Illusions and Resurrections

selected from Walter Map’s De nugis curialium translated and adapted by M. T. Anderson

Walter Map (c. 1130 – c. 1210), friend of kings and saints, was most likely from Hereford, near the border of Wales. He rose rapidly through the ranks of the ecclesiastical hierarchy and the civil service, finally acting as royal justice at the court of King Henry II. He was the author of one book, De nugis curialium (“Trinkets for the Court”), a sprawling compendium of political gossip items, hearsay, essays, satirical riffs, character assassinations, and supernatural hi-jinx. The text was apparently composed over some years. Map’s prose is lively and eccentric, marked by headlong syntax, abrupt shifts in direction, and peculiar poetic flourishes. The following selections, drawn from throughout the work, trace their own set of themes.

Prologue.

“I exist in time; and of time I speak,” said St. Augustine, adding: “But what time is, I do not know.” With the same bewilderment, I may say that I exist in the court and I speak of the court, but I have no idea (God knows) what the court is. I do know that the court is not time, though it is temporal – for it is mutable and various, it is in one place and it is wandering, and “never continueth in one state.” When I leave it, I feel as if I know it completely; when I return to it, I find little or nothing of what I left: for once I am outside of it, I am as a sojourner, and it is strange to me… When courtiers set aside court business, exhausted by the vast work of their monarchs, they often like to stoop to speak with the poor and humble and to lighten their ponderous thoughts with outrageous tales. Similarly, when you rest between pages of some philosophy or some divine work, it may please you to hear or even to read for your own recreation this book’s tasteless, anaemic idiocies. You have asked me to set down examples for future generations, something which will excite

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laughter or teach a moral. Though I can’t do what you demand (for “the penniless poet does not know the caves of the Muses”), it would not be difficult for me to collect some odds and ends, which a good man, being good, might turn to good account (since, for the good, all things cooperate to produce more good). I might at least plant seeds that will yield fine fruit. But who can harvest fruit from a spirit that is worthless and dingy? For the Scripture says, “Like vinegar poured upon nitre, so is he that singeth songs to a grim heart.” Now I will sing my song. Will you listen?

Of Llewelyn, King of Wales.

Llewelyn, King of Wales, a man as unfaithful as almost all of his ancestors and descendents were, a lazy and slothful man who squatted in the ashes of his father’s hearth, a weak and even defective man – Llewelyn, King of Wales, had an extremely beautiful wife, whom he loved more passionately than she loved him. He armed himself in every way he could to protect her chastity. Driven by suspicion and jealousy, he thought of nothing but making sure that no one would touch her. One day, it came to his ears that a young man of the kingdom – well-known, well-liked, well-formed, well-endowed – happy in business and in person – had slept with the Queen in a wet dream. The King was crazed. He raged as if the dream were real; he pined; he captured the youth through trickery. If the King’s regard for young man’s family had not been so great – or perhaps his fear of their vengeance – he would have tortured the man on the spot and killed him. As was the custom, the young man’s family offered themselves as security for his release, wary of a trial. The King refused to grant the young man bail, and demanded an immediate sentencing. Their suit refused, the family complained, but they at least delayed their vengeance while the young man was still imprisoned. Many came to argue the case, first for one party, then the other, but no one could agree. Both sides summoned wise men from all over the land. Finally, they called upon a man known as the kingdom’s wisest. He considered the problem, one side and the other. They awaited his decision. Finally, he spoke his verdict. “We must obey the laws of our land. We have no reason to cast aside the statutes of our forefathers, established by ancient custom. Let us follow them, then, yes? “In the most ancient laws, it is decreed that anyone taken in adultery with the queen of Wales shall pay one thousand head of cattle to the king, and go free. This man here is accused of dreaming that he had intercourse with the Queen, and he does not deny it. He has confessed that the charge is true, so clearly – clearly! – he must yield up a thousand head of cattle.

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“Seeing as it was a dream, I declare that the defendant shall lead his one thousand head of cattle down to the bank of Lake Brycheiniog, in full sight of the King; and he shall arrange the cattle in a row in the sunlight, so that the reflection of them is seen upon the water. The cattle shall still belong to their owner; but the image of them on the water shall now belong wholly to the King, as dream is the image of truth.” Everyone approved this decision, and so it was done, in spite of the griping of Llewelyn, King of the Welsh.

Some Sort of Miracle.

Once a priest was being shot with arrows by the Saracens, who were trying to force him to give up his faith. Nearby was another cleric who had already caved in, and who kept mocking him for continuing to believe, jeering with each arrow-shot, “Is that nice? Do you like that?” The other did not reply. Finally, seeing that the priest would not be moved, the apostate whacked off the man’s head with one blow, saying, “And what about this? Do you think this is nice?” The head, speaking with its own lips, said: “Yes. Now it’s nice.” Stories like this were often told of the early Knights Templar, back when they adored God and thought the world was vile. But when they began to adore what was vile, and their wealth led them to uncertain acts, we began to hear very different tales of them indeed …

Another Fantastical Apparition.

Since I am speaking of peculiar deaths: A knight of Brittany who had lost his wife and mourned greatly for her found her again late one night in a huge crowd of women gathered in a vast and lonely valley. He was filled with fear and awe, seeing right before him the woman he had buried; he could not believe his eyes, and doubted what the Fates had done. He decided to capture his dead wife, determining that either he would have the glory of the capture, if indeed his eyes didn’t deceive him, or he would be cheated of the phantom, but at least would not be accused of cowardice. So he seized her, and thus enjoyed his marriage for several more years, years every bit as pleasant as those before she had died. They had children, whose progeny are great even today, and who are called “Sons of the Dead.” This would seem like an incredible and prodigious injury to the natural order, if there were not these certain proofs of its truth.

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Regarding St. Bernard of Clairvaux.

Once I was having dinner with the blessed St. Thomas Becket, at that time Archbishop of Canterbury. Two Cistercian abbots were dining with us, and insisted on telling us many stories of miracles done by that wonderful man St. Bernard – who, one must admit, shone like a bright star in his order – the brightest, really, above all the rest, burning over them as the beautiful angel Lucifer shines in the heavens. St. Bernard was led through the land of France by the Holy Spirit. His many miracles were recorded by Geoffrey of Auxerre, his own private secretary; you can believe every word. The two Cistercian abbots took this occasion to praise Bernard, and extolled him to the stars. John Planet, a clerk, distressed at the way this conversation about the good master was going, interrupted. “Once,” he said, “in Montpellier, I saw quite a startling miracle, one which made many people wonder.” And when the abbots urged him to go on, he said, “St. Bernard, this man who you praise – quite rightly – he’s magnificent – he had a demon-possessed man dragged to him in chains for healing. Bernard, seated on an ass, shouted at the unclean spirit and demanded that it depart. The crowd was silent. When Bernard felt that the demon had left the man, he said, ‘It is done. Unchain him and let him go free.’ “They freed the demoniac, who immediately began to throw rocks as hard as he could right at the saint. Bernard tried to scramble away, but the man ran after him, and even when people captured the madman and tied his hands, he kept glaring at Bernard, as if his eyes wouldn’t budge.” The Archbishop was displeased with this anecdote. He muttered to John, “So this is your idea of a miracle?” Said John: “Those who were there said that it was an extremely memorable miracle. Particularly because the demoniac, up to that time, had been gentle and kind to everyone, and only attacked hypocrites, in punishment for pretentiousness.” Another time, two Cistercian abbots were talking about Bernard in the presence of Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London, and gushing about the potency of his miracles. After describing several, one of the abbots said, “Though what I’ve said of Bernard is true, I did once see the grace of his miracles fail. A man who lived near the border of Burgundy asked him to come and heal his son. We went and discovered that the boy had already died. Dom Bernard had the body carried into a closed room. He told everyone to leave, and he lay upon the boy, and prayed, and finally rose. But the boy didn’t stir; he was still dead.” “Bernard,” I said, “must have been an extraordinarily unlucky monk. Usually when a monk lies down on top of a boy, the boy tries to get up almost immediately.” The abbot got red, and many stepped outside to laugh.

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Regarding Blessed Peter of Tarentaise.

In parts of Burgundy, there is a well-known tale of a knight who did not sufficiently fear God, who stubbornly persisted in a course of stupid sin, and who finally came to know divine punishment, or at least rebuke. The Lord affixed a lizard to his shoulder, which clung there with its teeth and claws and could not be removed either through the Hippocratic arts or through prayer. The awesome power of the Mother of Mercy was amply shown, however: Whenever this miserable man entered a church dedicated in Her name, the lizard would scurry down from its usual perch; when he left, it would always fasten itself back on him. The blessed Peter of Tarentaise received word of this. He heard the man’s confession and prescribed a course of penance; when the man had completed the penance, he was freed.

Again, Regarding Apparitions.

Is this not another phantasm? In Louvain in the borderlands between Lorraine and Flanders, in a place called Lata Quercus, several thousand knights gathered to play their soldier games together, as they are wont to do – what they call a tournament, but should really be called a torment. Before the battle was joined, a knight was seen seated on a huge horse – a beautiful knight, somewhat above medium height, and well-armed with exquisitely- crafted weapons. Leaning on his lance, he sighed so dolefully that many couldn’t help but notice, and they asked him to explain. He responded, sighing again deeply, “Good God! I just have so much work to do today, defeating everyone here!” This comment was circulated among everyone there, and one after another, people pointed him out, whispering with jealous indignation. He, however, was the first to charge his opponents with his lance, and all through the day he performed so vigorously, enjoyed such impressive successes, and was so glowing in his victory over all, that the jealous had to praise him, and keep silent about his outrageous boast; and gradually, through admiration, grinding hatred was turned entirely to love. But truly, we sing our praise at the end; only evening tells who has taken the day. He looked like Luck’s son – but at last, at the close of the tournament, when everyone was leaving, an ignoble knight, a nobody, confronted him and drove a lance through his heart – and so he died. The two teams were separated, and his corpse was shown disarmed to each member of both parties. No one knew him, and even today, no one has ever heard who he might have been.

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Yet Again, Regarding Apparitions.

Once a knight and his good, noble, and well-beloved wife had a first-born son, only to find, the morning after its birth, that the child lay in its crib with its throat slit; in a year, the same thing happened to the second son; and the third year, to the third – the culprit always slipping by the husband and everyone else’s tearful watch. They prepared for the wife’s fourth pregnancy with fasting, tithes, prayers, and weeping. Their boy was born; they had the area surrounded and lit with torches, and everyone kept their eyes on the child. As they watched, a pilgrim came, weary with travel, and asked for lodging in God’s name. They piously received him, and he agreed to watch with them. And behold! After midnight, when all the rest had fallen asleep, he alone remained alert – and he alone saw a reverend lady suddenly appear, looming over the cradle, swooping down to slice the child’s throat. He dashed forward without hesitation, slipped up and grabbed onto her firmly, while the others, finally awakened, circled her. Many of them recognized her – shortly, all of them – and they protested that she was a matron well-known to them: the most noble woman in their city by birth, manner, wealth, and all honest virtues. She would not respond to her name or to questioning. The father ascribed her silence to her shame at being captured, and he would have advised that she be released, if the pilgrim, still clutching her firmly, had not demanded that she was a demon and pressed the key of the parish church to her face, burning her with a sign of her wickedness. He demanded that they immediately summon the woman they supposed their captive to be. She was led up to them while he still held on to the other. They were identical, down to the burnt mark on the face. The pilgrim said to the astonished, silent crowd: “This woman who has just come is, I hope, beloved of God, but through her good works she has provoked the jealousy of demons, for which reason they have let their worthless emissary – the executrix of their wrath – appear identical to her, in order that the guilt of this infamy be heaped upon her. If you don’t believe me, note what happens when I let this woman go.” She flew out the window with wailing and loud shrieks.

Regarding a Music-Loving Fish.

The usula is a fish of the Danube which will swim right through the nets of its enemies in pursuit of musical tunes. Nor will it stop when wounded, but uncaring for its life and desperate for the sound of the organ, it will chase the sweet, honeyed lures its soul desires even to the point of death. Such is the triumphant case of the truly noble and studious man, who will not be deterred from his studies by cough, a touch of phthisis, or any other kind of reversal. His constant anxiety dooms his wracked body to martyrdom; for he firmly

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believes that it is better to cough up for God a soul made precious by the light of wisdom, than to fondle it idly by himself while it sits and fattens. Thus: Be like the usula.

Regarding a Spooky Shoemaker from Constantinople.

Around the same time that the Satanic Pope known as Gerbert was flourishing in his ensorcelled good fortune, there was a poor young shoemaker from Constantinople whose skill and inventiveness in cobbling surpassed all the work of the great masters. Though he took only one day to do the work that others did in two, his work was superior to anything that other shoemakers, with all their care, could do. He could simply look at any bare foot, gimpy or straight, and make a shoe that fit it perfectly. In fact, he would not accept work if he did not see a foot first, a tic which the nobility found endearing, but which made the poor go elsewhere. These were not his only skills. Whenever there were athletic spectacles at the arena – wrestling, hurling, or other manly sports – he would always win the victory palm, so that his name quickly spread throughout the realm. One day, an exceedingly beautiful maiden came to his shop window and denuded her foot, asking to be shod; she had, he saw, an enormous retinue. The wretched man studied the foot; he made the shoes and charged her for them; but alas, having begun with the foot, he found the whole of the woman followed until all of her had been taken into his heart – and so he sucked down the evil pestilence which was to prove his undoing, top to toe. A slave craving the delicacies of kings, there was no hope for him. He threw out the tools of his trade, sold his birthright, and joined the army, with the thought that perhaps he could at least transform his lowly state into that of a military gentleman, so that perhaps her rejection would be softer. Before he presumed to name the woman as his true love, he worked rigorously to succeed in the profession he had taken up, and through the frequent success of his exercises, quickly became in the ranks of the soldiers what he had previously been in the ranks of cobblers. Finally, he made his assay; but though he judged himself worthy of the girl, her father wouldn’t grant him her hand. The cobbler was furious, and, determining that he would drag away the girl by force, decided to engage a sturdy band of pirates. He prepared for a battle at sea that would right the wrongs done him on land – and soon he was feared both on land and at sea, for success did not desert him. While he forged onwards, always victorious, he heard that his beloved had died. Quickly, tearfully, he struck a truce in whatever battle he was engaged in and hurried to the maiden’s funeral. He saw the burial and noted the position of her grave. On the next night, he went alone to the grave-mound, and he enjoyed the dead woman as if she were alive.

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As, after his foul deed was done, he rose from the dead, he heard a voice that said he should return when her time was at hand and take up what he had engendered. He did what he was told. He returned at the appropriate time, he dug up the grave, and the corpse gave him a human head, which he was told not to show to anyone but his enemies. He placed it securely in a box, and now full of confidence, he left his campaigns at sea and invaded the land. Whatever cities or towns he attacked, he would show this Gorgon head. When they saw this Medusaean evil, the miserable inhabitants stiffened and fell. He was greatly feared, and was accepted by all he fought as their lord, on pain of death. No one knew the cause of the invisible pestilence that struck them down. At once, they would see and they would die, without voice, without a groan. Armed men on the battlements toppled without wounds; fortresses, cities, whole provinces yielded; nothing could stop him, and armies despaired that he could defeat them with so little effort. Some called him a god, others, a kabbalistic mathematician. Whatever he demanded, no one could refuse. Numbered among his many successes was one in particular: When the Emperor of Constantinople died, the Emperor’s daughter and heir was left to him. He accepted the offer; who could refuse it? Once the two were married, the shoemaker and the princess spoke at length. He would not answer the questions she posed regarding the box, but she would not rest until she discovered the truth about it. When she found out its secret, she shook him from sleep, and held the head right in front of his eyes. So, at last, he was caught in his own snare, and died. The princess ordered that the Medusaean prodigy should be taken away and cast into the middle of the Grecian sea, and that the author of this monstrosity should be destroyed along with it. Her servants sailed out in their galley, and, when they had come to the middle of ocean, they hurled these two abominations of the globe into the depths. As they passed from sight, the sea churned and boiled with sand; the waves erupted from the bottom suddenly as if water itself was repelled, and abhorred that which had called down the fury of the Most High; the nauseated sea tried to retch up that which the land, now just starting to recover, had vomited into its depths. The waves shot as high as heaven, flung upward like flames. But after a few days had passed, the sentence upon these monstrosities changed, and the waters which had assaulted the heavens now rushed downwards in a mighty maelstrom, turning eternally. What had been a billowing heap was now a pit. The ooze of the depths, unable to bear these abominations and the horror of the sea, was voided, gaped in stupefaction, and yawning with a maw infinite and wet opened a gullet into the lowest abyss, which never shut, but which, rather, devours all that the sea brings, like Charybdis, by Messina. Whatsoever falls into it by chance or is drawn by its greedy jaws is lost irremediably; and, as the name of the maiden loved by the shoemaker was Satalia, this whirlpool, avoided by all, is called the Satiline whirlpool, or in the vulgar tongue, Gouffre de Satalie.

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Of Nicholas Pipe, Man of the Sea.

Many who are still alive tell us that they have seen with their own eyes, in those very waters, that extraordinary prodigy – greater than all other marvels – Nicholas Pipe, Man of the Sea; who, not breathing for months, even a year, would frequent the bottom of the ocean with the fishes, completely unharmed. When he sensed that a nautical storm was about to hit, he would warn ships not to leave port, or, if they had already set sail, would urge them to turn back. A true man with no hint of the inhuman in any of his limbs and with no defect in any of his five senses, he had been given, beyond his humanity, the aptitudes of a fish. When he was going down into the sea for a time, he would carry with him pieces of old iron pulled off broken carts, horses’ hooves, or rusty appliances; I’ve never heard why. In one way he was less than a human and united with the fishes: He could not live away from the smell of the sea or the sea itself; if he was taken away from it, he would run back, gasping for breath. William, King of Sicily, hearing of this and wishing to see this wonder, demanded that the man be presented to him at court; but as the King’s servants dragged him there, he died in their hands, being too far removed from his beloved ocean. Though I allow that I have heard and read of things no less miraculous, I don’t know of anything that quite resembles this rarity. In the air over Le Mans, there appeared to many hundreds of people a gigantic flock of goats. In Brittany, in deepest night, people have seen hordes of eerie soldiers who lead captured livestock, passing in silence, and the Bretons have often nabbed horses or other animals from them and made use of the beasts, some dying because of it, others surviving without harm. There were also those night-borne companies and regiments called the Herlethingi, the followers of Herla, well-known in England even in this age of our present lord, King Henry II, wandering endlessly in crazed, meaningless circles, in dumb silence; among them appeared living many who had recently been dead. It is said that Herla, a king of the ancient Britons, was once discoursing with another king, who was a pygmy, not being any taller than a monkey. This little homunculus sat atop a big goat, according to the tale, and could be described as looking a bit like Pan: burning red face, big head with a red beard that reached down to his chest, which was starred like a fawn’s hide; his belly was rough and hairy, and everything below the shins was like a goat. Herla spoke to him alone. The pygmy said: “I am king over many kings and princes, an innumerable and infinite populace, and have been sent by them to you. You do not know me, but I am impressed by the report that you too reign over many kings; you are exalted and close to me in rank and blood. You are worthy to have me present as an honored guest at your glorious and charming wedding feast – just as soon as the King of the Franks has granted you his daughter – yes, you don’t know about it yet, but it’s all arranged – the ambassadors will come today. Let this be an eternal bond between us: I will take part

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in your nuptials first, and you will do the same for me on the same day next year.” He spoke these words, then, with the speed of a tiger, he turned his back and vanished before the king’s eyes. The king returned home filled with wonder, and received the ambassadors, accepting their entreaties. During the solemnities of his wedding day, before the first course, behold, there was the pygmy with such a crowd of similar beings that the tables were full, and more sat outside in pavilions which the pygmy had erected in an instant. Servants leapt out of these pavilions bearing dishes, each dish made of a single precious stone, whole and well-crafted through some inimitable art. Everyone in the palace and the pavilions used utensils made of gold and jewels; nothing was served in silver or wood. Wherever there was the slightest desire, the servants were there. They did not serve the king’s food, or food from elsewhere on the earth; all of this abundance, they had brought with them – and it exceeded the prayers and wishes of all. The things Herla had prepared for the feast were saved; his servants quickly sat, and were not called for. The pygmies circulated, and everyone lined up to thank them. Their precious, gem-studded clothing gave them a glow that others there lacked – and it did not hurt that neither by word nor by deed nor by presence or absence did they annoy anyone there. While these servants went about their business, their king said to King Herla, “Best of kings, with God as my witness, I am here at your wedding because of our pact. If there is anything which is lacking here, request it of me, and I will gladly supply for you; if not, be sure to repay this honor without delay when agreed.” When he had said this, he did not wait for a response, but quickly hopped off to his pavilion, from whence around cock-crow he and his train departed. A year later, he appeared again before Herla and requested that Herla fulfill his half of the pact. King Herla agreed, and providing himself with everything he needed to repay his debt, he followed where the pygmy led. They came to a towering cliff and entered a cave at the bottom. After wandering for a while in darkness, they arrived at the pygmy’s subterranean home, lit not with the light of the sun or the moon, but with many lamps, a mansion as impressive as the Palace of the Sun described by Naso. The goblin nuptials were celebrated, and the debt to the pygmy repaid. When Herla received leave, he set out burdened with many fine gifts – horses, dogs, hawks, and everything excellent that could be imagined for hunting and trapping. The pygmy led them as far as the dark passage, and then presented Herla with a small bloodhound to carry on his saddle. He warned Herla and the whole retinue that they must not dismount for any reason before the dog leapt to the ground. He bid them best wishes, and returned home. After a short time, Herla reached the light of the sun and his own kingdom, where he greeted an old shepherd. When he asked for word of his queen, speaking her name, the shepherd regarded him with wonder and said, “My lord, your tongue is hardly intelligible, for I am a Saxon, and you are a Briton. I have not heard the name of that queen before … except there was one of that name who ruled over the ancient

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Britons, the wife of King Herla, who the stories say disappeared near this very cliff with a pygmy, and never again was seen on this earth. Truly, the Saxons have ruled this kingdom for two hundred years, and they expelled the Britons.” The King was stupefied, for he believed he had only stayed three days. He could scarcely stay in his saddle. Though the King’s dog had not leapt down from his saddle, several of Herla’s train, forgetting what the pygmy had told them, dismounted – and immediately sifted away into dust. The King, seeing the true reason for their dissolution, prohibited the rest from stepping down to the earth before the bloodhound did, if they didn’t want to share the same death. But to this day, the dog has not dismounted. So the story goes that this same King Herla wanders always, lost in infinite circuits, harassed but holding onto his senseless course, without rest or hope of home. This troop called the Herlethingi was last seen in the borderlands between Wales and Hereford in the first year of the reign of Henry II, at about noon. They traveled as we do, with carts and pack-horses, with baskets and panniers, with a rout of men and women, with hounds and birds of prey. Those who first spied them raised the alarm among everyone in the area with horn-blasts and shouts. As is typical for the Welsh, that most vigilant race, they in no time gathered a large force, armed to the teeth, and parlayed with the Herlethingi. Finding that they couldn’t extort a single word, they prepared to elicit an answer with their spears. But the Herlethingi rose up into the air in a mass, and suddenly were gone. From that day, that company has not been seen. Indeed, they seem to have passed their wanderings on to us insipid idiots, and so we wander rootless, wearing out our earthly vesture, laying waste to kingdoms, shattering our bodies and those of our beasts, and we cannot find any cure for our sick souls. Nothing useful comes to us unbought; we make no profit, once we count our losses; we do nothing with forethought, nothing at leisure; in a crazed flight – vain, unfruitful – we rush onwards; and since our princes plan secretly, in chambers hidden, locked, and guarded, nothing comes of council. We race forward at a furious pace, but toward no goal: We neglect the present, treat it with folly, while entrusting the future to blind chance; and since we – with foreknowledge, with care – strive to bring ourselves to nothing (vagrants! blown chaff!), we are, more than any other men, sad and eternally exiled. Among others, it is asked, “Why so dolorous?” for it is rare to be sad; among us, rejoicing is the rarity. We sometimes have our sadness lightened, but true happiness we never have. We are granted solace, but never blessed with joy. Along with wealth, sorrow mounts us, for the greater a man is, the fiercer the buffeting assaults of his own will are; and swiftly he is devoured by others. I languish here in this miserable, spying court, ignoring my own wishes so I can please others. Almost no one can help me here, but everyone has the power to harm. Unless I – one man – can placate everyone, I am nothing. If I achieve the place of a virtuous man, I am envied, and many speak against me, saying that my

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defenders are too easily taken in by appearances. The simple man of virtue is considered fatuous; the peaceful man is considered lazy; the well-spoken, an actor; the kindly, a flatterer; the quiet, ineffectual; the merciful, slack; the wealthy, avaricious; the prayerful, hypocritical; and those who are not prayerful, publicans. Those who have to gird themselves in the midst of these tumults quickly learn that they must suppress their virtue and arm themselves with vice; they must distinguish carefully in this place, so that they appear good to the just, and suitably evil to the vicious. I would like these things to be generally known about our court, for no one has heard of a court like it in the past, nor could we fear for another as bad in the future. I also ardently desire that the knights of future generations know of its malice so that they know that what they suffer is tolerable, having seen our intolerable state. Arise, therefore – Arise and let us go hence, for trapped amidst the works of him who we renounced in baptism, we do not have the leisure to please God or to placate His wrath.

Conclusion.

I have placed before you a forest, a lumber-yard, of – I will not call them stories, but gossip. I have not cultivated my prose carefully, and if I had, my effort wouldn’t have made much difference. Each reader must force this rude heap into whatever shape seems most appropriate; through their efforts, this work may, at last, show a presentable face to the public. I am your huntsman. I bring you the beast; now you make the meal.

-- finis --

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