfridus Monemutensis tacebit, sed ut in praefato Britannico sermone inuenit et a Waltero Oxenefordensi, in multis historiis peritissimo uiro, audiuit, uili licet stilo, breuiter tamen propalabit, quae proelia inclitus ille rex post uictoriam istam in Britanniam reuersus cum nepote suo commiserit” (Geoffrey of Monmouth, The History of the Kings of Britain [De gestis Britonum (Historia Regum Britanniae)], ed. Michael D. Reeve, trans. Neil Wright [Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2007], 246–49; emphasis added).

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On the one hand, shifts from the first to the third person may serve stylistic purposes as when the narrator concedes his own poor or clear style. On the other, they may follow from the fact that the writer is reworking pre-existing material; he may simply substitute his own ego for that of his source, or he “inherits” the first-person narration with the older materia he is using.13 In addition to such shifts at the main level of narration, Geoffrey’s Historia also contains embedded speeches and letters where the characters speak in the first person. Thus the narrator’s task is to manage two modes of materia, the (pseudo)historical chronology of the British kings and the embedded direct speech acts of the characters. For my gradually evolving argument it is important to observe that it is this level of embedded speech acts that contains the most fabulous tales, future tenses, obscure prophecies and hypothetical events. In other words, verbatim speeches, letters or dialogues introduce present-tense discourse into a past-tense frame narrative. Thus the narrator of Geoffrey’s Historia is only partly reliable when he (repeatedly) mentions that he is using unsophisticated, brief and clear narration, claiming to omit material that some of his predecessors have treated “with sufficient prolixity.”14 In the Historia, this prolixity and ambiguity is the privilege of the characters’ direct discourse. The characters that speak and write directly are freer to produce the kinds of verbal prolixity, lofty style, lies and irrealis narratio that are unrepresentable in the main narrative of Geoffrey’s history.15 Nowhere is this as obvious as in Merlin’s obscure prophecies and the “ambiguity of his words” (ambiguitas uerborum), which form the longest reported verbatim speech in the work and depict destruction, bloodshed, new worlds, speaking forests and stones and dragons carrying the naked giant. 13 14 15

Cf. Leo Spitzer, “Note on the Poetic and the Empirical ‘I’ in Medieval Authors,” Traditio 4 (1946): 414–22; and Mehtonen, “The Apophatic First-Person Speaker,” 79–96. “satis prolixe” (The History of the Kings of Britain, 15, 47, 129–30). Irrealis narratio consists of verbalizations of experience that is unrealized “either because it is predicated as taking place in the future or because it is in some sense hypothetical.” Dreams and visions also belong to the realm of irrealis (unreal) narration (Suzanne Fleischman, Tense and Narrativity: From Medieval Performance to Modern Fiction [Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990], 104–05, 112). In Geoffrey’s History, hypothetical sequences of events also occur in speeches reported indirectly by the narrator, but hardly ever otherwise in the first-level narration. See Mehtonen “Speak Fiction.”

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In the Middle Ages there were, of course, authoritative models for such narration in the prophets of the Old Testament or the Book of Revelation of the New Testament. These were often referred to in medieval commentaries as prime examples of obscuritas. In his commentaries on Ezekiel and Hosea, for instance, Saint Jerome (c. 348– 420) uses the Ciceronian division of genus obscurum to point out the forms of obscurity in the Book of Ezekiel―a text that deals with visions that excite and perturb the prophet’s imagination: a ball of fire encircled by radiance, strange creatures half man, half beast, the eating of a scroll, godlessness. The commentator nonetheless emphasizes that it is the reader’s duty to attain a true awareness of what the things described are in fact intended to convey.16 What Jerome does not mention is that the Old Testament prophets―Ezekiel and Hosea included―are good examples of obscure first-person narration and shifting points of view between “I” and “he.” In the Bible, too, fabulous and obscure narration is often the province of the first-person singular. Just as in Merlin’s speech in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia, the first-person speaker is (usually) presented as the sole witness to the narrated events in religious vision literature. Their reporting becomes a sort of stylized autocommunication as the “I” is not communicating a paraphrasable narrative of action or a considered message but pieces of something it attempts (or presents itself as attempting) to decode while presenting it. For instance, the Frauenmystik of the high Middle Ages often presents a frame narrative where somebody―repeatedly―poses the visionary a question; then the answer (the “content” of the vision) is presented in first-person narration, as in this dialogue between Anna von Munzingen and Else von Neustadt:

16 17

Then the Sister asked her whether she could recall anyone. She answered: “I cannot even recall myself well. I don’t know where the mind and heart go, except simply in him. My soul rests in God and knows all things in him, and then I see the purity of my soul and that it is without blemish.” . . . The Sister asked again what he would look like if she saw him with her outer vision. She said: “He appears as a beautiful and gentle young man, and the room is full of angels and saints. He sits next to me and looks at me compassionately.” 17

Comm. in Hiez. 13, Praef., CCSL 75:I, 606; Comm. in Osee 1.ii.16, 17, CCSL 76, 29. “Da fragte sie die Schwester, ob sie dann jemands gedenken könnte. Da sprach sie: ‘Ich kann dann meiner selbst nicht gut gedenken. Wohin Sinn oder Herz komme, als allein in ihn, das weiß ich nicht. Meine Seele legt sich dann in Gott und weiß alle Dinge in ihm, und dann sehe ich die Lauterkeit meiner Seele und daß sie ohne ale Flecken ist’ . . . Da fragte wieder die Schwester, wie der wäre, den sie mit äußerem Gesicht sähe. Da sprach sie: ‘Er erscheint wie ein schöner liebreicher

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Here the alleged uncertainty and hesitation of the speaker is an important part of the message, together with the “plot” of the vision. Whereas the frame narrative focuses on the vita exterior of the characters or their communities, the vita interior as presented by the firstperson narrators bustles with the fuzzier activity of allegedly ineffable visions, obscure fantasies and (either physical or intellectual) difficulties in describing these. This is evident in the following report by Alpais of Cudot (1150–1211), embedded in the “editor’s” narrative frame of her life; the speaker proceeds repetitively in the process of seeing inner things. But it seems to me that I report to you the visions I see in my repose as happening in the manner I report them. But what they refer to or what they mean or what most of them want and whether they have occurred . . . or been established in the manner or order in which they appear to me to have occurred or been established, this I do not know well. But whatever the truth of this thing may be, this one thing I know, that I am not deceived or deceiving; for what I say to you, I see as I say it, and I say as I see it. 18

The processes of reporting, experiencing and interpreting in the firstperson narration mingle, as if these deeds simultaneously legitimate each other. The self-conscious use of such materials and rhetoric deviates from both ancient and medieval ideals of truthfulness in discourse. In the old controversy about whether speeches should be accepted in historical writing or not, the negative answer is interesting for a student of firstperson speech: if history explores the sequences of cause and effect―as for instance the Greek historian Polybius (c. 200–118 B.C.E.) claimed it should―then speeches should be excluded from historical accounts because they are obviously invented, displays of the historian’s oratorical

18

Jüngling, und die Kammer wird voll von Engeln und Heiligen. Er sitzt bei mir und sieht mich gar gütig an’,” (Anna von Munzingen, “Die Chronik der Anna von Munzingen,” ed. J. König, Freiburger Diözesan Archiv 13 [Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1880], cited in Buber, Ekstatische Konfessionen, 105; my translation). “Visiones quidem, quas vobis refero, sicut michi videtur, sic in requie mea fieri video, sicut eas refero. Set quid pretendant aut quid significent vel quid sibi velint plures earum et utrum eo modo vel ordine fiant … aut administrentur, quomodo vel ordine michi fieri vel administrari videntur, non satis agnosco. Quomodocumque autem se rei veritas habeat, hoc unum scio, quod nec fallor nec fallo, quin ea, que vobis dico, sic videam sicut et dico, et sic dicam sicut et video” (Alpais von Cudot IV.xvii, in Elisabeth Stein, ed., Leben und Visionen der Alpais von Cudot [1150–1211] [Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag, 1995], 215; my translation).

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skills rather than the transcription of words actually spoken. 19 This attitude was already contested in medieval historical narrative (e.g. Geoffrey of Monmouth), and in mystical treatises: the first-person narration becomes an authoritative form for the description of things seen in visions and relating to the interior person as a space where the narrative rule of cause and effect does not hold. First person narration also offered latitude and license for modes of imagination which were seen as excessive in the traditional education of the trivium: visions, fantasies and utopias. In medieval school rhetoric and arts of poetry, the topic of obscuritas was often mentioned. The aspiring writer was warned against the pitfalls of vices that ran counter to the rule of clarity: lying (i.e., excessive fiction), discontinuity, inconsistency, prolixity and obscurity in writing. 20 Some of these features became virtues and markers of authenticity or spiritual clarity, however, in literature depicting inner states of mind and events that might appear inexplicable to the speakers themselves. The examples cited above from the Chronicle of Anna von Munzingen and the visions of Alpais of Cudot belong to the genre of Gnadenvita and are fluent in depicting the godhead, yet repetitive to the point of hyperbole in expressing the “I.” In other words, not God but the “I” is the ultimate unrepresentable. The first-person speaker remains something that modern textual theory calls “supranarratable”: something that defies narrative, as for instance in the specifics of highly charged emotional scenes―or even “the antinarratable”: something that transgresses social laws or taboos and for that reason remains unspoken. The medieval mystical “I” is a similar phenomenon; the pronoun is ubiquitous on the surface of the texts but as soon as one starts focusing on it, it begins to appear as a repetitive act that tells less about the person or “self” and more about the metaphysical quest of a community that acknowledges the limits of language and understanding. This was also pointed out by later mystics such as Saint Teresa of Avila (1515–1582): human beings go about “like silly little shepherd-boys, thinking we are learning to know something of Thee when the very most we can know amounts to nothing 19 20

See Eric MacPhail, “The Plot of History from Antiquity to the Renaissance,” Journal of the History of Ideas 62 (2001): 7–8. John of Garland, Parisiana poetria 5.301–302, ed. and trans. T. Lawler (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974); cf. Mehtonen, Obscure Language, 103–22.

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at all, for even in ourselves there are deep secrets which we cannot fathom.”21 Herein lies an important difference between mysticisms. The written “I” in the negative theology of Pseudo-Dionysius, Meister Eckhart or John of the Cross is “rationalist” in its methods of disseminating the spiritual message. Although mystical obscurities, states of unknowing and transcendent silences beyond the capacities of human language are constantly evoked, the writers themselves proceed like scholars and masters of their topic. When Eckhart preaches the limited possibilities of human language to capture spiritual realms in his sermons, the first-person speakers therein are nevertheless able to muster up coherent (logical and rhetorical) paradoxes in elegant and uninterrupted narration. The sublime themes and issues are not narrated as radically interrupting the speaking “I.” To put it succinctly, aberration is not among the devices favoured by these prose writers. In the women mystics, states of unknowing that contaminate the very act of speaking and the (rhetorical) presentation of the imbecillitas loquentis as a virtue are more common. The language of the excerpt from the Chronicle of Anna von Munzingen cited above, for example, is lucid although the passage develops the theme of uncertainty. The style of the passage from the visions of Alpais of Cudot likewise resonates with the theme, and is effective even when it is repetitive and tautological. The later phases of mystical discourse emphasised these aspects even more.

The Unframed I

However clearly I may wish to describe these matters which concern prayer, they will be very obscure to anyone who has no experience of it. 22

Remarkably, the issues of first-person narration and the legitimation of obscure literary forms lie at the heart of modern medievalism and the 21

22

“Y andamos acá como unos pastorcillos bobos, que nos parece alcanzamos algo de Vos, y debe ser tanto como nonada, pues en nosotros mesmos están grandes secretos que no entendemos” (Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle 4.2, trans. E. Allison Peer [New York: Image Books, 1989], 82; Santa Teresa, Las moradas, Colección Austral (1939; Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1985) 4.2, 54). “Por claro que yo quiera decir estas cosas de oración, será bien escuro para quien no tuviere espiriencia” (Teresa of Avila [Teresa de Jesús], in The Life of the Holy Mother Teresa of Jesus, in The Complete Works, vol. 1, trans. and ed. Allison Peers [London: Burns & Oates, 2002], 62; Libro de la Vida 10.9, ed. Dámaso Chicharro, 7th ed. [Catedra: Letras Hispanicas, 1987], 189).

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reception of medieval mysticism in the earliest avant-garde circles of the 1900s in central Europe. Mysticism fits well with the agenda of antirealism and the search for an anti-Cartesian expression of inner states, as part of the critical scrutiny of language (Sprachkritik) and linguistic experimentation. The edition of Meister Eckhart’s texts (1903) by the cultural critic and anarchist Gustav Landauer, for instance, and the anthology of mystical texts (1909) published by the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, philosopher or theologian of secularism, were related to such projects near the circles of early German-speaking expressionism. Buber presents his edition and translation of Ekstatische Konfessionen (Ecstatic Confessions), which includes many chapters on woman mystics from Hildegard of Bingen to Teresa of Avila and Anna Katharina Emmerich, as bringing together “entirely forgotten documents” and the Middle Ages are well represented by the mostly first-person texts of the German, Italian, English, Swedish, Dutch and Spanish mystics. These writers, says Buber, undertake “a work on the impossible, a creation in the dark.” 23 Buber’s interest stemmed from Jewish mystical literature (Hassidism) as well as contemporary Austrian-German Sprachkritik (as exemplified in the work of Fritz Mauthner and Buber’s good friend Landauer); in his doctoral dissertation of 1904 Buber had addressed the problem of individuation in Nikolaus of Cusa and Jakob Böhme, late medieval and early modern thinkers and mystics who had, according to Buber, founded the new metaphysics of the individual. The anti-realist and anti-narrative ethos emerging from this background and pre-Freudian empiricist psychology at the turn of the century kindled an interest in Europe in old narrative forms of presenting the “I.”24 The vast literature of medieval and early modern inner visions represented a combination of inwardness and the supernatural (or hypernatural), without the burden of coherent plots or 23 24

“eine Arbeit am Unmöglichen, eine Schöpfung im Dunkel” (Buber, Ekstatische Konfessionen, 21). Judith Ryan has explored the influence of empiricist psychology and captures well its literary consequences (with reference to later writers such as Franz Kafka, Gertrude Stein and Robert Musil): “In response to the empiricists’ dissolution of familiar categories of thought, they invent new linguistic techniques and experiment with new literary structures. If there is no subject in the conventional [i.e. post-Cartesian] sense, there can be no conventional language; similarly, if there is no self, there can be no traditional plot, no familiar character development” (The Vanishing Subject: Early Psychology and Literary Modernism [Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1991], 3).

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detailed description of events and places. For instance, in the introduction to the Ekstatische Konfessionen, Buber claims that the mystic’s “creation in the dark” is not a divinely ordered act of unity but consists of something more immanent and valuable: the utterances of a singular human being transmitted in language to another human being. No transhuman unity legitimates these speeches; they are unique and unified in themselves. In the text of a mystic we simply receive “the word of the I.” 25 Conscious that the mystical texts were seldom actually written by the speaking “I,” the early Buber—anticipating his later dialogic philosophy—emphasizes the linguistic and intersubjective nature of this transmission. This early twentieth-century reception of medieval and modern mysticism and appreciation of the ways it cherishes the unrepresentable (or its “attempt to say the unsayable”26) influenced European linguistic literature in the decades to come; apart from German literature, the works of James Joyce and Samuel Beckett are eminent examples. 27 The late medieval and early modern mystical discourses provided Beckett, especially, with models of autocommunication for further stylization. To the forms of the “framed I,” presented in the first part of this essay, must be added influential examples of an “unframed I” where the uncertainty and obscurity of the first-person speaker becomes the dominant mode.

Unspeakers

“I am straining every nerve, sisters, to explain to you this operation of love, yet I do not know any way of doing so.” 28 Resembling a Beckettian

25 26 27

28

“das Wort des Ich” (Buber, Ekstatische Konfessionen, 6). “Versuch, das Unsagbare zu sagen” (Buber, Ekstatische Konfessionen, 18). For “godless mysticism” in German literature (Robert Musil, Heinrich Mann, Gerhart Hauptmann, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, etc.), see Uwe Spörl, Gottlose Mystik in der deutschen Literatur um die Jahrhundertwende (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1997). On the direct connections of Sprachkritik, Joyce and Beckett, see, for example, Linda Ben-Zvi, “Biographical, Textual, and Historical Origins,” in Samuel Beckett Studies, ed. Lois Oppenheim (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 137. The attraction especially of the young Beckett to medieval writers was obvious: his early prose and poetry were inspired by the complex forms of the mystics, troubadour poetry, Dante, and Chaucer. “Deshaciéndome estoy, herrnanas, por daros a entender esta operación de amor, y no se como” (Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle 6.2, 135; Santa Teresa, Las moradas 6.2, 96).

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sentence in its bareness and negation, this sentence could have been spoken by Molloy, in the first part of the Beckett trilogy (1951–1953), whose language gradually becomes a peculiar autocommunicative exercise while the reader follows his monologue; it could also have been spoken by the even more fragmented narrator of the third part of the trilogy, The Unnamable (1953), who is constantly bothered by the bodily pain of speaking and understanding: “I don’t know. I could know. But I shall not know. Not this time. It is I who write, who cannot rise my hand from my knee.” 29 However, the author of the above-cited sentence is a woman and a mystic, Saint Teresa of Avila, who presents herself struggling with narration in her well-known spiritual works Interior Castle (Moradas, 1577) and Life (Vida, 1562–1566), where the spiritual quest is presented by a first-person autobiographer who frequently describes herself in states of anamnesis and epistemological doubt. Although the comparison of Teresa and Beckett may at first seem mutually unfruitful, neither of them here represents just herself or himself; they stand rather for two distinct yet interrelated traditions of pseudo-autocommunication: the critique of conventional language in mysticism and in avant-garde literature.30 The stylization of the “I–I” discourse is evident in the ways in which communication itself is thematized, beginning with doubting the reasons for speaking and the existence of an external audience. Thus Teresa orients herself towards her community as an audience: “I do not know why I have said this, sisters, nor to what purpose, for I have not understood it 29 30

Samuel Beckett, “The Unnamable,” in S. Beckett, The Beckett Trilogy. Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable (Picador: Pan Books, 1979), 276. The vast Beckett scholarship somewhat surprisingly links his writing specifically to Pseudo-Dionysius, Augustine, Meister Eckart, John of the Cross or Angelus Silesius. See for instance the contributions in Harold Coward and Toby Foshay, eds., Derrida and Negative Theology (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992); Shira Wolosky, Language Mysticism: The Negative Way of Language in Eliot, Beckett, and Celan (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995), 90–134; and John D. Caputo, “Apostles of the Impossible: On God and the Gift in Derrida and Marion,” in God, the Gift, and Postmodernism, ed. John D. Caputo and Michael J. Scanlon (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999), 196–97. In discussions of negative theology as well as postmodern philosophy and fiction, the only (cursory) reference to medieval woman mystics known to me is by Joy Morny “Conclusion. Divine Reservations,” in Coward and Foshay, Derrida and Negative Theology, 255–57. In Beckett studies St. Teresa’s name is briefly mentioned by Mary Bryden, “Beckett and Religion,” in Samuel Beckett Studies, 166.

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all myself.” 31 Teresa often refers explicitly to things described in mística teulogia but concedes her inability to use or understand “the proper terms” therein; instead, she sometimes finds it a help to “utter foolishness.” 32 Beckett’s Molloy likewise feels “like a fool who knows neither where he is going nor why he is going there” and takes the authorial suspicion a step further: “Sometimes you would think I was writing for the public. [. . .] And I said, with rapture, here is something I can study all my life, and never understand.” 33 Not only is the existence of a clear message and audience questioned; at times the speaking I appears radically plural: Teresa’s speaker suffers from noises in the head whereas in the Beckett trilogy the speaker conducts internal arguments with himself as for instance happens at the end of The Unnamable. As Lyons and others have observed, such a division of voices or a “super-voice” characterises Beckett’s heroes: one part of the speaking consciousness wants to halt and “to lose himself in darkness and silence”; the other voice within him urges him to continue. 34 The doubting, seemingly reluctant and uncannily plural first-person speakers frequently refer to the indefinite parties commissioning or even pressing them to move from meditation to text production. “Only those who have commanded me to write this,” reveals Teresa in her Life about the reverend spiritual fathers who asked her to write it, “know that I am doing so, and at the moment they are not here.”35 The motives for and processes of writing are constantly reflected, and in terms of inspiration and invention the motives could not be further from the romanticist inner spark which guides the poet-genius’s hand. Both Teresa’s and Beckett’s I’s write because they are told to do so. Teresa complains that it is hard for a woman who is writing simply what she has been commanded to use spiritual language: “Your Reverence will be amused 31 32 33 34 35

“No sé a qué propósito he dicho esto, hermanas, ni para qué, que no me he entendido” (Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle 6.6.5, 171; Santa Teresa, Las moradas 6.6, 120). “Con decir disbarates me remedio algunas veces” (Life 18.2, 106; Libro de la Vida 18.2, 247–48). Samuel Beckett, “Molloy,” in The Beckett Trilogy, 156. Charles R. Lyons, Samuel Beckett (London: Macmillan, 1983), 104; Andrew K. Kennedy, Samuel Beckett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 145. “solos los que me lo mandan escribir saben que lo escribo, y al presente no está aquí” (Life 10, 67; Libro de la Vida 10.7, 188).

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to see how stupid I am.” 36 The demand for “published” reports of inner visions is expressed with acerbic irony: I have done what Your Reverence commanded me, and written at length, on the condition that Your Reverence will do as you promised me and tear up anything that seems to you wrong. I had not finished reading through what I had written when Your Reverence sent for it. 37

The commissioner is given permission to erase or add freely 38 and readers are left to wonder what may have been altered or censored and, ultimately, whose text they are reading. The atmosphere of the beginning of Beckett’s Molloy is similar, albeit slightly more depressing. The protagonist is in a room where somebody comes to take away the pages written by the first-person speaker. 39 The writer’s anxieties with respect to his autocommunication―he does not know whether he is writing for the public or not―resemble those of the mystic. Modern language theory and linguistics associate certain stylistic characteristics―repetition, obscurity, ungrammaticality and so forth― with autocommunication and inner speech, which raises the question of whether or not these characteristics also exist in the self-consciously stylized autocommunication of Teresa and Beckett. In comparing the tasks of translating the complete works Saint John of the Cross and his teacher Teresa, E. Allison Peers noted John’s “crystal-clear expression” and his “logical and orderly mind,” as well as “great objectivity.” Whatever the last qualification may mean in the realm of mysticism, John’s prose nevertheless has little in common with Teresa’s Spanish prose, which, according to Peers, consists of inflammatory phrases; “outbursts of sanctified commonsense, humour and irony”; disjointed, elliptical, parenthetical and “gaily ungrammatical” sentences; repetition; semiphonetic transliterations of Latin texts; breathless sentences; disconnected observations, transpositions, ellipses as well as sudden suspension of 36 37 38 39

“servirá de dar recreación a vuesa merced de ver tanta torpeza” (Life 11, 64; cf. 65, 204; Libro de la Vida 11, 193). Life, Letter, 299. This letter is not printed in the Spanish edition of Vida used here. Life 7, 47; 17, 100; Libro de la Vida 7.22, 168. The figure of “they” featured already in Beckett’s early prose such as The Expelled and Mercier and Camier. On philosophical and existentialist interpretations of this figure as Heideggerian “lostness in the ‘they’” (Verlorenheit in das Man), see Raili Elovaara, The Problem of Identity in Samuel Beckett’s Prose: An Approach from Philosophies of Existence (Helsinki: Annales Academiae Scientiarum Fennicae, 1976), 79, 126–34, 199; also Anthony Uhlmann, Beckett and Poststructuralism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 162–65.

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thought.40 Similar stylistic and compositional devices are at work in Beckett’s prose, including the “grimly weighted precision” of its language, a reliance on the rhetorical figure of aposiopesis (an unexplained break into silence41), as well as the narrator’s “difficulty organising his documentation.”42 These features of mystical and literary first-person prose not only hyperbolize some features of autocommunication; they also continue traditional rhetorical strategies of imbecillitas loquentis such as pleading one’s incapacity to handle the matter in order to capture the good will of the audience. In De inventione, moreover, Cicero recommended two options for beginning the speech if the speaker anticipates an obscure case: either particularly clearly―perspicue―by elucidating matters down to the last detail, or by employing the tactics of insinuation rather than a straightforward opening, thus winning the audience and the judge over not perspicue but obscure, by way of obfuscation and digression. In literature, such license to downright obscurity (or statements of obscurity) was not left unused. Both Teresa and Beckett combine stylistic obscurity and perspicuity in a masterful way; Stanley Cavell, for instance, has observed Beckett’s hidden literality: The words strew obscurities across our path and seem willfully to thwart comprehension; and then time after time we discover that their meaning has been missed only because it was so utterly bare―totally, therefore unnoticeably, in view. 43

What emerges is first-person prose that is both meditative and ironic in some way. Under the watchful control of some absent and non-visible “they,” the first-person speakers in both Teresa and Beckett exaggerate their humility and ignorance in a way that contradicts their skill and egoism so blatantly that the result is irony and laughter: “I confess that others have written about it much better elsewhere, and I have felt great confusion and shame in writing of it, though less than I should.”44 A similar effect is produced by a narration of inner experience that is (alleged40 41 42 43 44

Preface, in Teresa, Life, xiv, xviii, xxxvii–xxxviii. See H. Porter Abbott, “Narrative,” in Samuel Beckett Studies, 8, 15. Susan Brienza, Samuel Beckett’s New Worlds: Style in Metafiction (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press 1987), 50, on Murphy. Stanley Cavell, Must We Mean What We Say? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 119. “y habránlos escrito en otras parte muy mijor, yo lo confieso, y que con harta confusión y vergüenza lo he escrito, aunque no tanta como había de tener” (Life 12, 73; Libro de la Vida 12.7, 204–05).

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ly) interrupted by lapses of poor memory and inoperative mnemotechnique.45 This representation and fictionalizing of obscurity and the primal difficulty of speaking is so frequent in Teresa’s work that it becomes both a theme and a technique. In terms of poetics, it resembles the “figure of evasion” Wolosky has found in Beckett’s figure of the self as a challenge of representation. What emerges is not unitary essence but “a scene of intrarelation between the self and its images of itself.” 46

Conclusion

The foregrounding of language in the representations of writing and speaking discussed here produces a relative ineffability and obscurity in certain modes of expression. Although it is possible to define obscuritas as a stylistic device, 47 it also appears as a vaguer effect of themes and forms such as pseudo-autocommunication. Further exploration of more material might reveal interplay between cases where the result actually is gibberish or “an unknown language” to the reader (for instance, Hildegard of Bingen’s lingua ignota) and those where the speaker merely claims to be uttering nonsense, as in the cases discussed here. Each new era up-dates its obscurity canons, and the avant-garde period of the early 1900s was no exception. Martin Buber, the admirer of world mysticisms in Ekstatische Konfessionen, was praised by a contemporary critic and fellow expressionist, Hermann Bahr, for his obscure language, his dunkle Rede, and the way he expresses the non-conceptual and silence in language―something that nineteenth-century positivist science and realistic literature had completely neglected and lost sight of. 48 Bahr wonders: why does a writer who has so much to say to his contemporaries say it in such a way that the reader must first translate the 45 46 47

48

E.g., Life 11, 64–65; Libro de la Vida 11.6, 192–93. See also books 10 and 34 of the Life/Libro de la Vida. Wolosky, Language Mysticism, 71, 74, 81. See Jan Ziolkowski, “Theories of Obscurity in the Latin Tradition,” Mediaevalia 19 (1996): 101–70; John T. Hamilton, Soliciting Darkness: Pindar, Obscurity, and the Classical Tradition, Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature 47 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003); and Mehtonen, Obscure Language. The titles of the works of Buber’s fellow expressionists included “The last I,” “The self cannot be saved” (Bahr), and so forth. See Andreas Berlage, Empfindung, Ich und Sprache um 1900. Ernst Mach, Hermann Bahr und Fritz Mauthner im Zusammenhang (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1994).

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words into other words in order to understand them? In reading Buber, even a native speaker of German must translate Buber’s German prose before he or she can understand it.49 Why bother? This question was tackled in medieval texts: why in the first place should one believe that obscure visions or incomprehensible texts are worth reporting and the effort of reading? The pleasure, excitement and humor involved in pseudo-autocommunication lead to an aesthetics of obscurity that deserves an independent exploration.

49

Hermann Bahr, Expressionismus (1916; München: Delphin-Verlag, 1920), 40–43.

Contributors

Florin George Călian (b. 1978) received an MA in Greek-Roman History and Archeology at the University of Bucharest in 2007, and an MA in Medieval Studies at the Central European University in Budapest in 2009. He has published articles on ancient psychology of action and historiography of science. He is also one of the editors of the journal Scholé – Independent Review of Philosophy. He has been a PhD Candidate of the Department of Philosophy at the Central European University, Budapest, since 2009. His current research is focused on the philosophy of mathematics in Plato’s late dialogues. Greti Dinkova-Bruun (b. 1963) is a Fellow and Librarian of the Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies (PIMS), Toronto. In 1999, she obtained her PhD at the Centre for Medieval Studies in Toronto and in 2001 received her L.M.S (Licence in Mediaeval Studies) at PIMS. In addition to articles published in Mediaeval Studies, Viator, Sacris Erudiri, Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch, and Archives d’Histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Age she is responsible for a number of critical editions and translations of medieval texts including Alexandri Essebiensis Opera Poetica, CCCM 188A (Turnhout, 2004) and The Ancestry of Jesus. Excerpts from “Liber Generationis Iesu Christi Filii Dauid Filii Abraham” (Matthew 1:1– 17), TMLT 28 (Toronto, 2005). Her field of study is Latin biblical versification, mnemonic poetry, and medieval Latin.

Lucie Doležalová (b. 1977) received her PhD in Medieval Studies at the Central European University in Budapest in 2005 and her habilitation in 2012 at the Charles University in Prague where she works as Associate Professor of Medieval Latin. She has authored monographs on the medieval reception of the Cena Cypriani (Trier, 2007), and on a biblical mnemonic aid Summarium biblie (Krems, 2012), and edited several collective volumes (e.g., The Making of Memory in the Middle Ages, Leiden, 2010, and Retelling the Bible: Historical, Literary, and Social Contexts, Frankfurt am Main, 2011). Her current research concentrates on the art of memory in late medieval Central Europe, mnemonics, and manuscript miscellanies.

CONTRIBUTORS

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Réka Forrai received her PhD in Medieval Studies at the Central European University in Budapest in 2008 and is currently a Postdoctoral Fellow at the Centre for Medieval Literature at the University of Southern Denmark, Odense (2012–2015). She has published extensively on questions related to medieval Greek-Latin translation theory and practice. Her current research focuses on papal involvement in the spreading of Greek culture in the West during the Middle Ages.

Hiram Kümper (b. 1981) received his doctorate in Medieval and Modern History at Mannheim University in 2007, and has been an assistant professor of Medieval and Early Modern History at Bielefeld University since 2009. His research has focused on legal history but he is also continuously engaged in the history of historiography and in “public history” in its widest sense. His current research concentrates on the conceptualization of rape in pre-modern Europe.

Päivi M. Mehtonen is Academy Research Fellow (Academy of Finland) and Adjunct Professor of Comparative Literature at the universities of Helsinki and Tampere. Among her recent publications are the volume Gothic Topographies: Language, Nation and “Race” (Ashgate, 2013, co-edited with Matti Savolainen) and the articles “Encyclopaedic Nichts: Mauthner, Mysticism and the Avant-Garde?” (Angelaki, 2012), and “The Apophatic First-Person Speaker in Eckhart’s Sermons” (in Modes of Authorship in the Middle Ages, ed. Slavica Ranković et al., Toronto, 2012). She is the author of Obscure Language, Unclear Literature: Theory and Practice from Quintilian to the Enlightenment (2003) and the editor of Illuminating Darkness: Approaches to Obscurity and Nothingness in Literature (2007). Carla Piccone (b. 1977) received her MA in Classics at the University of Siena (2003) and her PhD in Medieval Latin Philology in Zurich (2011). She has worked as a post-doc at the Zentrum für Mittelalter- und Frühneuzeitforschung of the Georg-August Universität in Göttingen since 2009. Her research focuses on grammatical didactic poetry from the High Middle Ages, epic and panegyric during humanism, and the theory of literature. Her monograph Dalla prosa ai versi. Forme, usi, contesti della versificazione nella poesia didascalica del XIII sec. is forthcoming from Peter Lang.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Noel Putnik (b. 1974) holds a BA in Classical Philology from the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade, Serbia, and an MA in Medieval Studies from the Central European University, Budapest, Hungary. In his MA thesis (2007) he dealt with the work of the German humanist Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa and his attempt to synthesize various spiritual and Hermetic doctrines. He has published a book titled The Pious Impiety of Agrippa's Magic: Two Conflicting Notions of Ascension in the Works of Cornelius Agrippa (Saarbrücken: VDM Verlag, 2010). The subject of his ongoing PhD research at the Central European University is the heterodox Christian anthropology of the Renaissance Neoplatonists and, within this context, the intellectual position of Cornelius Agrippa.

Jeff Rider received his Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from the University of Chicago and is a professor of French and Medieval Studies at Wesleyan University. His work focuses on the history and literature of northern Europe from the 11th through the 13th centuries. His recent publications include editions of Walter of Thérouanne’s “Vita Karoli comitis Flandrię” et “Vita domni Ioannis Morinensis episcopi,” (2006), and Le Lai du conseil (co-edited with Brinduşa Elena Grigoriu and Catharina Peersman, 2013), and a translation of Galbert of Bruges’s Murder, Betrayal, and Slaughter of the Glorious Count Charles of Flanders (forthcoming 2013). He has recently co-edited volumes of essays on Galbert of Bruges and the Historiography of Medieval Flanders (with Alan V. Murray, 2009), Le Diocèse de Thérouanne au Moyen Age (with BenoîtMichel Tock, 2010), and The Inner Life of Women in Medieval Romance Literature: Grief, Guilt and Hypocrisy (with Jamie Friedman, 2011). He is currently at work on an English translation of Walter of Thérouanne’s Vita Karoli comitis Flandrie, and an edition of the Flandria Generosa. He has received grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Fulbright Commission, the American Philosophical Society, the Rotary Foundation, and the Royal Flemish Academy of Belgium for Science and the Arts. Susan Small (b. 1952) is an Associate Professor of French at King’s University College at Western University, in London, Ontario, Canada, where she received her Ph.D. and the Governor General’s Gold Medal for Academic Excellence in 2004. Her publications include “Quelques implications sémiotiques de l’homonymie cygne / signe telle qu’elle s’applique à Milun” (Mediaevalia, 2006); “The Language of Philomena’s Lament” (in Laments for the Lost in Medieval Literature, 2010); “Cligés Uncut: Some

CONTRIBUTORS

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Notes Towards a Redescription of the Battle Scenes in Chrétien de Troyes’ Cligés” (in War and Peace: New Perspectives in European History and Literature, 700–1800, 2011); “Fairy Tale Fashionista” (in Postmodern Reinterpretations of Fairy Tales: How Applying New Methods Generates New Meanings, 2011); “Frontier Girl Goes Feral in Eighteenth-Century France: The Amazing True Story of Marie-Angélique Memmie Le Blanc” (in Making Monstrosity. Exploring the Cultural History of Continental European Freak Shows and “Freakery,” 2012); and “The Medieval Werewolf Model of Reading Skin” (in Reading Skin in Medieval Literature and Culture, forthcoming 2013). She is currently working on the themes of flaying and disgust in medieval French literature.

Christiane Veyrard Cosme (b. 1963), was a student at the Ecole Normale Supérieure de Fontenay, and received an aggregation in Lettres Classiques (1985), a doctorate (1992), and a habilitation in Latin Language and Literature (2008) from the University of Paris 3–Sorbonne nouvelle, where she is currently a Professor of Latin. Her research concentrates on high medieval Latin literature, especially epistolography and hagiography. After having proposed a narratological approach to Alcuin’s prose hagiographic works (L'oeuvre hagiographique en prose d'Alcuin, Florence, 2003), she is currently preparing the publication of her habilitation (an edition, translation and commentary on Alcuin’s letters). She recently co-edited volumes on La grâce de Thalie ou la beauté du rire (Paris, 2010) and L’Hagiographie mérovingienne à travers ses réécritures (Stuttgart, 2010). Alessandro Zironi (b. 1964) received his PhD in Germanic Philology at the University of Florence, and works as an Associate Professor of Germanic Philology at the University of Bologna. His research focuses on Middle High German literature, especially the complex of poetic texts called Wartburgkrieg and texts connected with Theoderic the Great’s poetic cycle. His research fields also include the Gothic language and literature (with particular attention to the codicological approach to texts), and the literary and intersemiotic reception of the Germanic medieval past in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. His recent publications include the volume L’eredità dei Goti. Testi barbarici in età carolingia (Spoleto, 2009) and an article on “Elaborazione del mito nibelungico e creazione dell’identità tedesca nel cinema di Fritz Lang: Die Nibelungen (1924),” in Metamorfosi del mito classico nel cinema, ed. G. P. Brunetta (Bologna, 2011).

Index nominum Abelard, Peter – 57, 60 Aegidius of Paris – 12, 75-86 passim Agrippa von Nettesheim, Heinrich Cornelius – 13, 145-156 passim Aldhelm – 11, 32, 33, 35, 37, 39, 40, 45-48, 56, 57 Alexander de Villa Dei – 12, 87, 90, 92, 93, 95-98, 103, 105-107 Alexander of Ashby – 12, 75-86 passim Alonso of Carthagena – 166-169 Alpais of Cudot – 179-181 Aquinas, Thomas – 61, 62, Aristotle – 17-19, 22, 30, 39, 52, 56, 57, 61, 62, 93, 160, 161, 165, 166, 168, 170 Augustine of Hippo – 6, 26, 28, 30, 54, 55, 57, 60, 75, 77, 79, 173, 184 Bacon, Roger – 164 Bahr, Hermann – 188, 189 Balbi, Giovanni – 97, 98 Beckett, Samuel – 174, 175, 183-188 Beda Venerabilis – 39, 40 Bernard of Clairvaux – 56, 57, 80 Bernardus Silvestris – 57, 88 Boethius – 49, 169 Boniface – 35, 36, 38 Bonitus – 163 Bruni, Leonardo – 165-169 passim Buber, Martin – 172, 179, 182, 183, 188, 189 Capellanus, Andreas – 68, 69 Chrétien de Troyes – 11, 49-51, 58-61 passim, 89 Chrysostom, John – 165 Cicero – 2, 14, 18, 33, 52, 53, 159-161, 170, 173, 175, 178, 187 Clareno, Angelo – 165, 166 Climacus, John – 164, 165 Conrad of Mure – 12, 87, 91, 93, 96, 99, 103, 109 Conrad of Querfurt – 114-118 Dällenbach, Lucien – 63-66, 73, 74 Derrida, Jacques – 68, 184 Dietrich vom Bocksdorf – 136, 138 Dionysius the Areopagite, Pseudo – 16, 26, 162 Donatus – 54, 56, 91 Eberhard of Béthune – 12, 87, 90, 91, 94, 96-98, 103, 105, 106 Eckhart, Meister – 175, 181, 182 Egidius of Corbeil – 94, 101 Eike of Repgow – 125, 126, 128, 134, 144 Eliot, Thomas Sterns – 11 Eriugena, John Scotus – 162, 163 Ermenrich of Ellwagen – 113 Euclid – 17, 18

INDEX NOMINUM Eusebius of Caesarea – 111 Ficino, Marsilio – 145-147, 151 Gellius, Aulus – 53, 54 Geoffrey of Monmouth – 175-178, 180 Geoffrey of Vinsauf – 88 Gervase of Melkley – 54 Gervase of Tilbury – 13, 115-118 Gide, André – 63 Grabes, Herbert – 64 Grillius – 173 Grosseteste, Robert – 166 Guarimpotus – 163, 164 Helias, Petrus – 98 Henry of Avranches – 91 Hildegard of Bingen – 182, 188 Hugh of Cluny – 113 Hugh of Saint Victor – 56, 79 Isidore of Seville – 47, 56, 79, 91 Jerome, Saint – 82, 111, 162, 167, 178 Johann von Buch – 134-136 John of Alta Silva – 117 John of Garland – 97, 101, 105, 180 John of Salerno – 112 John of Salisbury – 112, 116 Kling, Melchior – 141-144 passim Lagus, Konrad – 140, 141 Lombard, Peter – 77 Lotman, Yuri – 172, 174, 175 Lucretius – 111, 158 Macrobius – 88, 114 Marie de France – 11, 49, 50, 58, 60, 61, 63-74 passim, 89 Moerbeke, William of – 166 Origen – 55, 161, 162 Osse, Melchior – 144 Parmenides – 10, 15-31 passim Paul, Saint – 150-152, 155 Philo of Alexandria – 15, 29 Plato – 10, 15-31 passim, 61, 151, 160, 161 Pliny the Younger – 111 Polybius – 179 Pompeius – 53, 54 Porphyrus – 27, 169 Priscian – 12, 49, 64, 88, 90, 92, 95-98 Proclus – 10, 15-31 passim Pythodorus – 20, 22 Quintilian – 33, 52-54, 89, 159, 160, 169

195

196

INDEX NOMINUM

Raoul Glaber – 113 Riga, Peter – 12, 76, 81, 83, 85, 90 Rufinus of Aquileia – 161-163, 168 Simplicius – 17 Socrates – 18, 20, 22, 23 Stelbagius, Sebastian – 138, 140, 141 Symphosius – 37, 39 Tatwine – 36, 37, 46 Teresa of Avila – 180-185 Thierry of Chartres – 173 Traversari, Ambrogio – 164, 165 Trismegistus, Hermes – 147-149 Tyconius – 79 Uguccione da Pisa – 91, 97, 98 Victorinus – 173 Vincent of Beauvais – 113 Virgil – 13, 88, 110-123 passim Virgilius Maro Grammaticus – 7, 8 William of Conches – 49, 60, 88 William of Saint Thierry – 80 Wolfram von Eschenbach – 111, 112, 117, 118, 122 Zeno – 20, 22, 23 Zobel, Christoph – 135, 137, 138

Index rerum acrostich – 36, 48 aesthetics – 21, 51, 58, 122, 189 allegory – 8, 10, 11, 15-31 passim, 33, 34, 46, 52-63 passim, 74, 77, 81-89 passim Antiquity – 7, 13, 30, 33, 42, 46, 105, 157, 158, 163, 165, 180 ars notoria – 13, 110, 114-118, 123 Bible – 6-17 passim, 30, 55, 57, 61, 75, 77-85, 150-152, 178 Prophets – 78, 178 Psalms – 32, 57, 75, 77, 79 Revelation of John – 12, 81, 82, 178 brevitas – 12, 89, 92-94, 100, 108 Carolingian Renaissance – 48 Christianity, Christian doctrine – 10, 13, 16, 30, 75, 79, 145-150, 155 enigma – 3, 4, 9, 10-12, 17, 18, 32-48 passim, 49-62 passim, 82, 88, 89 exegesis – 6, 7, 9, 17, 19, 23, 29, 46, 48, 81, 82, 147, 149, 152, 153, 156, 167 French texts – 5, 10, 11, 49-62 passim, 118 grammar – 4, 8, 12, 34, 35, 37, 48, 49, 52, 54, 56, 171, 175, 186 grammatical poetry – 87-109 passim homophony – 12 humanism – 164-166 imitatio – 64, 155 law – 13, 77, 97, 124-144 passim, 166, 180 linguistics – 5, 6, 8, 71, 81, 85, 87, 118, 125, 136, 182, 183, 186 literal sense – 81 magic – 13, 15, 31, 68, 110-123 passim, 145-151, 153 memory – 12, 66, 80, 84, 85, 92, 93, 96, 97, 100, 102-108, 116, 151, 173, 188 metaphor – 1-3, 8, 15, 39, 41, 46, 50, 52, 53, 60, 65, 71, 73, 74 Middle High German texts – 13, 110-123 passim mise en abyme – 11, 37, 63-74 passim mutatio personarum – 12, 76, 78, 79 neoplatonism – 10, 15, 23, 24, 28, 153 Renaissance neoplatonism – 13, 145 philosophy – 10, 15-31 passim, 37, 39, 42, 49, 56, 57, 82, 88, 114, 145-151 passim, 157-171 passim, 182-184 prophecy – 83, 113, 121, 122, 177 rhetorics – 6, 7, 13-15, 17, 30, 34, 52, 55-58, 60, 74, 145, 150, 151, 158-161, 167-173 passim, 179-181, 187 Sanskrit – 1-3 scholastics – 171 student, study – 7, 12, 17, 22, 24, 30, 53, 75, 79-81, 84-86, 102, 103, 179 style – 11, 33, 39, 40, 49, 53, 58, 61, 62, 160, 169, 176, 177, 181 theology – 12-16, 26-30, 61, 76-81, 85, 145-156 passim, 161-164, 168-171 passim, 181-184 passim translation – 13, 14, 111, 136, 151, 157-171 passim, 182 versus differentiales – 12, 93, 97-100, 108