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Edited by Irit Ruth Kleiman

VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS IN MEDIEVAL EUROPE Copyright © Irit Ruth Kleiman 2015 Softcover reprint of the hardcover 1st edition 2015 978-1-137-39705-8 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission. In accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. First published 2015 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN The author has asserted their right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of Nature America, Inc., One New York Plaza, Suite 4500, New York, NY 10004-1562. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. ISBN 978-1-349-58031-6 E-PDF ISBN: 978–1–137–39706–5 DOI: 10.1007/978-1-137-39706-5 Distribution in the UK, Europe and the rest of the world is by Palgrave Macmillan®, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data. Voice and Voicelessness in Medieval Europe / edited by Irit Ruth Kleiman. pages cm.—(The New Middle Ages) Includes bibliographical references and index.

1. Voice culture—Europe—History. I. Kleiman, Irit Ruth, 1973– editor. PN4162.V55 2015 808.5—dc23 2015010785 A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library.

CONTENTS

List of Figures xiii Acknowledgments xv List of Abbreviations xvii

Editor’s Introduction 1 Irit Ruth Kleiman

Part I The Nature and Limits of the Human: Voice and Language 1. Language without Voice: Locutio angelica as a Political Issue 13 Ghislain Casas 2. Mimicry, Subjectivity, and the Embodied Voice in Anglo-Saxon Bird Riddles 29 Robert Stanton

Part II The Social Body: Voice, Authority, and Community 3. Ritual Voices and Social Silence: Funerary Lamentations in Byzantium 47 Hé l è ne Bernier-Farella 4. Viva voce : Voice and Voicelessness among Twelfth-Century Clerics 65 Bruno Lemesle 5. Abelard and Heloise between Voice and Silence 83 Babette S. Hellemans

Part III Rhetoric and Subjectivity: Polyphonic Voices 6. The Voice of the Unrepentant Crusader: “Aler m’estuet” by the Ch â telain d’Arras 101 Marisa Galvez xii CONTENTS

7. Margery’s “Noyse” and Distributed Expressivity 123 Julie Orlemanski 8. The Voice of the Possessed in Late Medieval French Theater 139 Andreea Marculescu

Part IV Aesthetic Experiences: Representations of Human and Divine Voices 9. “Sanz note” & “sanz mesure”: Toward a Premodern Aesthetics of the Dirge 155 Anna Zayaruznaya 10. Listening for Canor in Richard Rolle’s Melos amoris 177 Andrew Albin 11. Mary between Voice and Voicelessness: The Latin Meditationes of Bernard de Rosier 199 C é dric Giraud 12. Voice and Wisdom in Early Italian Art 213 Matthew G. Shoaf

Bibliography 235 Contributors 257 Index 261 FIGURES

9.1 Paris, Biblioth è que Nationale de France, ms. fr. 146, fol. 5v 156 9.2 Paris, Biblioth è que Nationale de France, ms. fr. 1584, fol. 299v (detail) 163 9.3 Binchois/Pizan, Dueil angoisseus , mm. 1–8, first ending (ed. Metcalfe) 167 9.4 Dueil angoisseus , diplomatic facsimile of the first line of the cantus voice as transmitted in El Escorial, Palacio Real, Monasterio de San Lorenzo MS V.III.24, fol. 36v (text ed. Johnson) 168 9.5 Dueil angoisseus , beginning of cantus voice transcribed without bar lines 168 9.6 Dueil angoisseus , beginning of cantus voice with barlines as for a prevailing duple meter 169 9.7 Dueil angoisseus , beginning of cantus with barlines as for a prevailing triple meter 169 9.8 Dueil angoisseus , beginning of cantus with bar groupings indicating a variable meter; arrows mark points strengthened by contrapuntal means 169 9.9 Dueil angoisseus , mm. 18–23 (ed. Metcalfe) 170 9.10 Binchois, Amoreux suy , mm. 1–10 (ed. Metcalfe) 172 10.1 Graphemically similar (a) “Cautus” and (b) “Cantus” from the annotator’s original commentary. Copyright: Rector and Fellows, Lincoln College, Oxford, MS Latin 89, fols. 1v–2r 192 12.1 Francesco Traini, Saint Dominic altarpiece, tempera on wood panel, 1344–1345, Museo Nazionale di San Matteo, Pisa, Italy (Scala/Art Resource, New York) 216 12.2 Andrea Orcagna, Beggars, detail of The Triumph of Death , fresco, ca . 1345, Museo dell’Opera, Santa Croce, Florence, Italy (Scala/Art Resource, New York) 216 12.3 Giotto di Bondone, The Raising of Lazarus , fresco, ca . 1305, Arena Chapel, Padua, Italy (Alfredo Dagli Orti/Art Resource, New York) 217 12.4 Lorenzo Maitani (?), Screaming sinner, marble, ca . 1310–1330, Orvieto Cathedral, Orvieto, Italy (author) 217 12.5 Simone Martini, The Lamentation of Christ , tempera on wood panel, ca . 1330–1340 (bpk, Berlin/Staatliche Museen/Joerg P. Anders/Art Resource, New York) 218 xiv FIGURES

12.6 Master of San Torp è , The Witness of John the Baptist , tempera on wood panel, 1310–1320 (Saint Louis Art Museum, Museum Purchase 46:1941) 218 12.7 Andrea Pisano, The Naming of John the Baptist , bronze, 1336, fifth panel of South Doors of the Baptistery of San Giovanni, Florence, Italy (Bridgeman Images) 219 12.8 Artist disputed, Francis of Assisi Preaching before Pope Honorius III , fresco, 1291–1296, Church of San Francesco, Assisi, Italy (Alfredo Dagli Orti/The Art Archive at Art Resource, New York) 219 12.9 Giotto di Bondone, Temperance , fresco, ca . 1305, Arena Chapel, Padua, Italy (Alfredo Dagli Orti/Art Resource, New York) 220 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

t is a pleasure to thank the many people who contributed to this book and to Ithe Spring 2013 gathering where its authors first came together. Adeline Soldin and Shannon Gilson helped to get the ball rolling with early logistical support. Arthur Bahr, Matilda Bruckner, Sean Gallagher, Sean Gilsdorf, and Francesca Southerden chaired sessions and rallied the troops. Christine Axen kept an eye on the details and was a patient and funny right hand. Patricia Johnson gave a much-appreciated opening benediction. My tried-and-true colleagues in Boston University’s Interdisciplinary Program in Medieval Studies, Amy Appleford, Dennis Costa, Phillip Haberkern, and Deeana Klepper, contributed generously of their research, time, expertise, and enthusiasm. Scott Metcalfe and Blue Heron brought a sparkle to the weekend with their dedicated concert performance. None of this would have been possible without financial and personnel support from Boston University’s Center for the Humanities, Center for the Study of Europe, Departments of History, English, and Romance Studies, and Italian Interdisciplinary Fund. Special thanks to Elizabeth Amrien, Nancy Geourntas, Chris Loken-Kim, and Katie McNamara. I wish also to thank the Institut universitaire de France for the financial sponsorship that made the conference’s international scope possible. Additional thanks are due to the Boston University Center for the Humanities for the welcome support offered by a Print Production Award. I am thankful to Bonnie Wheeler for believing in this project enough to welcome the manuscript into the New Middle Ages series and for her keen editorial and scholarly vision. Valuable suggestions for improving the volume were made by an anonymous peer reviewer. It has been a delight to work with Ryan Jenkins and the Palgrave editorial and production teams. Last but not least: for technical, intellectual, moral, and logistical support at key moments in collating and editing the manuscript, my own personal appreciation goes out to Wade Bartlett, Karen Bassi, Abigail and Tara Donner, Jennifer Eyl, Virginie Greene, Stephanie Nelson, and Judith Osias. Cé dric Giraud has been a valuable conversation partner, sounding board, and friend from the project’s first inception through to its realization before you. The indefatigable Roberto Rey Agudo provided research assistance, crazy glue, and ironic restraint—even when the car caught fire. ABBREVIATIONS

LCL Loeb Classical Library PG Migne, Jacques Paul, ed. Patrologia cursus completus, . . . Series graeca . 161 vols. Paris: 1857–1866. PL Migne, Jacques Paul, ed. Patrologia cursus completus, . . . Series latina . 217 vols. Paris: 1844–1864. SC Sources chr é tiennes

EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION

Irit Ruth Kleiman

his is a book of essays about the values, functions, and paradoxes medieval T thinkers attached to the sonorous, human voice, in theory and in practice. The categories of voice and voicelessness were deeply embedded in medieval definitions of the human, as they remain for contemporary thinkers such as Jacques Lacan or Stanley Cavell. For medieval thinkers, as for these and other recent authors, the compelling omnipresence of Voice as a topos in Western traditions frequently rendered elusive the quest to define its precise boundaries and functions. The chapters in this volume confront a series of interlocking questions about how the philosophy, theology, and aesthetics of the voice inhabit and animate the Middle Ages. They ask what it means to “possess a voice”—or be without one—and seek to articulate how the concepts of voice and voicelessness operate within distinct domains of medieval Christian culture as social and legal categories, as aesthetic terms, within theological and political doctrines, or as a site of tension in the negotiation between subjectivity and authority. Together, they demonstrate how our understanding of the Middle Ages can be deepened and enriched through engagement with theological and philosophical debates over voice and voicelessness, whether ancient, medieval, or contemporary.

First Voices: Aristotle In the Politics , Aristotle declares, “He who thus considers things in their fi rst growth and origin, whether a state or anything else, will obtain the clearest view of them.” 1 This approach to voice and voicelessness leads us straight back to Aristotle himself, for it was Aristotle’s words in De Anima II.8 that provided a fi rst touchstone for medieval authors. Indeed, his words continue to provide a nearly universal point of departure for meditations on the meaning of voice and its contraries.

Voice [ψόφος ] is a particular sound [φωνή ] made by something with a soul; for nothing which does not have a soul has a voice . . . But many animals do not have a voice, e.g. those which are bloodless as well as fi sh among those which do have blood. And this is reasonable enough, since sound is a particular movement of air. 2 IRIT RUTH KLEIMAN

So, the striking of the inbreathed air upon what is called the windpipe due to the soul in these parts constitutes voice. For, as we have said, not every sound made by an animal is voice (for it is possible to make a sound also with the tongue or as in coughing); but that which does the striking must have a soul and there must be a certain imagination (for voice is a particular sound which has meaning). 2

This defi nition appears in a portion of Aristotle’s text dedicated to the physiology of the senses, and in many ways its claims are straightforward, or at least direct. Voice has sound and meaning. Its medium is the air we breathe. To give voice, there must be a movement that strikes the air, there must be lungs, and there must be a soul. It is only a metaphor to speak of fl utes or lyres as possessing voice. 3 There are two important aspects of Aristotle’s writings on the voice that are useful to emphasize here, and to which the fi rst two chapters of this collection will bring deeper understanding. First, Aristotle is above all concerned with the faculties—physical and intellectual—that furnish the conditions under which voice can exist. This is clearly shown in the passage just cited, and in numerous others, such as the lengthy and well-known discussion of cicadas, fi sh, dolphins, snakes, and especially frogs found in the History of Animals (IV.9). The conclusion of that portion of Aristotle’s writing brings into focus a second essential point about Aristotle’s philosophy of voice for readers of this book. Four-legged mam- mals, says Aristotle,

utter voiced sounds of different kinds, but they have no language. In fact, this is peculiar to man. For while whatever has language has voice, not everything that has voice has language. Men that are born deaf are in all cases also dumb; that is, they can make vocal sounds, but they cannot speak. Children, just as they have no control over other parts, so have no control, at first, over the tongue; . . . [A]rticulate sound, that one might reasonably designate language, differs both in various animals, and also in the same species according to diversity of locality; as for instance, some partridges cackle, and some make a shrill twittering noise. Of little birds, some sing a different note from the parent birds, if they have been removed from the nest . . . thus suggesting that language is not natural in the same way as voice . . . Men have the same voice, but they differ from one another in language. 4

Thus we must bear in mind as well Aristotle’s distinction between voice and language. The importance and purpose of these features of Aristotle’s arguments are to defi ne the human, both singly and in collectivity, in opposition with the animal, the dumb, or the uncivilized. For Aristotle, the deaf who make vocal sounds but cannot speak, children who cannot control their tongues, and barbarian Others whose speech is diff erent in sound are all divided from the soul-possessing (political) community of speaking men by the barrier of verbal language.

First Voices: Augustine From Aristotle’s dispassionate theories about frog tongues I turn to the often- passionate Confessions of Saint Augustine . Augustine’s voluminous corpus includes extensive and repeated considerations of voice, language, rhetoric, and semiotics EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION 3 whose foundational status within the Western tradition cannot be overstated. 5 Looking ahead to the chapters in this book, I am drawn to Augustine’s writing about his experience of distinct voices in the Confessions , where Voice must be considered a structuring leitmotif. 6 In Book I, Augustine portrays the emergence of subjectivity as a diffi cult entry into language. Unable to form words, his infant self fl ails limbs and utters inchoate sounds, wailing in response to physical discomforts. 7 As with Aristotle earlier, there is a point of origin that cannot be denied. It comes from Augustine’s account of the voice that brings about his conversion in Book VIII.

As I was . . . weeping in the bitter agony of my heart, suddenly I heard a voice from the nearby house chanting as if it might be a boy or a girl (I do not know which), saying and repeating over and over again “Pick up and read, pick up and read.” At once my countenance changed, and I began to think intently whether there might be some sort of children’s game in which such a chant is used. But I could not remember having heard of one; I checked the flood of tears and stood up. I interpreted it solely as a divine command to me to open the book and read the first chapter I could find.8

A passage from the Book of Romans falls under his fi nger. “I neither wished nor needed to read further . . . it was as if a light of relief from all anxiety fl ooded into my heart.” 9 Augustine’s dialogue with God begins with a seemingly external, disembodied voice that speaks to the ears of his body. The detail is noteworthy especially because much of Augustine’s thought privileges the divine voice that makes no noise, as, for instance, when Augustine describes how God speaks to him “with a loud voice to my inner ear,” a phrase he repeats three times during Book XII’s meditations on truth and creation. 10 Indeed, the sonorous voice of human song (whose sound is shaped, begins, and ends) serves repeatedly as the trope through which Augustine represents temporal succession, in contrast to God’s eternity in Books XI and XII. 11 Perhaps it is Augustine’s sensitivity to earthly music that leads him to give such diverse and important roles to the voice in his theological philosophy. The author of the Confessions portrays his struggle against the pleasure of human singing as being more arduous and ongoing than those required to renounce other forms of sensuality. Listen to how Augustine describes himself as literally subject to music:

The pleasures of the ear had a more tenacious hold on me, and had subjugated me; but you set me free and liberated me. As things now stand, I confess that I have some sense of restful contentments whose soul is your words, when they are sung by a pleasant and well-trained voice. Not that I am riveted by them, for I can rise up and go when I wish . . . [W]hen the sacred words are chanted well, our souls are moved and are more religiously and with a warmer devotion kindled to piety than if they are not so sung. All the diverse emotions of our spirit have their various modes in voice and chant appropriate in each case, and are stirred by a mysterious inner kinship.12 4 IRIT RUTH KLEIMAN

“I can rise up and go when I wish”: these are truly the confessional words of someone who has felt himself powerless and unable to draw back. At times, Augustine writes the pleasure he feels in singing prayers or hearing them sung has overwhelmed his mindfulness of their scriptural contents. His struggle against this sensual indulgence has led him to wonder whether prayers should not be spoken only; 13 the tension is one that remains within the Church for centuries to come and which surfaces in several chapters in this collection. Although he himself “fl uctuate[s] between the danger of pleasure and the experience of benefi cent eff ect,” 14 Augustine’s memory of how profoundly and spiritually he wept during sung prayers at the time of his conversion leads him to the position that through human singing “the weaker mind may rise up towards the devotion of worship.” 15 Indeed, he portrays his coming to Christianity as a liberation from his tongue-bound profession as a rhetor into an immensely physical release of devotional singing. 16 Finally, the narrative Augustine off ers surrounding the death of his mother Monica brings to bear a number of distinct voices, both divinely silent and humanly sounded. Early Christianity placed tremendous emphasis on shifting the cultural discourses surrounding death, such that mourning itself became tainted with pagan- ism. The Confessions reveal the willed force required to accommodate the pain of loss into Christian doctrine, a theme that returns in H é l è ne Bernier-Farella’s study of the Marian voice and ritual lamentation in chapter 3 of this volume. Augustine’s highly self-conscious narrative of his mother’s death begins with the recollection of a lengthy, intense conversation the two shared while standing beside a window overlooking a garden shortly before her fi nal illness. Their conversation rises to a shared fervor of mystical transcendence of the temporally bound, bodily senses, touching upon an image of heaven’s eternity in which “the very soul itself is making no sound . . . [where] all language and every sign and everything transitory is silent,”17 before “return[ing] to the noise of our human speech where a sentence has both a beginning and an end.” 18 Only a few days later, Monica’s “devout soul was released from the body.”19 Augustine describes the eff ort of self-control as an agony, but only the child Adeodatus, Augustine’s son, lets a cry of sorrow escape. The others silence him, and Augustine writes, “In this way too something of the child in me, which had slipped towards weeping, was checked and silenced by the youthful voice, the voice of my heart.”20 The measured chanting of Psalms checks Augustine’s tears, and only God hears the torrential suff ering that fi nally unleashes itself when he is alone.21

Bridge: Veni Creator Spiritus In chapter 6, Marisa Galvez evokes the thoughts and feelings of crusaders setting off for the Holy Land. Few who have read Jean de Joinville’s narrative of Louis IX’s disastrous Seventh Crusade can forget his own poignant recollection of departure, afraid to look behind himself, “so that my heart did not soften at the handsome chateau I was leaving and for my two children” (“pour ce que le cuer ne me attendrisist du biau chastel que je lessoie et de mes II enfans”). 22 Joinville’s narrative off ers an a propos glimpse of how several distinct discourses about the voice, or indeed, several conceptual elements attached to those discourses, might saturate the lived experience of history and its narrative recollection. EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION 5

We join Joinville at the port of Marseille, in August of 1248, as he prepares to set sail.

Quant les chevaus furent ens, nostre mestre notonnier escria a ses notonniers qui estoient ou bec de la nef et leur dit: « Est aree vostre besoigne? » El ilz respondirent : « O ÿ , sire, vieingnent avant les clers et les proveres. » Maintenant que il furent venus, il leur escria: « Chantez de par Dieu. » Et ils s’escrierent touz a une voiz: VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS . Et il s’escria a ses notonniers: « Faites voille de par Dieu! » , et il si fi rent. [§] Et en brief tens le vent se feri ou voille et nous ot tolu la veue de la terre, que nous veismes que ciel et yaue, et chascun jour nous esloigna le vent des pa ïs ou nous avions est é nez. 23 [When the horses were inside, our ship’s captain shouted to his sailors who were in the prow of the ship, “Is all ready?” And they answered, “Yes, sir, let the clergy and priests come forward.” And when they had gathered he cried to them, “Sing, in God’s name.” And they rang out all together in a single voice, “ COME CREATOR SPIRIT .” And he shouted to his sailors: “Set sail, in God’s name!” and so they did. And in no time, the wind had struck the sails, and carried us away from the sight of land, so that we saw only sky and water; and each day, the wind carried us further away from the lands where we were born.]

The structure of this scene depends on the layering between the human voice, the invocation of God’s spirit, and the wind. Indeed, it depends on this layering and on the archetypal proximity between wind, spiritual breath, and the divine voice that grounds Judeo-Christian tradition and is perhaps universal. 24 We read in Genesis 1:2, “And the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters”; and then in Genesis 2:7, “Then the LORD God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being.” 25 The narrative sequence that carries Joinville’s ship out to sea has three steps. In each one, another kind of breath joins into a swelling chorus. When the horses are sealed in and all the ropes are ready, the priests and clerks raise the breath of their human voices and summon the spirit of God the creator. Joinville’s boat pulls away from the harbor propelled by the elemental winds, by God’s own breath, and by the clear, ringing tones of men’s prayer rising joyously. 26 It is a moment of perfect harmony between human, earthly, and divine presence; this is the subtle but key value in the description, “ils s’escrierent touz a une voiz,” “they rang out all together in a single voice.” I cannot help but notice that the wind strikes the sail, just as inbreathed air strikes the windpipe to produce voice. Rhetorically, at least, chanted prayers, music, the voice of all creation fi lls these sails with the Holy Spirit and moves the narrator Joinville over the face of the water, away from the country where he was born and toward the place where Christ was born, where History awaits him.

Refrain: Arrangement for Many Voices The essays in Voice and Voicelessness in Medieval Europe return to the material primacy of manuscripts. They theorize the corporality of religious experience and question the processes through which a lived present is codifi ed and canonized as 6 IRIT RUTH KLEIMAN

History. They scrutinize the practice, as well as the theory, of medieval Law; and they bring classical, Christian, and contemporary philosophers into dialogue. In this way, the chapters in this volume engage with current debates surrounding historicist models of subjectivity, the poetics and esthetics of marginality, political theology, embodiment, performance studies, and the “aff ective turn.” The progression from one chapter to the next is driven by ideas more than by chronology, geography, discipline, or language. The image of a mosaic is often used to describe approaches that combine smaller morsels to produce a larger, synthetic whole. Borrowing from this book’s subject matter, I prefer the metaphor of a choir singing. The individual parts may make charming songs, but it is their union and sequence that creates an indivisible musical whole. Defi nitions of voice, language, and speech mediate a long tradition in Western philosophy. The two studies in part I, “The Nature and Limits of the Human: Voice and Language,” explore how a particular corpus of texts has navigated the threshold between sound and voice, language and the human. In chapter 1 , Ghislain Casas examines medieval debates surrounding the nature of locutio angelica (the speech of angels) in light of the idea that there is something political inherent to human speech, an idea indebted to Aristotle himself. In chapter 2, Robert Stanton confronts the philosophical problems teased at by medieval riddles that put language into the mouths of normally speechless creatures. By simultaneously crafting a performative imitation of animal speech and then by making animals “speak,” such riddles enact a critique of late-Antique grammatical traditions rooted in Aristotle’s distinction between sound as symbola or semeion . Together, these chapters establish a vertical axis uniting angels, men, and beasts, thus testing the philosophical limits of language and questioning what it means to have a voice . The volume’s second part, “The Social Body: Voice, Authority, and Community,” both analyzes the place of the voice in institutionalized discourses of power and asks what social values might be attached to the “voice” within distinct Christian communities. The fi rst two chapters in this section focus on the attempt by Church authorities to appropriate and control vocal production at pivotal moments in its history. Chapter 3 reveals the importance of the female voice within the early Church’s eff orts to separate itself and its members from their surrounding pagan context. H é l è ne Bernier-Farella guides us from the early Church Fathers’ censure of the long-condemned voices of women’s funerary lamentations to the emphasized association between silence and saintli- ness, an association whose discontents are frequently exposed in depictions of Mary’s mourning for Jesus. Bruno Lemesle’s analysis of twelfth-century reforms in chapter 4 examines the legal and theological stakes attached to the voices of priests and monks by the authors of twelfth-century legal texts. The charisma of the voice and its power to summon divine forces remain a leitmotif here, but Lesmesle also confronts the voice as a privileged vehicle in the construction and defi nition of human communities, a theme reprised in the following chapter. In “Abelard and Heloise between Voice and Silence,” Babette Hellemans explores the encounter between twelfth-century modes of rhetorical and logical expression and twentieth-century philosophy. This chapter considers the destiny of EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION 7 what Peter von Moos called “le silence d’H é loï se,” scrutinizes the tendency to read the written dialogue between Abelard and Heloise as taking place in a semi- confessional model, and argues for the need to conceptualize new approaches to the subjectivity of historical subjects. The book’s third part, “Rhetoric and Subjectivity: Polyphonic Voices,” challenges readers to think diff erently about the unity between subject and voice and to question the relations between a literal, bodily voice, and the tropes and metaphors that surround the topic. Chapter 6 reads trouv è re lyrics about crusading against the background of thirteenth-century pastoral works such as sermons rife with exempla or penitential manuals that preached how sincere tears give the penitent a new tongue and voice. Through a careful analysis of poetic dissociation, Galvez explores the articulation between subject and voice as a construction to be manipulated, suggesting perhaps that sincerity is itself an act of deception. Chapter 7 , “Margery’s ‘Noyse’ and Distributed Expressivity,” examines the place of voice and vocalization in the tension between interior self and public performance and portrays this tension as a perilous balancing between rhetorical mastery and loss of bodily control. Julie Orlemanski situates responses to Margery Kempe’s fi ts of crying and screaming within a larger set of concerns, both medieval and contemporary, about how we interpret the body and what kinds of causation we imagine to explain unusual appearances or behaviors. In chapter 8, Andreea Marculescu writes about agency, knowledge, and the gendered voice, ventriloquizing the bawdy devils that riot on the stage of late-medieval French Passion plays. Drawing on early modern writings about possession, but also Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology, Foucault’s notion of subjugated knowledge, and recent scholarly writings about aff ect, Marculescu shows how diabolically possessed speech—“the demonic idiom”—produces tac- tile, sensorial, and visceral eff ects on the human body. Marculescu’s study thus provides a test case for the limits of voice as a form of embodiment, at once responding to the chapters in part III and harkening back to Robert Stanton’s study of animal voice and vocality in chapter 2 . The book’s fi nal section is devoted to the voice in its dual status as both agent and object of representation. If the choir metaphor I used at the beginning of this overview can be stretched, the chapters in part IV, “Aesthetic Experiences: Representations of Human and Divine Voices,” resolve the distinct themes that run through Voice and Voicelessness into a series of harmonious chords. Anna Zayaruznaya sets Guillaume de Machaut’s musical “poetics of joy” against the idea that there is such a thing as being too depressed to speak, and considers the case of a subject who gives voice to her own loss of voice. This chapter deepens our understanding of the possibilities available to represent voicelessness and demonstrates how the categories of voice and voicelessness can operate in different media—that is, song, poetic text, or manuscript image. The subject of chapter 10, Richard Rolle’s mystical treatise, the Melos amoris , challenges readers to encounter the material book, that seemingly voiceless witness, as resounding with many imminent voices, human and angelic. Moving beyond facile equa- tions between the verbal music of Rolle’s alliterative prose and the angelic music his treatise describes, Andrew Albin engages with Rolle’s quest to portray the 8 IRIT RUTH KLEIMAN incommensurability of angelic and human voices. The dialogue between chapter 10 and several others in this collection exemplifi es how the apparent diversity between chapters gives rise to a single whole, proposing an ambitious and nuanced answer to the question posed at the threshold of this volume. The materiality of the medieval manuscript as witness is at the heart of Albin’s study, as it is for Zayaruznaya in the preceding study. The mystical experience of hearing angels sing answers Albin’s examination of the philosophical dilemmas embedded in angelic speech scrutinized by Casas in chapter 1 . Readers will also recognize the concern with vocality and expression in the context of late medieval English mysticism that Albin’s study of Rolle shares with Orlemanski’s reading of Kempe ( chapter 7 ). Looking onward, Cé dric Giraud’s “Mary between Voice and Voicelessness: The Latin Meditationes of Bernard de Rosier,” continues where Albin leaves off —that is, in the grips of a rhetoric that commands its reader to utterance. By signaling the intense longing for the voice that inhabits Marian devotion, and by revealing the fundamental importance of the voice to the maternal , Giraud reminds readers of the insights Bernier-Farella brings to the foundations of medieval Christianity in chapter 3. Finally, in chapter 12, “Voice and Wisdom in Early Italian Art,” Matthew Shoaf enacts a disciplinary turn that simultaneously facilitates the revised understanding of what has come before and off ers a means to synthesis. Taking up the critical topos of visibile parlare , Shoaf demonstrates how Italian painters represented acts of speech and vocalization in order to amplify the spiritual value or social censure attached to them. This fi nal study brings a new perspective on the distinction between voice and the production of verbal meaning fi rst explored by Stanton in chapter 2 . Like the studies in part II, Shoaf confronts the essence and functions of voice within a tissue of power relations and ideals of community. Contrasting the orality of human and divinely blessed bodies, Shoaf thus sounds a fi nal note that echoes the angelic voices of the heavenly city heard in the opening chapter by Ghislain Casas.

Notes 1 . Aristotle, Politics , I.2, trans. Benjamin Jowett (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1921). Cited from http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/politics.1.one.html . 2 . Aristotle, De Anima , II.8.420b5 and II.8.420b27 in Aristotle, De Anima Books II and III , trans. D. W. Hamlyn (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993, 2002), 32–33. 3 . Aristotle, De Anima , II.8.420b5, trans. Hamlyn. 4 . Aristotle, The History of Animals , Book IV, Part 9; cited from The Complete Works of Aristotle: The Revised Oxford Translation , ed. Jonathan Barnes, vol. 1 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984). One pertinent study that unites these strands is J.-L. Labarriè re, Langage, vie politique et mouvement des animaux : Etudes aristot élici- ennes (Paris: Vrin, 2004). 5 . It is an understatement to describe the literature on Augustine as vast. See especially, Peter Brown, Augustine of Hippo: A Biography , 2nd edition, with an epilogue (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000); Pierre Courcelle, Recherches sur les Confessions de Saint Augustin (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1950, 2nd. expanded ed. 1968); M. B. Pranger, Eternity’s Ennui: Temporality, Perseverance and Voice in Augustine and Western Literature (Leiden: Brill, 2010); and Brian Stock, EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION 9

Augustine the Reader: Meditation, Self-Knowledge, and the Ethics of Interpretation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996). On language, and especially voice, see in particular Peter King, “Augustine on Language,” in The Cambridge Companion to Augustine , 2nd edition, ed. David Vincent Meconi and Eleonore Stump (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 292–310; Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic, “La voix de la v é rit é, un él é ment de dé monstration chez saint Augustin,” Pallas 69 (2005): 179–93; and Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic, “Augustin et le corps de la voix,” Cahiers philosophiques 122 (2010): 43–56. 6 . On this topic, see also Pierre Courcelle, “Les ‘Voix’ dans les Confessions de Saint Augustin,” Hermes 80.1 (1952): 31–46; and William North, “Hearing Voices in Late Antiquity: An Aural Approach to Augustine’s Confessions ,” in The Middle Ages in Texts and Texture: Reflections on Medieval Sources , ed. Jason Glenn (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011), 7–20. 7 . Confessions , Book I.6.8; and Book I.9.13. 8 . Confessions , Book VIII, 12.29. All citations of the Confessions are from Augustine of Hippo, The Confessions , trans. Henry Chadwick (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). 9 . Confessions , Book VIII.12.29. 10 . Notably at Confessions , Book XII. 11.11, Book XII. 11.12, and Book XII.15.18. Indeed, Augustine’s philosophy of language is marked by what might be called a “hyper-interiority.” 11 . See, for example, Confessions , Book XI, 31.41, and Book XII, 29.40. 12 . Confessions , Book X.33.49; my emphasis. 13 . Confessions , Book X.33.50. 14 . Confessions , Book X.33.50. 15 . Confessions , Book X.33.50. 16 . Confessions , Book IX.4.7–8. See also Rowan Williams, “Augustine and the Psalms,” Interpretation 58 (2004): 17–27. 17 . Confessions , Book IX.10.25. 18 . Confessions , Book IX.10.24. 19 . Confessions , Book IX.11.28. 20 . Confessions , Book IX.12.29. 21 . Confessions , Book IX.12.30–33. 22 . Jean de Joinville, Vie de Saint Louis §122, ed. J. Monfrin (Paris: Librairie G én é rale Fran çaise, 2002), 220. Translations of Joinville are my own. 23 . Joinville, Vie de Saint Louis §125–27, 220. 24 . On this topos, see Adriana Cavarero, For More than One Voice: Toward a Philosophy of Vocal Expression , trans. Paul A. Kottan (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005), 20–23. 25 . Cited from the Revised Standard Version, available online at quod.lib.umich. edu/r/rsv/. 26 . As of January 2015, it was possible to hear “Veni Creator Spiritus” chanted at the Vatican on youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKtXhfxEgpg .

PART I

THE NATURE AND LIMITS OF THE HUMAN: VOICE AND LANGUAGE CHAPTER 1

LANGUAGE WITHOUT VOICE: LOCUTIO ANGELICA AS A POLITICAL ISSUE

Ghislain Casas

Taking Voicelessness Literally Angels are messengers. Their specifi c task is to bring messages from the heavens down to earth. From the Book of Genesis to the Gospel of Luke, biblical narratives abound with angels appearing to humans under the guise of human form, behaving like human beings and addressing them directly in a human language like alien visitors, or undercover agents. One might wonder, however, if angels, when they are not on missions, have lives of their own and a language of their own, and what they look and sound like when they talk to one another. One might in that case reasonably suppose that, granting that they do share a language, it does not quite resemble our own. This is precisely the sort of seemingly absurd question to which thirteenth- century theologians dedicated themselves. Locutio angelica, the language of angels, was in a sense a scholastic invention, developed in great detail in numerous treatises devoted to the various forms and possibilities of angelic communication. Medieval theologians held angels to be entirely spiritual creatures whose language could only consist of an original form of immaterial communication, one not requiring the use of vocal signs. 1 They deployed a whole set of arguments to explain how immaterial beings could perform speech without properly speaking. It is as if they were trying to answer the question: What is [spoken] language without voice? From a modern point of view, angelology often seems like a borderline case of anthropology. This is probably why medieval discussions of locutio angelica, as puzzling as they might seem, have so held the attention of scholars during recent decades.2 Instead of setting this discussion in a strictly linguistic and epistemological perspective, as is most often done, I would like to focus on its political aspects. 3 As has long been seen by historians, angelology, throughout the whole Middle Ages, fostered 14 GHISLAIN CASAS abundant political refl ections on topics ranging from kingship to ecclesiastical power or social order. 4 Angels provided earthly political realities with what Georges Duby has called “the heavenly example (exemplarit é cé leste),” that is to say, an ideal model that could be contemplated and imitated by humans as far as possible.5 Discussions of locutio angelica, however, do not seem to have much to do with political issues. Why, then, should one consider reading them in a political perspective? The relation between the two subjects should become clearer when one recalls Aristotle’s idea, exposed in the beginning of the Politics , that political existence appears with the use of language.

It is also clear why a human being is more of a political animal [ πολιτικὸν ζῷον ] than a bee or any other gregarious animal [ἀγελαίου ζῴου ]. Nature makes nothing pointlessly, as we say, and no animal has speech [λόγον ] except a human being. A voice [ φωνὴ ] is a signifier [σημεῖον ] of what is pleasant or painful, which is why it is also possessed by the other animals (for their nature goes this far: they not only perceive what is pleasant or painful but signify [σημαίνειν ] it to each other). But speech [ λόγος ] is for making clear [δηλοῦν ] what is beneficial or harmful, and hence also what is just or unjust. For it is peculiar to human beings, in comparison to the other animals, that they alone have perception [ αἴσθησιν ] of what is good or bad, just or unjust, and the rest. And it is community [κοινωνία ] in these that makes a household and a city-state [ πόλιν ].6

What is the diff erence between a swarm of bees or a pack of wolves and human society that makes the latter truly political? While animal communication remains on the level of impressions and feelings, language makes it possible to clarify the true meaning of good and evil or justice and injustice. Aristotle’s theoretical move is here crucial: he grounds the very idea of politics on a series of oppositions—between gregariousness and sociability, perceptions and ideas, animality and humanity—which all revolve around the shift from voice ( phonè ) to speech ( logos ). Aristotle, in other words, equates the political living being and the speaking living being. How politics and language relate to one another remains however unclear. Is language a simple expression of human moral signifi cations, or is it the place where they fi rst appear? Language obviously plays an important part in political activity, but, more profoundly, Aristotle’s claim is that the very possibility of politics coincides with the shift from bare animal life (zo è ) to human linguistic existence ( bios ), something now staged or performed by the parting of voice and language.7 The crucial question therefore is not so much, “how is political life linked to language?” but more radically, “what is voice, such that it can turn into language, thus enabling political life?” In the History of Animals (the Historia Animalium ), Aristotle gives the following defi nition of voice:

Voice [φωνὴ ] and sound [ψόφος ] are different from one another; and language [ διάλεκτος ] differs from voice and sound. The fact is that no animal can give utterance to voice except by the action of the pharynx, and consequently such animals as are devoid of lung have no voice; and language is the articulation LOCUTIO ANGELICA 15

[ διάρθρωσις ] of voice by the tongue. Thus, the voice and larynx can emit vowel sounds [ φωνήεντα ]; consonantal [ ἄφωνα ] sounds are made by the tongue and the lips; and out of these language [ διάλεκτός ] is composed. 8

From a physiological point of view, language, voice, and sound are three diff erent things. Voice is, in the strictest sense, the peculiar vowel sound of the pharynx, as opposed to the consonantal sound of the tongue; and language ( dialektos ) is the articulation ( diarthr ôsis ) of those diff erent sounds. But one cannot understand what language is by reducing it to its mechanics. For instance, how can this articulation of vowels and consonants produce meaning? As one can read in Aristotle’s treatise On the Soul (De Anima ),

For, as we have said, not every sound [ψόφος ] made by an animal is voice [ φωνή ] (for it is possible to make a sound also with the tongue or as in coughing); but that which does the striking must have a soul [ ἔμψυχόν εἶναι ] and there must be a certain imagination [ μετὰ φαντασίας τινός ] (for voice is a particular sound which has meaning [σημαντικὸς ]). 9

It seems here that Aristotle is using the term “voice” in a broader sense. Far from being merely the sound made by the pharynx, voice stands for a peculiar kind of sound, a sound endowed with meaning (semantikos psophos ). Voice becomes the general name for a sound that carries soul ( empsuchon ) and imagination (meta phantasias )—that is to say, a sound that conveys the representations of an animated living being. For example, a word that signifi es the idea that someone has about something is a vocal sound. Is this not, however, precisely the defi nition of language? What is language but the articulation of sound and meaning? We seem to be dealing with a kind of circular defi nition: voice enables language to the extent that one presupposes that voice is sound with meaning. We might nevertheless turn this circularity into a positive feature, if we consider that what is common to Aristotle’s diff erent defi nitions of voice is the very idea of articulation. Voice is precisely the articulation of vowels and consonants, sound and meaning, animality and humanity, life and politics. The possibility of articulation is also that of dislocation; and it seems that politics, in their relation to voice, ambiguously rely upon both. As we all experience daily when we talk, as soon as voice turns into speech and that sound becomes meaning, it disappears, as if language necessarily and unceasingly enacted the split between animality and humanity. 10 Therefore politics cannot but begin when speech emerges and voice goes out. What would happen, then, for beings like angels whose language does not at all consist in the use of voice? Isn’t their language the perfect language—a language integrally political since literally voiceless? What would be the political meaning of a non-vocal language and of a voiceless speech community? It is from following such questions that the idea of locutio angelica becomes a political issue. In the remainder of this chapter, we will consider more closely the work of William of Auvergne (1190–1249) and Giles of Rome (1247–1316). Doing 16 GHISLAIN CASAS so will enable us to appreciate how and why linguistic and political problems intermingle in medieval angelology. More specifi cally, we will examine how the matter of voice and voicelessness raises highly political stakes in their respective treatments of locutio angelica.

The Paradoxes of Angelology A few decades before the great achievements of Thomas Aquinas and Bonaventure in the fi eld of angelology, 11 the bishop of Paris William of Auvergne gave a most precise and lively description of the angelic form of life in his De universo creaturarum . 12 Although his developments do not yet take the technical form of scholastic arguments, they presciently establish the main themes of medieval angelology. For theologians, one of the most challenging biblical references to angelic language was the text of Isaiah 6:2–3: “Above him stood the seraphim: each had six wings; with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he fl ew. And one called to another and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory.” 13 How were they to account for the Seraphs singing the Trisagion , proclaiming the divine glory to one another? It is clear here that angels are not carrying messages for humans, but are talking together. William raises the following question:

Sicut præ tetigi tibi in sermone illo, quo dictum est, quia Seraphim clamabat alter ad alterum; clamor enim hujusmodi non videtur fuisse clamor vocalis, sive vocis sensibilis; supervacue enim ad spirituales substantias fi ant, cum non deserviant nisi sensibus Prophet æ. Cum nec os, nec labia, nec lingua, nec palatum, nec alia instrumenta, quibus vox audibilis perfi citur, et clamor, sicut in animalibus, sint in hujusmodi susbstantiis, qualiter vox, vel clamor est apud eas? Et similiter, cum nec auris, nec auditus sit in eis, ad quid clamor sensibilis fi eret eis? Hoc igitur in sequentibus explicare tentabo. 14 [As I have already hinted to you in this text where it was said that a Seraph called to another; it is clear that such a clamor was not a vocal clamor, or the clamor of a sensible voice, for these would be useless to spiritual substances, since they are not destined to anything except the senses of the Prophet. Since in that kind of substances there are no mouth, no lips, no tongue, no palate, no other instruments that perfect the audible voice and cry, as we find in animals, what kind of voice or clamor is there in them? In the same way, since they have no ears and no hearing, to what kind of clamor would they be sensible? I will try to explain this later on.]

Sensible signs are absolutely useless for angels, except when they want to reach human beings—for example, when they reveal things to prophets. In the case of the seraphs talking to each other, communication has to be considered on a strictly spiritual level. William stresses, in an Aristotelian fashion, the link between the fact that angels do not have voice and the fact that they are not animals. In order to produce vocal sounds, animals are provided with mouths, lips, tongues, and in order to hear, they are provided with ears. All these are types of organs that angels, by nature, do not have. LOCUTIO ANGELICA 17

One has to remember that organs are only instruments—this is literally what the Greek term organon means. Language cannot be reduced to the instruments that partake in its production; the importance of refl ection on angelic language is to consider language apart from all sensible means, that is to say, to consider language in and of itself. If communication is possible without means of communication, then the idea of communication has to be worked through diff erently. The technical term used by theologians for such a mode of communication is illuminatio , illumination. Spiritual beings do not really talk to one another but rather illuminate one another, pour light on one another:

Unaquæ que namque hujus modi substantiarum verus liber spiritualis est lucidissim æ inscriptionis scientiarum naturalium, hoc est, qu æ in ipsa creatione sua eidem inscript æ sunt, et inditæ , similiter, et divinalium, hoc est earum, quas super illuminationem, sive inscriptionem creationis, divin æ bonitatis largitione recepe- runt. Quantum igitur voluerint, se aperiunt, et aspicientes in se legere permittunt, vel potius concedunt, quod est dicere, quot versus, seu sententias voluerint, ex jussione scilicet, et beneplacito creatoris, sine quibus, et extra qu æ, nihil omnino faciunt, et sunt ex omni modo, sicut specula materialia, et visibilia; sunt revera specula clarissima visibiliium, et invisibilium juxta quod mensuravit eis creator benedictus, imagines lucidissim æ redolentia, sive reddentia, verumtamen eousque su æ potestatis, ac libertatis, ut in eis nemo videat nisi inquantum ips æ voluerint. 15 [Each one of those substances is a true spiritual book bearing the bright inscription of the natural sciences that were inscribed and introduced in itself in its own creation, and of the divine sciences that they received, additionally from the illumination, that is to say, the inscription of creation, from the munificence of the divine goodness. As much as they want, they open themselves and allow the beholders to read in themselves, or rather they grant as many lines or sentences as they want, according, of course, to the order and the good pleasure of the creator, without which, and apart from which, they do absolutely nothing, and they are, in any way, like material and visible mirrors: they are indeed very bright mirrors of things visible and of things invisible inasmuch as the praised creator did measure for them, luminous images, exhaling, that is reflecting, however, to the extent of their own power and liberty, so that one can only see in them as much as they want.]

William depicts angels as both mirrors and books. They are books in which knowledge is inscribed, that is to say, in which God has written the whole creation and the ways of the divine providence. These books are therefore mirrors of things that refl ect creation and providence. Due to its intelligence, an angel is, like a book, a sum of knowledge; but this knowledge is more or less accessible according to its will, like a book that could decide on what page or what line it would open up. This very strange image of books mirroring things shows that angels do not really speak. In the process of illumination, knowledge and speech absolutely coincide. In order to communicate, angels need only to be present to one another. Speaking means absolutely nothing more than increasing or diminishing degrees of visibility and presence. One has to give up traditional models of communication. The metaphor of light shows that the study of angelic language belongs to optics more than to linguistics. Indeed, locutio angelica has almost nothing to do with what one usually 18 GHISLAIN CASAS calls language. First, there is nothing such as an angelic language in the way there are animal languages or human languages. Since angels directly manifest themselves to one another they do not use a common set of signs. Angelic speech appears to be a form of communication without medium: language without medium, so to speak. Second, since angels are like mirrors that virtually refl ect the light of divine illumination and decide the precise amount of light that they actually shed, the function of their language is not to tell things and to manifest them, but, on the contrary, to hide them and to silence them. Saying something means showing only this or that specifi c page of the whole book, while hiding the others. Speaking comes down to sharing information, giving or refusing access to data, rather than expressing things and addressing them to someone. Finally, there is something almost useless in the process of angelic communication. If angels do not really say things by using specifi c signs but only refl ect them by making themselves present and visible to one another, it is as if they never really spoke, as if nothing was ever really said. Such speech has no consistency or thickness, and one might wonder how it could produce or bear any kind of meaning at all. Although it is not made explicit in his text, William is working through the idea of hierarchy , borrowed from Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite.16 The term was coined from the Greek words hieros (sacred) and archè (power) in order to name the specifi c mode of organization of the angelic form of life. Hierarchy, as the Dionysian defi nition goes, is not only an order ( taxis ) but also knowledge (epistem è ) and activity ( energeia ). This means not only that angels are classifi ed in a hierarchical order, but also that this order coincides with their intellectual power and activity. The way they illuminate one another defi nes their respective ranks, in the sense that the access to more or less knowledge comes out as a hierarchical position. The stakes of the refl ection on locutio angelica thus concern the hierarchical activity of the angels; it seems that angels only communicate in order to confi rm their respective orders and ranks. William’s idea of hierarchy is even more strongly political than that of Dionysius. William describes the angelic hierarchy as a city-state, the political activity of which is as astonishing as the linguistic activity of its inhabitants.

Quia igitur talis est illa civitas sanctissimarum, ac beatissimarum substantiarum, ut omnino nec judicibus, nec magistratibus, nec aliis hujusmodi offi cialibus egeat: otiosi igitur, atque omnino inutils in ea essent; cum igitur ejus sit perfectionis, ac puritatis, ut nihil supervacuum, nihil inutile habere possit, mani- festum est hujusmodi principatus, aut potestates apud eam non esse; ubi enim unusquisque civium semetipsum per se laudabiliter regere suffi cit, et etiam regit, nec gubernatione alia, nec rectore alio opus est. Amplius. Qui principatus, et potestates, et rectores hujusmodi gubernationi civum illorum adderent, si eis præ essent? Nec enim pr æciperent, aut aliter facerent, quam faciant, cum omnia faciant, prout decet perfectionem glori æ, in qua sunt, status aut gloriæ ultimitas est perfectionis, ultimitas autam perfectionis non recipit additionem. Quare per hujusmodi dignitates, vel offi cia nihil potuit accrescere vel civitati illi glori æ, vel civibus illius; superfl ue igitur, et vane ponuntur quantum ad ipsam civitatem, vel cives illius. 17 LOCUTIO ANGELICA 19

[Since such is the city-state of the most holy and blessed substances, that it does not need judges, magistrates, or any other officials of that kind, they would be totally idle and useless. Since its perfection or its purity consists in that it doesn’t possess anything superfluous or useless, it is clear that there are no dominions or power of that type in it. Indeed, where any citizen can spontaneously and honorably govern himself, there is no need of another government or governor. Plus, what more would such dominions, powers, and governors bring to these citizens, if they led them? They would not command or do anything else than what they already do, since everyone does as is appropriate to the perfection of glory in which he stands. The status of ultimate glory is perfection, and ultimate perfection cannot be supplemented. That is why such functions and offices could not at all increase the glory of the city-state or of the citizens. Respective to the city-state itself or to its citizens, it is superfluous and pointless to postulate their existence.]

This city-state consists of an ideal order of morally perfect beings incapable of any injustice. Since no crime is ever committed, no sentence nor punishment is ever applied. That is why there are no magistrates, no judges, and no executioners. When actions and behaviors immediately coincide with justice, law becomes pointless. The same thing goes, on a broader level, for power and dominion. What kind of command or leadership could one need in a city-state where citizens already govern themselves? One cannot rule over a city where the citizens are literally angels. The angelic form of self-government undermines the very logic of government because it blurs the diff erence between citizen and governor, between the one who is governed and the one who governs. Citizens do not have any governors, and governors do not rule over any citizens. Politics are a supplement to nature that the angelic condition of glory renders absolutely useless, since it makes all magistrates and governors absolutely idle. It is as if William possessed a Kafkaesque vision of the profound absurdity of “celestial bureaucracy.” 18 Angelology thus touches at a paradox that lies at the heart of the idea of politics, namely, that the very aim or ideal of political power makes that power totally pointless. Strangely enough, the angelic city- state that is supposed to be the paradigm of all human political order appears to be a political charade; a carnival where citizens take on the role of their rulers, a mock political order without any power, and a kind of frenetic, yet inoperative, community. 19 At this point, one might wonder how, despite so many absurdities, angelic hierarchies can possibly represent a model for human societies. The parallel between William’s description of angelic linguistic activity and angelic political organization is both striking and subtle. In the one case, no meaning is ever truly communicated, just as in the other, no power is ever really exercised. Both are absolutely static orders, in which neither language nor power possess any consistency or eff ective realities, but instead, only structures. Yet they both paradoxically allow for a relentless activity of communication and government. Language and politics each seem to function in absolutely circular ways. The main function of language is the hierarchization of the angelic city-state, whose main activity is communicating and spreading the light of the illumina- tions. Put sharply: the angelic form of life consists of a series of empty gestures. 20 GHISLAIN CASAS

From Meaning to Power Probably because of such paradoxes, medieval theologians did their utmost to refi ne the theory of locutio angelica and to conceive of a proper form for immaterial communication. The work of Giles of Rome holds particular interest because it places strong emphasis on the political dimension of the question. His De cognitione angelorum develops an especially sophisticated theory of angelic language, something which has not escaped scholarly attention. 20 For our purposes here, the important thing to note is that Giles’s originality lies in his explicit assertion that angels are able to do in their speech on a solely intellectual level that which humans do on both intellectual and sensible levels, that is to say, to think about something and express it through voice. Therefore, says Giles, the angel’s voice is, so to speak, “some kind of intelligible sign ( aliquod signum intelligibile ).” 21 The question we must ask is what this irruption of voice in the intellectual sphere could possibly mean. In the case of angels, the diff erence between thinking (cogitatio ) and speaking ( locutio ) can no longer parallel the distinction between ideas and their manifestation through sensible means. Angels do not need signs to disclose the ideas they think about, but rather to express them, that is to say, to turn ideas into proper speech acts. Indeed, the act of speaking implies a shift from the logical sphere of universal concepts to the pragmatic sphere of concrete individuals communicating with one another. Intelligible signs manifest, in addition to what is said , the fact that it is said and more precisely, that it is said by one angel to another one (ad alterum ). In linguistic terms, they belong to enunciation rather than to statement. 22 What one might call an angel’s “voice” thus stands for the phatic and pragmatic components of language that convert logical relations into intersubjective and social relationships. Surprisingly then, it seems that what locutio angelica is fundamentally about is a form of social praxis. The bottom line of the argument that justifi es the idea of angelic speech is political. Giles writes,

Immo ex quo homo est naturaliter animal communicativum, ut in arguendo dicebatur, et ex quo est animal naturaliter politicum, ut probatur in Politicis, quia ex hoc homo maxime est animal communicativum et politicum, quia potest per sermonem exprimere suos conceptus, oportet quod sermo sit homini naturalis, et multo magis locutio erit naturalis in angelis. 23 [Plus, from that which makes man naturally a communicative animal, as has been argued, and from that which makes him naturally a political animal, as proved in the Politics —since it is precisely because of that that man is a communicative and political animal, because he can express his concepts by means of speech—it seems that speech is natural for man and much more will it be for angels.]

These words in Giles’s argument bear witness to an event that would deeply infl uence medieval political thought. I refer to William of Moerbeke’s translation of Aristotle’s Politics , completed by the end of the 1260s. 24 From our perspective, the reading of Aristotle brings about a decisive change.25 Politics are directly linked to linguistic capacity and cannot be conceived without thinking through LOCUTIO ANGELICA 21 the notion of speech. This means that voice has somehow to play a part in political thought. Giles reasons as follows: if, on the one hand, angels are the political models of men and if, on the other, men naturally possess language and politics, than angels should also naturally possess each of these. In this Giles follows the idea that sicut in hominis, ita in angelis —as it goes with men, so it goes with angels. It is quite diffi cult to say, however, if Giles is only projecting the human faculty of speech onto angels, or whether he formulates a valid a fortiori argument based on the superiority of angels over men. What kind of a good is speech that it is so essential to angelic perfection? Giles answers:

Si non posset aliter loqui angelus angelo, videretur quod perfectio angeli depend- erer ex corpore. Nam hoc est magne perfectionis in creatura rationali sive in creatura intellectuali, quod possit suum conceptum et suam voluntatem manifestare alteri. Nam . . . nullius sine socio iocunda est possessio. Si igitur non possent angeli sibi invicem manifestare voluntatis iudicia, quilibet angelus sic se haberet ad alium ac si non haberet societatem eius. Hoc ergo est magne iocunditatis et magne perfectionis in rebus intellectualibus quod possunt sibiinvicem manifestare conceptus et declarare aff ectiones.26 [If an angel could not speak to an angel in another way, it would appear that the perfection of the angels would depend on bodies. The greatest perfection for a rational or a spiritual creature is that it can manifest to others its concepts and its will. And . . . possession is enjoyable to no one without a companion. If angels were not able to manifest to each other the judgments of their will, the relation of one angel toward another would not be that of society. Thus the greatest enjoyment and the greatest perfection in intellectual substances is that they can manifest concepts to each other and declare affections.]

The perfection of angelic life depends on the ability to speak because speaking enables sociability, and sociability is a source of joy. Here Giles follows a traditional idea inherited from Seneca, according to which one cannot possess anything joyfully without a companion (nullius sine socio iocunda est possessio ); anything that one owns one should share. 27 What makes life joyful is the possibility of sharing what one thinks by talking with others. This appears clearly as concerns angels, since angels do not need to speak in order to learn something from one other, but rather do so in order to experience sociability. However, what is at stake here is not just talking for the sake of talking. Angels do not “say nothing”; on the contrary, they share ideas. The point is that they don’t do so because they need to, but rather because it is pleasurable. At work here is a very subtle logic that intertwines two diff erent lines of causality. On the fi rst level, angels speak in order to say something, but on another level, what they aim at is the pleasure and joy of talking. In order to understand the latter, one should not isolate it from the former. What we enjoy when we talk is the fact that we talk, more even than what we are saying, yet we wouldn’t be able to enjoy this talking if we weren’t saying anything. To say this another way, the pleasure of speaking cannot be fully realized when the language used is empty of content. On the contrary, the enjoyment we receive from using our voices 22 GHISLAIN CASAS comes as a surplus to conversation’s exchange of ideas. One might say, rephrasing a Lacanian formula, that meaning is the goal of language, whereas enjoyment is its aim. 28 Language only generates enjoyment as a by-product, or side eff ect, of its usage.29 There is something in language that cannot be completely absorbed by meaning. Angelology makes it clear that this remainder cannot be reduced to sound. It rather corresponds to the pure act of enunciation. This, then, is angelic voice at its purest. The consequence of this interpretation is that sociability comes down to a by-product of linguistic activity, a surplus value added to the linguistic production of meaning. Language is not simply the condition that enables social life; language produces social life in the most literal sense. It would seem that politics exist from the moment when beings begin talking and discussing things. Giles makes this point clear when he comments on Aristotle:

Probatur enim in principio secundi libri, ex parte sermonis hominem esse naturaliter animal sociale, eo quod per sermonem acquirimus instructionem et disci- plinam. Hoc aut ex parte sermonis ostendere possumus hominem esse naturaliter animal politicum et civile, ex eo quod vox humana, qu æ dicitur sermo, est aliter signifi cativa, quam vox brutorum. Unde Philosophus ait in I Politicorum quod in aliis animalibus ab homine, usque ad hoc eorum natura peruenit, ut vox sit eis signum delectabilis et tristabilis, ut habeant sensum delectabilem et tristabilem: hoc enim sibi invicem per vocem signifi cant. Canis enim eo quod latrat, aliter latrat cum delectatur et cum tristatur potest alteri cani per suum latratum signifi care tristitiam, vel delectationem quam habet. Sed hominibus ultra hoc datus est sermo, per quem distincte signifi catur quid conferens, quid nocivum, et quid iustum, et quid iniustum.30 [It has been proved in the beginning of book two [of the Politics ], from the point of view of speech that man is naturally a social animal because by means of speech we acquire instruction and discipline. We can also show from the point of view of speech that man is naturally a political and civil animal because human voice, which is called speech, does not signify in the same way as that of brutes. Therefore the Philosopher said in the first book of the Politics that in animals other than man, so far as their nature allows, since voice is a sign for them of what is pleasurable and sad, and since they have a sense of what is pleasurable and what is sad, they signify these things to each other by the use of voice. Dogs, because they bark, bark dif- ferently when they are happy and when they are sad and can signify their sadness or their happiness to other dogs by means of their barking. But men on top of this are given speech, by means of which they can distinctly signify what is useful and what is harmful, what is just and what is unjust.]

In this passage Giles is commenting upon the Aristotelian idea that men differ from other animals by the political dimension of their existence, which is linked to their specifi c use of language. Dogs can communicate their immediate impressions by barking sadly or happily, but their barking does not imply anything about what is just or unjust. On the contrary, man’s use of voice, which is called speech (sermo ), almost necessarily determines the meaning of “good” or “bad.” When a person says “this is good” instead of whooping or even moaning with pleasure, he declares something more than “I like it.” He already makes a LOCUTIO ANGELICA 23 judgment about what constitutes “good” and what “good” means. His statement carries a certain minimum implicit idea of what the Good is. Human linguistic communication is political because it determines the values around which social life is organized. Of course, these meanings are hardly ever unequivocal and are permanently a point of discussion, if not of quarrel. Giles notes:

In civitate enim, ubi cives habent possessiones proprias et distinctas, consurgunt lites et litigia, quid iustum et quid non iustum: quod non proprie sit in domo, ubi totum ad patremfamilias pertinere videtur. Diff ert ergo civitas a domo; quia, in ea non solum qu æritur quid conferens et quid nocivum, sed etiam quid iustum et quid iniustum. 31 [In citizenship, where citizens possess things properly and distinctively, arise quarrels and disputes, things just and things unjust, which do not really exist in the domestic sphere, where everything seems to belong to the Paterfamilias. The city- state differs from the domestic sphere, then, since in the first, one does not only seek what is useful and what is harmful, but also what is just and what is unjust.]

What defi nes the political sphere, opposed here to the domestic sphere, is precisely the disagreement over what constitutes justice or injustice. The diff erence between man and animal does not lie in speech as a faculty of communication, but rather in the capacity for disagreement and miscommunication. With language come quarrels and disputes over what has been said, and politics are nothing other than a constant discussion or dispute over what is good and what is bad, what is just or unjust. Language, in this perspective, is not what brings people together and enables community, but instead that which manifests their diff erences, names the discrepancy between points of views, or results in the impossibility of an agreement. If man did not speak, politics would not arise because politics are a way of addressing the deadlocks of language itself. To take this idea a step further, it seems to me that the disagreement about the meanings of these words good or bad is not, in the end, a logical or cognitive problem but instead a linguistic one. The problem is not that we do not know what good and bad are and mean, but that we cannot use language without implicitly indicating what they are, without imposing a meaning. Every act of speaking contains a declaration or a statement. Meaning always comes through an act of power, even of violence. In this way, language does not enable politics so much as it compels us to them. Here again, one has to consider language from the point of view of enunciation. Enunciation, as opposed to what is enunciated, consists precisely in taking up a position and subjectively assuming the meaning of words. Voice, then, is the dimension of speech that refers not to words but to the assumption and imposition of their meaning on others. 32 We fi nd striking evidence of Aristotle’s infl uence on Giles’s angelology in the treatise De ecclesiastica potestate ( On Ecclesiastical Power ), where Giles depicts the political activity of angels in terms of disputes and disagreements.

Sunt enim in angelis discordie, sunt in eis litigia, sunt in eis pugne: sine omni tamen peccato et sine omni culpa. Sunt enim in eis discordie, loquendo de discor- dia large, quando unus vult unum et alius vult aliud. 24 GHISLAIN CASAS

In hiis ergo litigiis angelorum et in hiis discordiis, Deus facit concordiam quando docet angelos quid fieri vult de eo quod litigant. 33 [For there are discords among the angels; there are disputes among them; there are contests among them: wholly without sin, however, and wholly without fault. For, speaking of discord in a broad sense, such discords occur among them when one wishes one thing and another wishes another. In these disputes of the angels, therefore, and in these discords, God establishes concord when He instructs the angels as to what He wishes them to do in the matter over which they are in dispute.]

In order to understand the complexity of Giles’s argument, it is important to recall its historical context, namely, the quarrel between Pope Boniface VIII and French king Philip the Fair about the superiority of spiritual power over temporal power. Giles’s treatise develops a theocratic argument: in the same way that God solves the angelic quarrels, the pope should solve temporal political disagreements and rule over temporal powers. His text later exerted a signifi cant infl uence on the 1302 Papal Bull Unam Sanctam . 34 Giles interprets angelic disagreements as verbal jousts. Angels have diff erent opinions ( discordie ), they express opposed arguments ( litigia ) and they resist one another’s arguments (pugne ). Therefore God, the ultimate judge, must intervene and solve the argument. There is a clear tension here between two levels: one is the level of politics, which is an area of discord and disorder; the other is the level of providential government, which takes the form of a hierarchical order. In the fi rst, angels can discuss, argue, and quarrel, whereas in the second, they must obey God’s orders. 35 Giles’s strategy consists of subor- dinating the fi rst to the second, in order to justify (on another level still) the supremacy of papal power over secular political power. The tension between two diff erent political models clearly overlaps with the tension between Giles’s sources—one being the Aristotelian model of politics and the other the Dionysian model of hierarchy. Giles, no less than William, is a supporter of the hierarchical conception of power. Unlike his pre- decessor, he cannot, however, ignore the reality of political confl icts and the constituent dimension of discord in political life, most probably because of the context in which he writes. Therefore, even if what resolves the deadlocks of political life is the hierarchical principle that, paradoxically, resembles domestic rule with its ultimate decisions by the Paterfamilias, it is only because of disputes and discords that the hierarchical solution makes sense. It is only when there are many discordant voices that one may rise and impose itself on the others, just as God’s voice silences the angels’ clamor.

Voice as a Political Category In the short half-century that stands between the writings of William of Auvergne and those of Giles of Rome, the translation and infl uence of Aristotle’s philosophy represent a major change, which, in the case of angelology, partly explains the theoretical diff erences between the two thinkers. More precisely, Giles’s analysis of locutio angelica and of its political signifi cance bears evidence of the strategic role played by a certain idea of the voice. This idea, however, does not seem to conform to the Aristotelian conception of the voice that was taken as a LOCUTIO ANGELICA 25 starting point. Whereas Aristotle situates voice on the level of the materiality of speech (i.e., sound, as opposed to sense), the idea that seems to be at work more or less implicitly in Giles’s angelology stresses the immateriality of voice and its diff erence from speech. Though this “Lacanian” idea of voice hardly belongs to Scholastic thought—or at least, was never there conceptualized as such—I fi nd it relevant to the issue. As we have seen in Aristotle, voice cannot be reduced to either sound (psophos) or speech (logos); nor does it easily fi t in the space between them. We might draw from this point what Mladen Dolar calls the paradoxical ontology or topology of the voice: voice constitutes an elusive object that belongs neither to sound nor to language, but stands somehow in between the two in an impossible locus. 36 As we have seen earlier, the ambiguity attached to the voice lies at the root of politics, in that, being common to animal sounds and to human words, voice enables the shift from bare animal life to political existence. What might be called “mere” voice such as belongs to animals is excluded from the polis . Yet since language is wrapped in voice, the voice can be seen as the very locus of politics. In principle, angelology, with the scholastic concept of locutio angelica, should give us the model of a pure spiritual communication, freed from any attachment to the voice. This is indeed the case with William of Auvergne, whose idea of angelic communication more resembles an optical device where luminous signals fl icker than a proper language in which people speak. We have tried to show how William’s theory of angelic language works together with his hierarchical conception of political order, leading him to some rather absurd consequences, patent in the picture he draws of the angelic city-state. It thus seems that in the political transition from animality to humanity, angelology does not represent the next step (so to speak), a step where language and politics would reach their proper spiritual nature. Quite to the contrary, voice appears as a necessary dimension of political life. It may well be that politics comes down to the experience of voice itself, which is to say, the experience of continuous shift from animality to humanity, enacted by the production of meaning out of the sound that we call language. However, with Giles of Rome, angelology confronts us with an even more paradoxical idea of the voice: that of an ethereal or immaterial voice ( signum intelligibile ), which coincides with the pure act of enunciation, regardless of any kind of bodily existence. The paradox here lies in the fact that voice is not even distinguished from sound any more but only from language—to use Lacan’s words again, “non par rapport à la musique, mais par rapport à la parole.”37 Voice appears as a principle of disturbance that produces a short-circuit in the very functioning of language and that opens it up to its political dimension, whether of collective enjoyment or of dispute and polemics. If, ultimately, Giles advocates a hierarchical model of power in his treatise on ecclesiastical power (De ecclesiastica potestate ), it is nonetheless premised on an analysis of politics aware of the necessity of discord. All that clamor of angelic voices shall eventually cease under the supreme authority of the divine, but for a brief moment, in the discourse of the theologian, locutio angelica, the ideal language without voice, shows its unexpected underside, voice without language. 26 GHISLAIN CASAS

Notes 1 . On the question of angelic bodies, see Marcia L. Colish, “Early Scholastic Angelology,” Recherches de th é ologie ancienne et m é dié vale 62 (1995): 80–109; reprinted as Chapter 14 of Colish, Studies in Scholasticism (Aldershot, UK; Burlington, VT: Ashgate Variorum, 2006). 2 . See especially, Jean-Louis Chré tien, “Le langage des anges selon la scolastique,” Critique 35 (1979): 674–89; Irè ne Rosier-Catach, “Le parler des anges et le n ôtre,” in “Ad ingenii acuitionem”: Studies in Honour of Alfonso Maier ù , ed. Stefano Caroti et al. (Louvain-la-Neuve: FIDEM, 2006), 377–401; Theo Kobusch, “The Language of Angels: On the Subjectivity and Intersubjectivity of Pure Spirits,” in Angels in Medieval Philosophical Inquiry: Their Function and Significance , ed. Isabel Iribarren and Martin Lenz (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2008), 131–42; Bernd Roling, Locutio angelica: die Diskussion der Engelsprache als Antizipation einer Sprechakttheorie in Mittelalter und fr ü her Neuzeit (Leiden: Brill, 2008). 3 . For the epistemological aspects of this question, see, for example, Claude Panaccio, Le Discours int érieur: De Platon à Guillaume d’Ockham (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1999), 219–27. 4 . See Ernst H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Universiy Press, 1959). 5 . See Georges Duby, The Three Orders: Feudal Society Imagined , trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 110–19. 6 . Aristotle, Politics , I, 2, 1253a 7–18, trans. C. D. C. Reeve (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Company, 1998), 4. 7 . The double articulation of phon è /logos and zoè /polis in Aristotle is the starting point of a reflection on the link between sovereignty and biopolitics in Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life , trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998). 8 . Aristotle, The History of Animals , IV, 9, 535a 27–535b 1, trans. D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson, in The Complete Works of Aristotle, The Revised Oxford Translation , ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 1:90. 9 . Aristotle, De Anima , II, 8, 420 b 29–33, trans. D. W. Hamlyn, De Anima, Books II and III with Passages from Book I (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 33. 10 . Robert Stanton’s study of animal riddles in chapter 2 of this volume shows precisely how Aristotelian distinctions between sound and sense, or man and animal, can be blurred through poetic work about the plasticity of voice. 11 . For an overview, see Serge-Thomas Bonino, Les Anges et les d émons: Quatorze leç ons de thé ologie (Paris: Parole et Silence, 2007); and Barbara Faes de Mottoni, San Bonaventura e la scala di Giaccobe: Letture di angelologia (Naples: Bibliopolis, 1995). 12 . Despite the importance of William’s contribution to medieval angelology, scholars have not studied this theme as much as they have studied other aspects of William’s thought. The main reference on the topic remains Berthold Vallentin, “Der Engelstaat: zur mittelalterlichen Anschauung vom Staate (bis auf Thomas von Aquino),” in Grundrisse und Bausteine zur Staats- und Geschichtslehre [ . . . ] , ed. Kurt Breysig et alia (Berlin: G. Bondi, 1908), 41–120. On William’s thought, see Roland J. Teske, Studies in the Philosophy of William of Auvergne, Bishop of Paris, 1228–1249 (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2006). On topics close to angelology, see William of Auvergne, The Providence of God Regarding the Universe: Part Three of the First Principal Part of “The Universe of Creatures , ” ed. and trans. Roland LOCUTIO ANGELICA 27

J. Teske (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2007); and Thomas B. de Mayo, The Demonology of William of Auvergne: By Fire and Sword (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 2007). 13 . Cited from the Revised Standard Version. 14 . William of Auvergne, De universo creaturarum , IIae partis pars II, cap. CXLV, in Guilielmi Alverni Episcopi Parisiensis . . . Opera omnia . . . , Tomus primus (Paris: Andræ am Pralard, 1674), 994 h. All translations are my own except where otherwise indicated. 15 . William of Auvergne, De universo creaturarum , IIae partis pars II, cap. CLI, at 999 d. 16 . See Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, “The Celestial Hierarchy,” in Pseudo- Dionysius: The Complete Works , trans. Colm Luibheid (New York: Paulist Press, 1987), 143–91; see page 153 for the definition of hierarchy. On the question of hierarchy in William’s thought, see David Luscombe, “The Hierarchies in the Writings of Alan of Lille, William of Auvergne and St. Bonaventure,” in Iribarren and Lenz, Angels in Medieval Philosophical Inquiry , 15–28; and David Luscombe, “Conceptions of Hierarchy before the Thirteenth Century,” in Soziale Ordnungen im Selbstverstä ndnis des Mittelalters , ed. Albert Zimmermann (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1979), 1–19. 17 . William of Auvergne, De universo creaturarum , IIae partis pars II, cap. CIX, at 960 f-h. 18 . On angelic hierarchy as bureaucracy, see Giorgio Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory: For a Theological Genealogy of Economy and Government (Homo Sacer II, 2) , trans. Lorenzo Chiesa with Matteo Mandarini (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011), Chapter 6: “Angelology and Bureaucracy,” 144–64. 19 . I allude here to Jean-Luc Nancy, The Inoperative Community , ed. and trans. Peter Connor et al. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991). 20 . Detailed analysis of Giles’s theory can be found in Ir ène Rosier-Catach, “Une forme particuli ère de langage mental, la locutio angelica, selon Gilles de Rome et ses contemporains,” in Le langage mental du Moyen Age à l’ âge classique , ed. Jo ë l Biard (Louvain- la-Neuve: Editions de l’Institut sup é rieur de philosophie, 2009), 61–93; Tiziana Suarez-Nani, Connaissance et langage des anges selon Thomas d’Aquin et Gilles de Rome (Paris: J. Vrin, 2002); and Barbara Faes de Mottoni, “Voci, ‘alfabeto’ e altri segni delgi angeli nella Quaestio XII del De cognitione angelorum di Egidio Romano,” in Medioevo 14 (1988): 71–105. For an overview of Giles’s position in the scholastic debate, see Bernd Roling, “Angelic Language and Communication,” in A Companion to Angels in Medieval Philosophy , ed. Tobias Hoffmann (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 223–60. 21 . Giles of Rome, In secundum librum Sententiarum , dist. 10, q. 3 (Venice, 1581), fol. 482. The background of Giles argument is Augustine’s theory of the verbum , developed in De Trinitate XV. See On the Trinity, Books 8 –15, ed. Gareth B. Matthews, trans. Stephen McKenna (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 22 . On the distinction between enunciation ( é nonciation ) and statement ( é nonc é ), see Emile Benveniste, Probl è mes de linguistique g é n érale , 2 vols. (Paris: Gallimard, 1966 and 1974), in particular: “De la subjectivit é dans le langage,” 1:258–66; “L’appareil formel de l’ énonciation,” 2:79–88; and “La forme et le sens dans le langage,” 2:215–38. 23 . Giles of Rome, De cognitione angelorum , q. 12, in Egidius Romanus: De esse et essentia, De mensura angelorum et De cognitione angelorum (Venice, 1503), 112 va-vb. 24 . For these translations, see Aristotelis Politicorum libri octo: cum vetusta translatione Guilelmi Moerbeka , ed. F. Susemihl (Leipzig: Teubner, 1872); and Politica: libri I–II.11: translatio prior imperfecta interprete Guillelmo de Moerbeka , ed. Pierre Michaud- Quantin (Bruges and Paris: Desclé e de Brouwer, 1967). 28 GHISLAIN CASAS

25 . On the difference between pre- and post-Aristotelian medieval political thought, see, The Cambridge History of Medieval Political Thought c.350–c.1450 , ed. J. H. Burns (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), in particular: David. E. Luscombe, Chapter 8: “Introduction: The Formation of Political Thought in the West,” 157–73; and J. P. Canning, Chapter 13: “Introduction: Politics, Institutions and Ideas,” 341–66. 26 . Giles of Rome, De cognitione angelorum , q. 12, at 112vb. 27 . In the De regimine principum , Giles uses the same passage in identifying the first good of Aristotle’s idea of civitas . See Aegidii Columnae Romani . . . De regimine principium, Lib. III (Rome: Bartholomeus Zannettus, 1607), 542. For the original text by Seneca, see Letter VI, “On Sharing Knowledge,” in Ad Lucilium epistulae morales , trans. Richard M. Gummere, vol. 1 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917). 28 . Lacan uses this distinction, in English, to distinguish desire and drive. See The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book XI: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis , ed. Jacques-Alain Miller, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: W. W. Norton, 1981), 179. 29 . I refer to Lacan’s well-known theory of surplus-enjoyment ( plus-de-jouir ), expounded in the sixteenth seminar, as yet untranslated. Le Sé minaire de Jacques Lacan, Livre XVI: D’un autre à l’autre, 1968–1969 , ed. Jacques-Alain Miller (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 2006). 30 . Giles of Rome, De regimine principium , pars I, lib. III, cap. IV, at 409–10. 31 . Giles of Rome, De regimine principium , pars I, lib. III, cap. IV, at 409–10. 32 . This comes close to the fact that voice is traditionally given the power to imple- ment law, rituals, official decrees, and so on. On the theme of viva voce , see Mladen Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006), 107–12; cf. the essay by Bruno Lemesle in chapter 4 of this collection, especially as regards the role of voice in the construction of community. 33 . Giles of Rome, On Ecclesiastical Power , Part III, Chapter III, in Giles of Rome: On Ecclesiastical Power: A Medieval Theory of World Government , ed. and trans. Robert W. Dyson (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), 305–307. 34. On the quarrel between spiritual and temporal powers in the Middle Ages, see J. A. Watt, “Spiritual and Temporal Powers,” in Burns, The Cambridge History of Medieval Political Thought , 367–423 (Chapter 14). 35 . One might think of the notion of “politics” that Jacques Ranciè re opposes to “police.” Ranci è re, Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy , trans. Julie Rose (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999). 36 . See Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More . 37 . “La voix dont il s’agit, c’est la voix en tant qu’impé rative, en tant qu’elle r é clame ob é - issance ou conviction. Elle se situe, non par rapport à la musique, mais par rapport à la parole,” Le Sé minaire de Jacques Lacan, Livre X: L’angoisse, 1962–1963 , ed. Jacques-Alain Miller (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 2004), 319. (“The voice at issue here is the voice as an imperative, a voice that demands obedience or conviction. It is not situated in relation to music, but in relation to speech.” Jacques Lacan, Anxiety: The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book X, ed. Jacques-Alain Miller, trans. A. R. Price [Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2014], 276.) For a different treatment of the musicality of the voice, also in relation to angels, see Andrew Albin, “Listening for Canor in Richard Rolle’s Melos amoris,” chapter 10 of this volume.

CHAPTER 2

MIMICRY, SUBJECTIVITY, AND THE EMBODIED VOICE IN ANGLO-SAXON BIRD RIDDLES

Robert Stanton

he riddles of Anglo-Saxon England offer a rich field in which to explore Tthe nature, operation, and function of voice as a fundamental aspect of language. The notion of voice was central to ancient and early medieval theories of cognition and language, and the same people who composed and compiled Anglo-Saxon riddles also drew on the grammatical tradition to write about human communication in its various linguistic, grammatical, and literary forms. Riddles entered the Anglo-Saxon tradition through the work of the shadowy late-antique writer Symphosius; were popularized by the scholar, churchman, and virtuosic poet and prose writer Aldhelm (ca. 639–709); and continued to be in vogue through the eighth century, with collections by the ecclesiastics Boniface, Tatwine, and Eusebius. Aldhelm himself wrote extensively on poetic and rhetorical forms, while Boniface and Tatwine both wrote grammatical treatises as well as riddle collections. 1 The 90-odd Old English riddles in the renowned Exeter Book (Exeter Cathedral Library, ms. 3501) were probably written by various people; although they were most likely compiled sometime around the date of the manuscript ( ca. 965–975), there are indications that some may date from as early as the eighth century. 2 The creators of the Old English riddles very likely worked in a monastic milieu, as did the Anglo-Latin riddlers; numerous sources, as well as generic and stylistic features, connect the Old English and Latin riddles. We can thus be confident that a shared vocabulary and core ideas were held in common by those creating the riddles and those writing about voice. The history of sound and voice is both broad and deep, since most major philosophers and grammarians incorporated these elements into taxonomies of human and nonhuman animals, theories of expression, and discussions about the social and cultural functions of communication. Situating Anglo-Saxon riddles within this philosophical stream is made easier by the traceability of 30 ROBERT STANTON some key ideas from Aristotle through to the Stoic and late-antique grammatical traditions. This chapter explores the relationship between natural, instinctive utterance, and conventional, institutionally meaningful signifi cation, from their roots in classical language theory to their role in creating complex and ambiguous possibilities for the reception of Old English enigmatic poetry. As we will see, these riddles deploy animal narrators who are aware of their roles within human signifying systems in ways that provoke larger questions about the boundaries between articulate and inarticulate sounds and between rational and irrational animals. The intellectual and cultural worlds of Anglo-Saxon England provided fertile and hospitable environments for riddling and other enigmatic literary forms. The description and interpretation of the physical world and its relation to economic usefulness, exemplary morality, the functioning of social and political institutions, and patterns of divine order were all serious processes given a playful cast by a genre characterized by rich metaphorical correspondences, multiple coexistent meanings, and microcosmic representations of large and mysterious cosmological forces. Anglo-Saxon riddles, often written by the same monastic fi gures who wrote about the structures and functions of language and thought, continually enacted a dramatized form of education, in which the reader or hearer is challenged to imagine a thing’s qualities and relate them to larger patterns. This challenge was often framed using conventional formulas such as saga hw æ t ic hatte (“say what I am called”) or ic seah sellic þing (“I saw a strange thing”). 3 A large proportion of the several hundred surviving Anglo-Latin and Old English riddles either have animal narrators or describe animals and thus off er a rich repertoire of embodied voices. In this chapter I will focus on riddlic birds, whose vocal performances are sites of a self-referential and overdetermined function of voice, as a concept that is embodied (because the creatures refer to their own proper, unique sounds), naturalized (because they purport to make those sounds instinctively, as part of a divine ordering of nature), self-conscious (because they are aware of their functions in a human world), and performative (because they translate their embodied and useful voices into an aesthetic and public realm). Analyzing the nature and function of vocal register in these poems allows a deep engagement with the elements of this enigmatic genre. In the riddle-form “I saw or heard of a creature . . . name it,” an audible human challenger uses ambiguity to baffl e the riddle’s would-be solver, and thus has to maintain a fl uid and deceptive relationship to his listener. In the form “I am a creature who,” ending with the implicit or explicit injunction to “say what I am called,” the riddle’s speaker and its solution are the same; the poem’s narrative deception deepens to incorporate the speaker’s deliberate self-distortion of its own identity, the way it perceives itself, and its role in the human world. In both cases, the concept of “voice” must be an extraordinarily nimble and adaptable one in order to modulate a series of complex negotiations between subject, speaker, and hearer. Relationships between speaker, meaningful sound, and communicative voice, in poetic discourse and elsewhere, have been extensively interrogated since the classical period. Aristotle’s seminal distinction in De Anima between sound ( phonè ) MIMICRY, SUBJECTIVITY, AND THE EMBODIED VOICE 31 and voice ( psophos ) has already been remarked upon in the introduction and fi rst chapter of this collection. Voice is a faculty of the soul, communicated by air, and that straddles Aristotle’s top two tiers of the soul: that is, the locomotive and sensory soul shared by humans and animals and the rational soul possessed only by humans. (Note also that only animals who possess windpipes can have a voice.) As such, humans and air-breathing animals share the central characteristics of voice: voluntarily emitted, having a communicative function, and associated with a mental image existing within the soul. Elsewhere, in De interpretatione , Aristotle further explains the relation between the soul, sounds, and communication:

Ἔστι μὲν οὖν τὰ ἐν τῆι φωνῆι τῶν ἐν τῆι ψυχῆι παθημάτων σύμβολα , καὶ τὰ γραφόμενα τῶν ἐν τῆι φωνῆι . . . ὧν μέντοι ταῦτα σημεῖα πρώτων , ταὐτὰ πᾶσι παθήματα τῆς ψυχῆς , καὶ ὧν ταῦτα ὁμοιώματα , πράγματα ἤδη ταὐτά . . . Ὄνομα μὲν οὖν ἐστὶ φωνὴ σημαντικὴ κατὰ συνθήκην ἄνευ χρόνου , ἧς μηδὲν μέρος ἐστὶ σημαντικὸν κεχωρισμένον . . . τὸ δὲ κατὰ συνθήκην , ὅτι φύσει τῶν ὀνομάτων οὐδέν ἐστιν , ἀλλ ’ ὅταν γένηται σύμβολον , ἐπεὶ δηλοῦσί γέ τι καὶ οἱ ἀγράμματοι ψόφοι , οἷον θηρίων , ὧν οὐδέν ἐστιν ὄνομα . [Now spoken sounds are symbols (σύμβολα ) of affections in the soul, and written marks symbols of spoken sounds . . . But what these are in the first place (πρώτων ) signs ( σημεῖα ) of—affections of the soul—are the same for all; and what these affections are likenesses ( ὁμοιώματα ) of—actual things—are also the same . . . A name is a spoken sound significant by convention, without time, none of whose parts is significant in separation . . . I say “by convention” because no name is a name naturally but only when it has become a symbol. Even inarticulate noises (of beasts, for instance), do indeed reveal something, yet none of them is a name.] 4

Spoken sounds, then, are symbols of aff ections ( pathemata ) in the soul, but they are in the fi rst place signs (semeia ) of those aff ections. The semeion is a natural sign or symptom and as such is shared by human and animal voices. Vocal sounds become symbols, in an articulated system of relations, only when they are assigned meanings by convention. An animal cannot speak a name (or noun) because names and nouns signify only within a system of language, which is a specifi cally human institution. Yet there is a degree of continuity between the natural signifi cation of the sign and the conventionalized signifi cation of the symbol. As Lia Formigari has noted, in the Poetics , Aristotle “derives the arts of language from the bodily arts of dance and rhythm and organizes them in a series according to the extent they employ bodily or musical rhythm. Similarly, in [Aristotle’s] Rhetorics , prosody contributes to the production of meaning through opening and closing clauses of the sentence that serve to distinguish the syntactic and semantic units.”5 Natural and conventional systems of signifi cation thus exist on a continuum and in relation to one another. This genetic derivation of persuasive language from natural sounds and rhythms plays out vividly in the context of orally based poetry. Old English verse possessed a highly conventionalized form whose sound patterns—especially alliteration, assonance, and stress—gesture to natural systems, not only of human speech but also of animal noises and the rhythms of the natural world. The opening riddle of the Exeter Book collection, which depicts a storm at sea complete with thunder and 32 ROBERT STANTON lightning, provides a stunning example. 6 As for the question of voice, the clearest illustration of the tight relationship between the sounds of the animal world and the aesthetic forms of Old English verse occurs in Exeter Book Riddle 24, whose narrator is a creature with many talents:

Ic eom wunderlicu wiht— wr æ sne mine stefne: hwilum beorce swa hund, hwilum blæ te swa gat, hwilum græ de swa gos, hwilum gielle swa hafoc. Hwilum ic onhyrge þone haswan earn, guð fugles hleoþ or; hwilum glidan reorde muþ e gem æ ne, hwilum mæ wes song, þær ic glado sitte. . . (Giefu) mec nemna ð , swylce . . ( æsc) ond . . (rad) . . (Os) fu l leste ð , . . (h ægl) ond . . (is) Nu ic haten eom swa þa siex stafas sweotule becna þ . 7

[I am a wondrous creature—I vary my voice; sometimes I bark like a dog, sometimes I bleat like a goat, sometimes I cry like a goose, sometimes I shriek like a hawk. Sometimes I imitate the grey eagle, the sound of the war-bird; sometimes the kite’s voice I speak with my mouth, sometimes the seagull’s song, where I sit cheerful. G name me, also Æ and R . O helps, H and I . Now I am named as the six letters clearly signify.]

Both the animal’s vocal mimicry and the runes provide clues to the riddle’s solution: higoræ , a female jay or magpie. The jay is notorious for imitating the noises of other species, although it is uncertain whether the Anglo-Saxons thought the female jay was more loquacious than the male, or whether the poem is an early instance of the antifeminist canard of female garrulousness. 8 The avian narrator performs on two broadly defi ned levels: fi rst, what we might call the “natural,” in which she instinctively imitates other animals by virtue of habit and inclination; and second, what we might call the “institutional,” in which the bird off ers a poetic performance in an established, culturally authorized setting, boasting as she re-presents her characteristics to a dutifully marveling audience. The lines swell with nouns and verbs for sounds, voices, and performances, all of them clues to identifying the speaker and understanding the beauty and signifi cance of her song. The female jay catalogues her own noises in onomatopoeic speech ( beorce, bl æ te, græ de, gielle), thus gesturing to the natural and instinctive signifying mode of unreasoning animals, but she does so in the elaborately aestheticized rhetorical mode of the riddle form. Lines 2 and 3 are dense with aural eff ects: hwilum beorce swa hund / hwilum blæ te swa gat / hwilum gr æ de swa gos / hwilum gielle swa MIMICRY, SUBJECTIVITY, AND THE EMBODIED VOICE 33 hafoc . In addition to the anaphoric repetition of hwilum , there is alliteration between beorce and bl æte and assonance between bl æte and græ de ; all four animal noise verbs are heavily onomatopoeic. Marie Nelson notes that the æ -assonance and the heavy h -alliteration in the poem “served the riddler’s purpose by rein- forcing the idea that a single subject was describing himself through reference to his most distinctive quality, his ability to vary his voice.” 9 Such a virtuoso performance of naturalistic animal noises by a highly self-conscious poetic subject combines semeia and symbola , signifying both naturally and conventionally. The riddle’s speaking, singing animal narrator dramatizes a pivot point in learned, orally derived poetry: the observable sounds of the bird, in themselves and as imitations of other animals, become one with their representation in a human system of signifi cation. The relationship between natural and conventional noisemaking is explicitly addressed in a Latin riddle written by the Anglo-Saxon abbot Eusebius sometime in the 730s or 740s and whose solution is the parrot:

India litoribus propriis me gignit amoenam. Collum nam torques ruber emicat, ala colore Tam uiridi decorata est; et mea latior instat Lingua loquax reliquis auibus: hinc uerba sonabo Nomina et humanae reddam de more loquelae; Nam natura mihi aue est uel iam dicere care, Cetera per studium depromam nomina rerum. 10 [India begets me, beautiful, from its own shores. My neck shines like a red collar, and my wing Is adorned with a green color; and my loquacious tongue Plies more widely than other birds; hence I will speak Words, and return names in the manner of human discourse; For it is in my nature to say aue (“hello”) or even care (“dear”), I produce other names of things through study.]

Like the jay, the parrot is a mimic, but this time the bird imitates human speech rather than the noises of other animals. The initial fi rst-person verb sonabo calls attention to the bird’s embodied, sonorous voice: it sounds words. But the second, reddam , “I will return/give back,” makes it clear that it is imitating something it has heard, and what it returns are nomina , the Latin form of the Greek ονόματα . If nomina is translated “names,” the parrot is replicating a conventional assignation of a name to a thing; if the word is translated as “nouns,” the bird returns a word in its proper grammatical category, a noun for a noun. Either case contradicts Aristotle’s claim that animals cannot utter ονόματα (nomina). Furthermore, the bird returns these words de more loquelae , “in the manner of human speech or discourse.” The word more is ambiguous: the parrot speaks “in the manner of humans” in that it does not actually produce human speech, but it does participate in a system of human discourse, since more means not only a manner but also a custom, usage, or practice. The word implicitly relates the bird’s discourse to human institutions, especially education and rhetorical 34 ROBERT STANTON performance, a relation emphasized by the distinction in the fi nal two lines of the poem between nature and human culture. The obvious mimicry of short, perfunctory words like ave or care is in the parrot’s natura , like the quality of its voice and the color of its feathers; but through studium , “study,” it utters cetera nomina rerum , “the other names of things,” which do not merely mimic but rather explicitly signify known things. Like studious human beings, the parrot possesses a set of natural talents, to which it adds the application of study, implying a conscious and deliberate process with a goal in mind. The riddle’s minor key is an exemplary mode, as the reader is implicitly encouraged to be like the parrot and apply himself. However, like the word more , this exemplary mode cuts both ways: the bird functions outside human practice in that its hearers marvel at a wondrous creature unlike themselves, but inside human practice in that the speaker has the capacity for the essential activity of studium that makes education possible.11 The operation of animal speech both outside and inside of human institutions rests on a fundamental distinction in the philosophy of language between inner and outer speech. Stoic philosophy conceived of an internal word that was a physical phenomenon: a breath produced by the sound organs before emerging as uttered speech. The Stoics generally agreed that only humans possessed the ability to infer both from observable natural signs and from conventionalized verbal signs, such that absent or invisible things could be given mental forms. Some Skeptic philosophers, however, extended the homology between inner and outer speech to animals. The most emphatic of these was the late-second- century Sextus Empiricus, who went beyond most thinkers of his time in attributing rational qualities to nonhuman animals:

μάλιστα μὲν ὁρῶμεν τὰ ζῶα . . . καὶ ἀνθρωπἰνασ προφερὀμενα φωνάσ, ὡσ κίττας καὶ ἂλλα τινά . . . εἰ καὶ μὴ συνίεμεν τὰς φωνὰς τ῀ν ἀλόγων καλουμένων ζώων, ὅλως οὐκ ἔστιν ἀπεικὸς διαλέγεσθαι μὲν ταῦτα ἡμᾶς δὲ μὴ συνιέναι. καὶ γὰρ τῆς τῶν βαρβάρων φωνῆς ἀκούοντες οὐ συνίεμεν ἀλλὰ μονοειδῆ ταύτην εῖναι δοκοῦμεν . καὶ ᾽κούομεν δὲ τῶν κυνῶν ἄλλην μ`ν φωνὴν προϊεμένων ὅταν ἀμύνωνταί τινας , ἄλλην δὲ ὅταν ὠρύωνται , καὶ ἄλλην ὅταν τύπτωνται , καὶ διάφορον ἐπὰν σαίνωσιν . καὶ ὅλωσ εἴ τις εἰς τοῦτο ἀτενίσειεν, εὕροι ἂν πολλὴν παραλλαγὴν τῆς φωνῆς παρὰ τούτῳ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις ζώοις ἐν ταῖς διαφόροις περιστάσεσιν , ὥστε διὰ ταοῦτα εἰκότως λέγοιτ᾽ἂν καὶ τοῦ προφορικοῦ μετέχειν λόγου τὰ καλούμενα ἄλογα ζῶα. εἰ δὲ μήτε ἀκρ iβεία τῶν αἰσθήσεων λείπεται τῶν ἀνθρώπων ταῦτα μήτε τῷ ἐνδιαθέτῳ λόγῳ , ἐκ περιουσίας δὲ εἰπεῖν μεδὲ τῷ προφοπρικῷ, οὐκ ἂν ἀπιστότερα ἠμῶν εἴη κατὰ τὰς φαντασλίας . [We certainly see animals . . . uttering quite human cries—jays, for instance, and others. And . . . even if we do not understand the utterances of the so-called irrational animals, still it is not improbable that they converse, although we fail to understand them; for in fact when we listen to the talk of barbarians we do not understand it, and it seems to us a kind of uniform chatter. Moreover, we hear dogs uttering one sound when they are driving people off, another when they are howling, and one sound when beaten, and a quite different sound when fawning. And so in general, in the case of all other animals as well as the dog, whoever examines the matter carefully will find a great variety of MIMICRY, SUBJECTIVITY, AND THE EMBODIED VOICE 35

utterance according to the different circumstances, so that, in consequence, the so-called irrational animals may justly be said to participate in external reason. But if they neither fall short of mankind in the accuracy of their perceptions, nor in internal reason, nor yet (to go still further) in external reason, or speech, then they will deserve no less credence than ourselves in respect of their sense impressions.] 12

Sextus singles out our friend the jay, whose “quite human cries” represent a baseline or minimum of human/animal likeness, but he goes far beyond this baseline in two important ways. First, he attributes to dogs a capacity to adapt signs to circumstances; hence dogs are capable of inference, and we should treat them as our equals in respect to “sense impressions,” conceived of as organized mental concepts. This notion is closely related to the concept of voice modulation, to which I will return shortly. Even more radically, Sextus speculates that animals possess a coherent, articulated intraspecies language beyond human understanding. His comparison of human incomprehension of animal language to a civilized person’s inability to understand barbarian speech off ers a doubly radical critique. If Hellenic Greeks cannot claim that barbarous speech is incomprehensible, then by implication they cannot use incomprehensibility as a basis for cultural superiority. Similarly, if humans cannot assume that animals are incapable of articulate speech, then human linguistic uniqueness cannot be used as a fundamental criterion of human superiority over nonhuman animals. The aestheticization of the relationship between animal voices and human discourse achieved its most concentrated form in the natural history and literary use of birdsong. Like the Stoic and Skeptic schools, the Neoplatonist tradition had a pervasive eff ect on thinking about the possession and exercise of reason in both human and nonhuman animals. Like Sextus Empiricus, the infl uential fi rst-century BC/CE philosopher Plutarch inserted animals into the world of human culture by appreciating them as teachers:

Ψᾶρες δὲ καὶ κόρακες καὶ ψιττακοὶ μανθάνοντες διαλέγεσθαι καὶ τὸ τῆς φωνῆς πνεῦμα τοῖς διδάσκουσιν εὔπλαστον οὕτω καὶ μιμηλὸν ἐξαριθμεῖν καὶ ῥυθμίζειν παρέχοντες ἐμοὶ δοκοῦσι , προδικεῖν καὶ συνηγορεῖν τοῖς ἄλλοις ζῴοις ἐν τῷ μανθάνειν, τρόπον τινὰ διδάσκοντες ἡμᾶς , ὅτι καὶ προφορικοῦ λόγου καὶ φωνῆς ἐνάρθρου μέτεστιν αὐτοῖς : ᾒ καὶ πολὺς κατάγελως τὸ πρὸς ταῦτα καταλιπεῖν ἐκείνοις σύγκρισιν , οἷς οὐδ᾽ ὅσον ὠρύσασθαι μέτεστιν οὐδ᾽ ὅσον στενάξαι φωνῆς . τούτων δὲ καὶ τοῖς αὐτοφυέσι καὶ τοῖς ἀδιδάκτοις γηρύμασιν ὅση μοῦσα καὶ χάρις ἔπεστιν , οἱ λογιώτατοι καὶ καλλιφωνότατοι μαρτυροῦσι , τὰ ἣδιστα ποιήματα καὶ μέλη μέλεσι κύκνων καὶ ἀηδόνων ᾠδαῖς ἀπεικάζοντες , ἐπεὶ δὲ τοῦ μαθεῖν τὸ διδάξαι λογικώτερον, ἤδη πειστέον Ἀριστοτέλει λέγοντι καὶ τοῦτο τὰ ζῷα ποιεῖν : ὀφθῆναι γὰρ ἀηδόνα νεοσσὸν ᾄδειν προδιδάσκουσαν . [As for starlings and crows and parrots which learn to talk and afford their teachers so malleable and imitative a vocal current to train and discipline, they seem to me to be champions and advocates of the other animals in their ability to learn, instructing us in some measure that they too are endowed both with rational utterance and with articulate voice; for which reason it is quite ridiculous to admit a comparison of them 36 ROBERT STANTON

with creatures who have not enough voice even to howl or groan. And what music, what grace do we not find in the natural, untaught warbling of birds! To this the most eloquent and musical of our poets bear witness when they compare their sweetest songs and poems to the singing of swans and nightingales. Now since there is more reason in teaching than in learning, we must yield assent to Aristotle when he says that animals do teach: a nightingale, in fact, has been observed instructing her young how to sing.]13

Plutarch asserts unequivocally that certain birds have “both rational utterance and articulate voice,” situating them closer to human beings than to animals who cannot make any noise at all. Once again, a bird is assigned a role with cultural prestige in the human world—namely, the teacher—but this time with a paradoxical twist. In the midst of his fulsome tribute to birds’ pedagogical abilities, Plutarch calls their warbling “natural and untaught.” By trying to have it both ways, Plutarch blurs, possibly unintentionally, the same line between nature and culture blurred by Eusebius when he made his poetic parrot speak more humanae loquelae , “in the manner or custom of human speech,” or by the Old English riddler of the Exeter Book, when he made his female jay boast of her imitative voices in carefully constructed poetic form. The paradox of an ingenuously singing bird who simultaneously teaches nature’s otherwise ineff able secrets is thematically and aesthetically foregrounded in Exeter Book Riddle 8 (the nightingale), which is even denser than Riddle 24 (the jay) with words for voice, song, and performance:

Ic þurh mu þ sprece mongum reordum, wrencum singe, wrixle geneahhe heafodwo þ e, hlude cirme, healde mine wisan, hleo þre ne mi þ e. Eald æfensceop, eorlum bringe blisse in burgum; þonne ic bugendre stefne styrme, stille on wicum sitta ð nigende. Saga hwæ t ic hatte, þ e swa scirenige sceawendwisan hlude onhyrge, h æ leþ um bodige wilcumena fela wo þ e minre.14 [I speak through the mouth in many voices, sing with modulations, often change in my head-voice, loudly cry, maintain my manner, do not refrain from speech. Old evening-poet, I bring to the noblemen bliss in the cities; when I cry with modulated voice, the bowing ones sit quiet in the dwellings. Say what I am called, who like an actress loudly imitates a jester’s song, [and] announces to men many welcome things with my voice.] MIMICRY, SUBJECTIVITY, AND THE EMBODIED VOICE 37

The nightingale has been a long-established and popular fi gure in both natural history and literature since classical antiquity. The bird was praised for its nocturnal singing, which brought joy and comfort to people, and revered as a herald of both the end of night and the coming of spring. Pliny the Elder, in his Natural History , describes the nightingale’s song in detail, marveling at its virtuosity in terms drawn from the human science of music:

[D]einde in una perfecta musicae scientia: modulatus editur sonus, et nunc continuo spiritu trahitur in longum, nunc variatur infl exo, nunc distinguitur con- ciso, copulatur intorto, promittitur revocato, infuscatur ex inopinato, interdum et secum ipse murmurat, plenus, gravis, acutus, creber, extentus, ubi visum est vibrans—summus, medius, imus; breviterque omnia tam parvulis in faucibus quae tot exquisitis tibiarum tormentis ars hominum excogitavit. [Then there is the consummate knowledge of music in a single bird: the sound is given out with modulations, and now is drawn out into a long note with one continuous breath, now varied by managing the breath, now made staccato by check- ing it, or linked together by prolonging it, or carried on by holding it back; or it is suddenly lowered, and at times sinks into a mere murmur, loud, low, bass, treble, with trills, with long notes, modulated when this seems good—soprano, mezzo, baritone; and briefly all the devices in that tiny throat which human science has devised with all the elaborate mechanism of the flute.] 15

Pliny’s anthropomorphizing here is thoroughgoing: not only does the bird possess the human faculty of knowledge ( scientia ), but its throat deploys the very same technology that human art ( ars hominum ) has devised for wind instruments. Once again, the bird’s nature goes beyond the simple presence of instinct to encompass a technical virtuosity homologous with the devices of human art. Aristotle had enumerated air, windpipe, and lungs as requirements for any animal to produce vocal sound. Pliny takes these elements as components of a naturally made machine to which human-made wind instruments form a parallel. As in the Old English bird riddles, the naturally produced voice exists on a continuum with technological and artistic systems that reproduce or recreate that voice in a human world. Several clear lines of transmission run from classical learning to the cultural world of the Old English nightingale riddle. The natural historical lore of Pliny, Ambrose of Milan, and Isidore of Seville made their way into medieval physi- ologus and bestiary traditions. Numerous Christian poets celebrated the nightingale as a companion of the night, a herald of morning, a comforter of men, and a praiser of God. 16 Despite the nightingale’s comforting, holy associations, its singing in this riddle is not unequivocally positive. Cirme in line 3 could be from the noun cirm , “noise,” or the verb cirman , “to make a noise.” The associations of both words are unpleasantly loud, strident, and shrill; a specialized use of cirm even refers to the terrifying noise of thunder and trumpets or the lamenting of the damned on Judgment Day. 17 Audrey Meaney has noted the similarity between the opening lines of this riddle and a passage in the hagiographical poem Guthlac that describes a loud noise made by devils in many voices and that reads: þæ r hy mislice mongum reordum on þ am westenne woð e hofun hludne herecirm 38 ROBERT STANTON

(“there they variously lifted their voices, a loud war-shout in many tongues, in the wilderness”). 18 The blisse , “bliss,” and wilcumena fela , “many welcome things,” the bird announces are produced alongside and in tension with its strident, even menacing, voice. The nightingale produces her song and aff ects her hearers in a fully human- ized world, adding all the resources available to a human performer to her own natural talents. While the jay of Riddle 24 mimics only nonhuman animals, the nightingale is remarkable for her explicit, frank performance of human spectacles and entertainments. In line fi ve she says she is an æ fensceop , “evening-poet.” The Old English scop often glosses or translates the Latin poeta and can refer to classical poets, but just as frequently it designates a singer of poetry in a public setting, a fully developed and well-understood job description in the world of the Anglo- Saxon nobility; the compound form with æ fen- refl ects the commonplace of the nightingale as a bird that sings in the evening.19 Eald here means “old” in the senses of both “familiar” and “habitual, practiced,” meanings also applied to eald when it precedes wrenc , “wile, stratagem.” In line nine, the nightingale resembles a scirenige imitating a sceawendwisan , with the fricative sc- alliteration mimicking two words with morally dubious overtones. Scirenige probably corresponds to Latin mima , a female performer with implications of prostitution, and sceawendwisan inhabits the semantic fi eld of Latin scurrilitas , “buff oonery, scurrility.” 20 All these words clearly refer to a public performance, and performers, of dubious moral character. Furthermore, by the time of the twelfth-century English poem The Owl and the Nightingale , the nightingale was associated with lechery and illicit sexuality, and in later medieval debate poetry and music theory, her voice was often cast as beautiful on the surface but morally dangerous and given a strongly feminine valence. 21 The words scericge and sceawendwisan here indicate that the tradition may be much earlier. As Dieter Bitterli has observed, the human roles in the poem are more occluded than the avian. Both eorlum (“noblemen,” line 5) and h æle þ um (“heroes,” line 10) occur elsewhere in the Exeter Book riddles among other near-synonyms for “men” or “people.” Here, elaborate, ambiguous words for performers and performances tease us with the idea that the nightingale is singing to a group of princely warriors, but in fact they seem to be part of an urban community in burgum , “in cities,” sitting quietly in their dwellings (wicum ). Yet they sit nigende , “bowing,” a pose that gestures back to the bugendre stefne , “bending voice,” of lines six and seven; the bird’s deliberate manipulation of its voice is rewarded by the submissive posture of its hearers. 22 Since the nightingale functioned in the main streams of natural history and lyric poetry as a harbinger of spring, and in Christian poetry and exegetical literature as a communicator of divine beauty (“bliss” and “welcome things”), the bowing could indicate a ritual acknowledgment of seasonal change or a reverential, quasiliturgical submission to the nightingale’s song. But the louche connotations of scericge and sceawendwisan and the ambiguity concerning the audience’s composition open multiple, simultaneous possibilities of reception. Since the nightingale is so skilled at modulating its voice, its message can run the gamut from divine wisdom to morally dubious secular entertainment. MIMICRY, SUBJECTIVITY, AND THE EMBODIED VOICE 39

The modulation and variation of this avian voice in human terms, then, moves well beyond Pliny’s marveling admiration of natural technology: the possibilities for multiple reception point to the hermeneutic diffi culties and dangers of public performance. The words the bird uses to describe its own vocalizations in specifi cally human terms make it clear that technical virtuosity enables rhetorical manipulation. The fi rst verb in the riddle is sprece (“speak”), a word reserved for human speech in all but a handful of places in the Old English corpus, most of them in the riddles. The poem’s central term for variation or modulation is wrenc, whose principal meaning is “trick, artifi ce, wile, stratagem,” accounting for 16 of its 19 total occurrences in Old English; in three of these, it is the devil who employs or instigates the trick. By contrast, the word occurs only once in an unambiguously positive sense, and again in an avian context. We gain further insight from considering the poem The Phoenix , whose titular bird is alternately analogized to Christ and humankind and whose voice partakes of both the spiritual beauty of the divine and the devotional beauty of human praise: [B]i þ þæs hleo ðres sweg eallum songcr æ ftum swetra ond wlitigra ond wynsumra wrenca gehwylcum (“the sound of its voice is sweeter than all the art of song and more beautiful and pleasing than any modulation”). 23 Whereas the third-person poetic narrator of that poem points to the straightforwardly pleasant quality of the phoenix’s song, this riddle’s fi rst-person nightingale boasts of its more manipulative aesthetics. Its modulated voice cows its bowing, awestruck hearers as divine song might humble devout listeners, but it does so in a way that any scurrilous performer could do. The marvelous correspondence Pliny notes between naturally and technologically produced voices here takes a darker turn. If the modulations of poetic song can be used for such divergent purposes, then voice is not just a wonder of nature but also a potentially useful tool for performative deception as well as inspiration. In all these bird riddles, in fact, the tension between natural, instinctive utterance and conventionally assigned meaning produces diffi cult questions about the nature and function of voice. Where the jay is able to imitate, through artful modulation, the “natural” sounds of other animals, and the parrot uses the faculty of studium to add to its natural talents, the nightingale betrays a keen awareness of the power of a modulated voice to participate in human performance practices, to generate multiple possibilities for audience reception, and hence to keep the listener’s experience a morally ambiguous one. Although the nightingale in Exeter Book Riddle 8 reveals the most explicit awareness of her technical repertoire and the manipulation it can eff ect, all the bird speakers in both the Latin and Old English riddles consciously meditate on the ways their modulated, articulated sounds move outside their own mental worlds to generate calculated reactions in the human world. Even Sextus’s dogs can vary their voice according to the situations in which they fi nd themselves, but Plutarch’s birds and their poetic descendants go further by marshaling the technical resources of their bodies, diligently studying the eff ects they want to create, and assembling and deploying them into an audible, rhetorically eff ective performance that is by defi nition articulate. Furthermore, as the birds boast about their technical tools and their rhetorical eff ects, often using words for human speech, they move smoothly and quickly from inner to outer speech. The 40 ROBERT STANTON most vivid example comes from the nightingale’s word heafodwoþ e , “head-voice,” a potent combination of the anatomical place where the noise is made and the faculty of voice that produces its sound eff ect. Heafodwo þe and the “tricky” word wrenc reveal the bird’s keen attention to the externalization of her own voice as she refl ects consciously on both her own natural resources and her performative presentation of them. The riddling birds, with their acute perception of their own modulated, articulated voices and of the work those voices do in the human world, could even have put the pigeon among the cats in the contentious debate over whether nonhuman animals can ever possess the capacity for rational speech. Thinkers in the classical world who favored some degree of animal rationality always espoused a persistent minority view against the standard opinion that only humans possessed the faculty of reason. 24 But animal narrators who understand their own internal resources; who assemble, modulate, and articulate those resources in meaningful sounds; and who then describe those sounds’ rhetorical function, embody and perform Sextus Empiricus’s assertion that animals may possess an internal reason that manifests itself externally in speech. Sextus cited modulation as a central marker of rationality: dogs utter diff erent sounds in diff erent situations, some of them perhaps instinctive and some defi nitely deliberate, producing “a great variety of utterance according to the diff erent circumstances.” The Anglo-Saxon riddlers meditated continuously on the deployment of voice modulation and its ability to aff ect human emotions in a variety of performance contexts. All the named Anglo-Saxon riddlers—Aldhelm, Boniface, Eusebius, and Tatwine— were thoroughly familiar with classical and late antique grammatical theory, including the nature of human and nonhuman voice, and the composers of the Exeter Book Riddles were working in the same tradition of playful but learned speculation about subjects and the voices they produced. The riddle form itself, with its unknown, questioning narrators and its demand for the reader to assign disparate parts into a comprehensible identity, already blurred the very boundaries of subject and object, but when they assigned human voices to nonhuman actors, presenting animal personae who meditate and boast of the rhetorical and performative power of their natural, learned, and manipulated faculties, using concepts and vocabulary inherited from classical debates about articulation and reason, the Anglo-Saxon riddlers truly gave their nonhuman subjects a voice.

Notes 1 . On Aldhelm, see Aldhelm: The Poetic Works , ed. and trans. Michael Lapidge and James L. Rosier (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1985), 61–94, 242–55; Andy Orchard, The Poetic Art of Aldhelm (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Michael Lapidge, “The Career of Aldhelm,” Anglo-Saxon England 36 (2007): 15–69. On all the Anglo-Latin riddlers, see Erika von Erhardt-Siebold, Die lateinischen Rä tsel der Angelsachsen: Ein Beitrag zur Kulturgeschichte Altenglands (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1925); Andy Orchard, “The Enigma Variations: The Anglo-Saxon Riddle Tradition,” in Latin Learning and English Lore: Studies in Anglo-Saxon Literature for Michael Lapidge , ed. Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe and Andy Orchard (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), 284–304; Dieter Bitterli, Say What I Am Called: The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book and MIMICRY, SUBJECTIVITY, AND THE EMBODIED VOICE 41

the Anglo-Latin Riddle Tradition (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), especially 13–34. 2 . See Bernard Muir, The Exeter Anthology of Old English Poetry (Exeter, UK: University of Exeter Press, 2000) 1:1. R. D. Fulk, analyzing the poems on metrical grounds, comments that “if some of the riddles are not early, it is an extraordinary accident that so many of the structural features suggest that they are” and “[t]he riddles seem close in date to Beowulf and the early biblical narratives”; see Fulk, A History of Old English Meter (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992), 405 and 408. On the question of authorship, see Moritz Trautmann, “Zeit, Heimat, und Verfasser der altengl. Rä tsel,” Anglia 38 (1914): 372; and Craig Williamson, ed. and trans., The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1977), 3–12. 3 . On the structures and modes of the Old English riddles, see Orchard, “The Enigma Variations”; Jonathan Wilcox, “Tell Me What I Am: Old English Riddles,” in Reading Medieval Texts: Interpreting Old and Middle English Literature , ed. David Johnson and Elaine Treharne, 46–59 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); John D. Niles, Old English Enigmatic Poems and the Play of the Texts (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006); Patrick J. Murphy, Unriddling the Exeter Riddles (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2011). On the relationship between the Exeter Book riddles and the Latin enigmatic tradition, see Bitterli, Say What I Am Called ; Mercedes Salvador-Bello, “Patterns of Compilation in Anglo-Latin Enigmata and the Evidence of a Source-Collection in Riddles 1–40 of the Exeter Book ,” Viator 43.1 (2012): 339–74. 4 . Aristotle, De Interpretatione 1–2.16a.3–29; cited from Categories, and De Interpretatione , trans. and ed. J. L. Ackrill (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975), 49–50. 5 . Lia Formigari, A History of Language Philosophies , trans. Gabriel Poole (Amsterdam: Benjamins, 2004), 25. 6 . Williamson, The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book , no. 1, 67–70; see also Donald Scragg, “The Nature of Old English Verse,” in The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature , ed. Malcolm Godden and Michael Lapidge, 55–70 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); Carol Braun Pasternack, The Textuality of Old English Poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 33–89; Chris Jones, “Where Now the Harp? Listening for the Sounds of Old English Verse, from Beowulf to the Twentieth Century,” Oral Tradition 24.2 (2009): 485–502. 7 . Williamson, The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book , 82. Where not otherwise indicated, all translations are my own. See also Roberta J. Dewa, “The Runic Riddles of the Exeter Book: Language Games and Anglo-Saxon Scholarship,” Nottingham Medieval Studies 39 (1995): 26–36; Bitterli, S ay What I Am Called , 91–97. For the date, see Williamson, The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book, 3–12. 8 . Williamson, The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book , 207. 9 . Marie Nelson, “The Rhetoric of the Exeter Book Riddles,” Speculum 49.3 (1974): 434. The conventionality of the bird’s self-description is further reinforced by the other birds it imitates. The carrion-eating eagle and kite frequently supply metonymy for battle carnage in war poems; the hawk is a traditional attribute of the Anglo-Saxon aristocrat; and the seagull accompanies and reflects the exile personae in The Wanderer and The Seafarer . See Robert DiNapoli, “In the Kingdom of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man Is a Seller of Garlic: Depth-Perception and the Poet’s Perspective in the Exeter Book Riddles,” English Studies 81.5 (2000): 434. 10 . Aenigmata Evsebii , Number 59, in Fr. Glorie, ed., Variae Collectiones Aenigmatvm Merovingicae Aetatis (Turnhout: Brepols, 1968), 209–71, at 270. 42 ROBERT STANTON

11 . Eusebius’s distinction between imitation and study is a twist on his source, Martial’s epigram “Psittacus,” which reads Psittacus a vobis aliorum nomina discam: / hoc didici per me dicere “Caesar ave” (“I, a parrot, learned the names of other things from you; I learned by myself to say ‘Hail, Caesar!’”); Martial’s parrot is displaying not studium but patriotism and due deference to authority. See Earl R. Anderson, A Grammar of Iconism (Cranbury, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1998), 155. The source is Martial, Epigram 14.73. 12 . Sextus Empiricus, Outlines of Pyrrhonism , I.73–76, in Sextus Empiricus, Works , ed. and trans. Robert Gregg Bury (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1933), 44–47. 13 . Plutarch, De sollertia animalium , 973, 19.972f–973b, ed. and trans. Harold Cherniss and William C. Helmbold, in vol. 12 of Plutarch’s Moralia , ed. Frank Cole Babbitt (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957). 14 . Williamson, The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book , 72. On the nightingale riddle, see Jean I. Young, “Riddle 8 of the Exeter Book ,” Review of English Studies 18 (1942): 308–12; Richard Wells, “The Old English Riddles and Their Ornithological Content,” Lore and Language 2.9 (1978): 57–67; Salvador-Bello, “The Evening Singer of Riddle 8 (K-D),” SELIM: Journal of the Spanish Society for Medieval English Language and Literature 9 (1999): 57–68; DiNapoli, “In the Kingdom of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man Is a Seller of Garlic,” 432–33; Audrey L. Meaney, “Birds on the Stream of Consciousness: Riddles 7 to 10 of the Exeter Book,” Archaeological Review from Cambridge 18 (2002): 119–52; Bitterli, Say What I am Called , 46–56. 15 . Pliny, Natural History , 10:43.81–82; vol. 3, Books 8–11 , ed. and trans. H. Rackham (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1940), 344–45. 16 . Bitterli, Say What I Am Called , 50–53. The nightingale explicitly praises God in Alcuin of York’s Carmen , 61. See Alcuin, Alcuini (Albini) Carmina , ed. Ernst Dü mmler, Poetae Latini aevi Carolini , Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Poetae Latini medii aevi 1 (Berlin, 1881), 274–75. 17 . Angus Cameron, Ashley Crandell Amos, Antonette diPaolo Healey, et al., eds., Dictionary of Old English , online edition (Toronto: Dictionary of Old English Project, 2007–), www.doe.utoronto.ca , s.v. cirm, cirman . Such raucousness con- trasts with Aldhelm’s nightingale riddle, which begins Vox mea diuersis uariatur pulchra figuris / Raucisonis numquam modulabor carmina rostris (“My beautiful voice is varied with diverse melodies / I will never sing songs with a raucous beak”); Aenigmata Aldhelmi , Number 22, in Glorie, ed., Variae Collectiones Aenigmatvm Merovingicae Aetatis , 359–540, at 405. 18 . Guthlac , ll. 898–900, in George Philip Krapp and Elliott Van Kirk Dobbie, eds., The Exeter Book (New York: Columbia University Press, 1936), 75; Meaney, “Birds on the Stream of Consciousness,” 128. 19 . Joseph Bosworth and Thomas Northcote Toller, eds., An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary (Oxford, 1898; Supplement , 1921), online at http://bosworth.ff.cuni.cz , s.v. scop ; Cameron, Amos, Healey, et al. , s.v. æ fen-scop . 20 . Scirenige is probably a scribal version of scericge ; Bosworth and Toller, An Anglo- Saxon Dictionary, s.v. scericge. Mima occurs in the Old English Martyrology describing St. Pelagia, who was a mima before repenting and confessing that she was deceived and herself deceived other people. See George Herzfeld, ed., An Old English Martyrology (London: Kegan, Paul, Trench, and Tr ü bner, 1900), 190–91; Meaney, “Birds on the Stream of Consciousness,” 129. Sceawendwisan occurs only here; Old English sceawendspr æ c and sceawere gloss Latin scurrilitas and MIMICRY, SUBJECTIVITY, AND THE EMBODIED VOICE 43

scurra , “buffoon, jester,” respectively. See Bosworth and Toller, An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary, s.v. sceawend-wise, sceawend-spr æ c, sceawere . 21 . Meaney, “Birds on the Stream of Consciousness,” 126–27; Elizabeth Eva Leach, Sung Birds: Music, Poetry, and Nature in the Later Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2007), 238–73. The later Middle Ages continued to embrace several traditions surrounding the nightingale that coexisted uneasily. In Christianized contexts, the bird “becomes a cognate of the soul, singing the Hours, praising God in song, and ultimate dying for Divine Love” (Leach, Sung Birds , 100); in lyric poetry, it often served as a figure for human lust or worldly attachment. The latter strain was popularized by the Ovide moralis ée , which interpreted Philomela in the Metamorphosis as worldly pleasure, tempting King Tereus and Procne, allegorized as the body and the soul, respectively. See Leach, Sung Birds , 100–105; Sylvia Huot, “Troubadour Lyric and Old French Narrative,” in The Troubadours: An Introduction , ed. Simon Gaunt and Sarah Kay (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 271–73; Jeni Williams, Interpreting Nightingales: Gender, Class, and Histories (Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 35–74. 22 . Bitterli, Say What I Am Called , 55–56; following several earlier editors, Bitterli emends the manuscript’s nigende to swigende (“silent”), but I follow Williamson and other editors in taking nigende as a variant of hnigende from hnigan (“bend, bow”). Only in this riddle does bugan seem to mean “modulate.” 23 . The Phoenix , ll. 131–33, Krapp and Dobbie, Exeter Book , 97. Wrenc occurs once in a neutral context glossing Latin modis , “ways, manners, modes”; see Richard L. Venezky and Antonette diPaolo Healey, A Microfiche Concordance to Old English (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1980), s.v. wrenc, wrenca, wren- can, wrencas, wrence, wrenceas, wrences, wrencum, wr ænches . The word wisan in line 3, often translated as “melody,” actually means a “manner, mode, or order” and reflects the same attention to both human deliberation and human custom as the Latin mores (see p. 33). 24 . Richard Sorabji, Animal Minds and Human Morals: The Origin of the Western Debate (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 78–96.

PART II

THE SOCIAL BODY: VOICE, AUTHORITY, AND COMMUNITY CHAPTER 3

RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE: FUNERARY LAMENTATIONS IN BYZANTIUM

Hé l ène Bernier-Farella

Introduction In the Christos Paschon, a Christian tragedy attributed to the fourth-century archbishop of Constantinople Gregory of Nazianzus ( ca. 329–390), the voice of Mary lamenting her son’s death at the foot of the Cross traces the fi rst lines of what will become a common image of the Virgin. 1 Already in Gregory’s text, Mary takes up a curious threnody, a chanted funerary lamentation, in which she weaves together ancient and pagan fi gures, letting the traditional cries of women in mourning resound:

ὄλωλα , Τέκνον , οὐδέ μοι χάρις βίου . Αἲ αἴ , κατ ᾿ ὄσσων κιχάνει μ ᾿ ἤδη σκότος˙ ὄλωλα καὶ δὴ νερτέρων ποθῶ δόμους ὄλωλα˙ Τὸ κατὰ γᾶς θέλω , τὸ κατὰ γᾶς κνέφας Τανῦν μετοικεῖν , σῆς θέας στερουμένη . 2 [I am expiring, my child, life no longer gives me joy! Alas! The darkness is already descending on my eyes; I expire and wish for death’s underground sojourn. Beneath the earth, in the shadows beneath the earth, deprived of your gaze, I want to dwell from now on.]

Mary’s lamentations developed over the following centuries in texts of diverse natures, bringing together apocrypha, canonical hymns, Meso-Byzantine homilies, and, later, vernacular poetic forms. 3 These lamentations give posterity to rituals whose accents are notably un-Christian. In them, Mary’s voice takes on the qualities and often the gestures of lamentations uttered by women during traditional funerary rites since the time of Antiquity, lamentations subject to repeated ecclesiastic censure and prohibition. How might we seek to explain this Marian voice that, by its “pagan” accents, rings so strangely? How might we seek 48 HÉLÈNE BERNIER-FARELLA to resolve the problem posed for the historian by the endurance of a song that is preserved throughout shifting historical contexts? Mary’s tears must be understood in relation to the historically real lamentations voiced by Byzantine women during their acts of mourning, lamentations that are without doubt the best-studied rite of Greek funerals. These rites have most often been restrictively approached from the perspective of their prohibition, whether in Greek Antiquity where laws limited their exercise, or during the later, Byzantine period. I would suggest that in so doing, scholars have often failed to respond to the question framed by the endurance of these voices, which were heard for so long. 4 I would also suggest that the answer to this question concerns the functions, whether ritual or social, they fulfi lled within the Byzantine world. This chapter examines the raison d’ê tre of this singular Marian voice in the refl ected light of other Byzantine funerary voices, especially the ordinary voices of women in mourning and the normative voices heard in the Psalms. The coexistence of these voices is a reminder of the complexity and plurality of funerary voices over the whole of the Byzantine period. We will resituate each voice in its precise context, namely, that of Christian funerary rites, considered from dogmatic, institutional, and anthropological perspectives, while also contextualizing them within the social balance of power they threaten to upset. Once these lamentations have been framed in relation to the habitual silences of their bearers, we understand how the religious and social functions these voices fulfi ll explain their longevity and, moreover, illuminate Mary’s own voice.

Patristic Condemnations of the Pre-Christian Ritual Voice It is generally acknowledged in sociological and anthropological terms that death’s intrusion gives rise to a polyvalent crisis—one psychological, cultural, social, and even cosmological—and that this is especially true in traditional societies. 5 Within the ambit of ancient Greek and later Byzantine cultures, funerary rites off er the fi rst means of resolving this crisis provoked by death. Their chanted lamentations were characterized by a combination of fi xed and free forms called threnos ( θρῆνος ). 6 The women who took part in these lamentations were above all those close to the deceased, sometimes supported by professional singers. 7 Their chants included shouting the name of the dead man loudly, reciting his merits, and drowning this list of virtues in reproaches against the sadness caused by his departure. Denunciations of the miserable condition in which the dead man fi nds himself, of the absence his death has created, and of the desolation of his surviving kin are similarly conventional elements. Such funerary practices were subject to early and repeated attacks by the Church Fathers, the bishops of the fourth through seventh centuries who constitute one of the main normative sources for Western Christianity. Through the words of their condemnations, we possess detailed descriptions of the endurance and transformation of these funerary laments. These descriptions will serve as our point of departure. Judgments concerning funerary lamentations are twofold in the discourse of the Church Fathers. The weakness of the human heart authorizes tears and moaning that give direct expression to personally felt, individual sadness at the separation RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE 49 caused by death. Gregory of Nazianzus, citing the Book of Sirach (Sirach 38:16) affi rms: “Over the dead, as it is said, you shall shed tears, and like a man who suf- fers hardships, you shall begin to moan.” 8 When, however, it is a question of ritual voices dictated by a collective tradition not, in this case, controlled by the Church, the norm amongst these same patristic authors falls clearly to condemnation. John Chrysostom, the late-fourth-century patriarch of Antioch, repeatedly portrayed the common behavior of bereaved women during funerals as inadmissible in a Christian context. Biblical examples off ered by the Patriarchs—such as Job weeping over his sons—excused tears and allowed for a few, limited precedents. Nonetheless, Chrysostom cites the Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians: “[C]oncerning those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope” (I Thessalonians 4:13). Elsewhere the verses of Matthew 8:22 serve as a model for good behavior: [L]et the dead bury their own dead.” Chrysostom and other Church fathers argued that ritual laments are caused by a pagan and hopeless attitude and are thus incompatible with the Salvation process.9 This incompatibility between ritual lament and Christian rites is forcefully expressed in the words of Chrysostom’s Homily 31 on Matthew, wherein Jesus resuscitates the daughter of Caiaphas after having chased away the mourners and the fl ute players from the family’s dwelling.

Εἰ γὰρ τότε ἐξέβαλεν ἐκείνους ἔξω , πολλῷ μᾶλλον νῦν . Τότε μὲν γὰρ οὔπω δῆλος ὁ θάνατος ἦν ὕπνος γεγενημένος· νῦν δὲ καὶ αὐτοῦ τοῦ ἡλίου τοῦτο φανερώτερον . . . Μηδεὶς τοίνυν κοπτέσθω λοιπὸν , μηδὲ θρηνείτω , μηδὲ τὸ κατόρθωμα τοῦ Χριστοῦ διαβαλλέτω . Καὶ γὰρ ἐνίκησε τὸν θάνατον . Τί τοίνυν περιττὰ θρηνεῖς ; Ὕπνος τὸ πρᾶγμα γέγονε . Τί ὀδύρῃ καὶ κλαίεις ; Τοῦτο γὰρ εἰ καὶ Ἕλληνες ἐποίουν , καταγελᾷν ἔδει· ὅταν δὲ ὁ πιστὸς ἐν τούτοις ἀσχημονῇ , ποία ἀπολογία ; . . . Σὺ δὲ ὥσπερ αὐξῆσαι τὸ ἔγκλημα σπεύδων , καὶ θρηνῳδοὺς ἡμῖν ἄγεις Ἑλληνίδας γυναῖκας , ἐξάπτων τὸ πάθος , καὶ τὴν κάμινον διεγείρων . 10 [For if the Lord chased them (i.e., those who mourned the dead) away, today he does so even more strongly. We did not then know that death was but a slumber, but this truth today shines more clearly than the sun . . . Let no one moan any longer while beating at his own breast, nor any longer wail for the dead, nor despair and disparage the work of Christ’s salvation. He has henceforth vanquished death. For what do you lament so noisily? Death has become slumber. For what to you complain and for what do you moan? We would laugh already at seeing a pagan act this way, but what excuses are there for a Believer [in Christ] who is not ashamed to do so? . . . You, however, since you want to make this fault still greater, you hurry to make pagan women come (i.e., as paid mourners), to render grief more intense, and fan the flame of suffering.]

Thus the fi rst explanation for the Church Fathers’ dogmatic stance toward mourning stems from the fact that the Christian “message” places death in a new ontological perspective. The ambivalent status the new, Christian religion bestows on death belongs to its very foundations. Death is simultaneously banished and celebrated, obliterated from human fears and commemorated as a crucial act. Indeed, funerary events take on the quality of both a central and omnipresent drama in the structure of the new religion. Through his sacrifi ce, Christ abol- ished death and annulled the old law of nature. The Gospels that spread Christ’s 50 HÉLÈNE BERNIER-FARELLA words remained, moreover, intently focused on this ultimate sacrifi cial death. The sole ritual to be established by the Gospel text, that is, the Eucharist modeled on the Last Supper with its shared bread and wine, can be seen as the prefi guration of a (future) commemorative meal and thus, as a funerary meal, shared in remembrance of Christ’s death yet consumed in anticipation of his departure. For all these reasons, there is no place in the Christian belief system for a ritual whose primary discourse off ers a message of despair. At the same time, we observe that the bishops’ condemnations provide precious descriptions of the ritual practices they forbid. In Chrysostom’s Sermon on Lazarus , the author again denounces women’s attitudes during the threnos.

Ἀλλὰ νῦν μετὰ τῶν ἄλλων κακῶν καὶ τοῦτο τῶν γυναικῶν τὸ νόσημα κρατεῖ . Ἐπίδειξιν γὰρ ἐν τοῖς θρήνοις ποιοῦνται καὶ τοῖς κωκυτοῖς , γυμνοῦσαι βραχίονας , σπαράττουσαι τρίχας , χαράδρας ποιοῦσαι κατὰ τῶν παρειῶν . 11 [But today, amongst other evils, this illness of women in mourning prevails. They show off in the dirges and in the lamentations by baring their arms, by tearing their hair, by furrowing their cheeks.]

That these gestures are in fact the all-too-familiar continuations of ancient lamentations serves to explain the continued pursuit of their condemnation into the following centuries. 12 An early-eighth-century description from bishop Andrew of Crete would not make sense unless its audience was fully familiar with the forbidden rituals evoked:

Εἰ οὖν ἐν ἐλπίσιν ἡμῖν ἡ ἀνάστασις . . . προσδοκώμενον . . . Ἕως πότε δάκρυα ; Ἕως πότε ὀλοφυρμοὶ , θρῆνος , κραυγὴ, τρίχες διασπώμεναι , χεῖρες προσπαιόμεναι , πάταγοι , κρότοι , κωκυτοὶ, κλόνοι , βοαὶ , οἰμωγαὶ , ἀχαριστίαι , βλασφημίαι , οἱ μέχρι μνήματος σπαραγμοὶ , οἱ πρὸ τῆς ταφῆς , οἱ μετὰ τὴν ταφὴν , οἱ κατ ’ ἀγορὰν , οἱ κατ ’ οἶκον ὀδυρμοί ; Τί ποιεῖς , ἄνθρωπε ; νεκρὸν κοιμώμενον βλέπεις , καὶ σὺ βλασφημεῖς .13 [If indeed we place our hope in Resurrection . . . until when are we to shed tears? Until when are there to be such lamentations, dirges, screaming, snatched hair, hands that strike, clamors, rattling noises, agitated turmoil, shouts, wailings, ingratitudes, blasphemies? Until when, these mutilations at the funerary monuments, before the entombment, after the entombment, on the public place, in front of private houses? What are you doing, human beings? You see the dead sleeping and you utter blasphemies?]

One sees here the succession of evidence from Chrysostom to Andrew of Crete concerning similar ritual practices, for which the content of the discourse of these lamentations—the despair contrary to Christian hopes—are the subject of reproach as much as are the more properly ritual pagan accents that accompany them: the noise, the cries, the self-mutilations, the uncared-for appearance of women in partial dress, the clapping hands or fi nally the dance that confers a convulsive aspect on the scene, with roots in another time, preceding Christianity. What seems particularly relevant here is what might be called the “long duration” that characterizes these practices. RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE 51

Direct Links to Ancient Rites There is in fact a striking coherence between Athenian vases and high medieval Byzantine representations of these rites. Depictions of women pulling out their hair and beating their chests can already be found on late geometric Athenian funerary craters around 770 BC. 14 These scenes confi rm the descriptions rendered by the classic tragic poets, Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschylus (fi fth century BC ), in whose work the theme appears repeatedly.15 The second century AD author Lucian of Samosata attests to their ongoing practice in his On Funerals ( De Luctu ): “ Οἰμωγαὶ δὲ ἐπὶ τούτοις καὶ κωκυτὸς γυναικῶν καὶ παρὰ πάντων δάκρυα καὶ στέρνα τυπτόμενα καὶ σπαραττομένη κόμη καὶ φοινισσόμεναι παρειαί ” (Next come cries of distress, wailing of women, tears on all sides, beaten breasts, torn hair, and bloody cheeks).16 From early on, in addition to ritual voices, auloi (fl utes), tambourines, cymbals, hand clapping, and howling added sonorous confusion to the vocal noise of cries and chants. Chrysostom’s text suggests the presence of music in its mention of dance, just as Andrew of Crete mentioned clapping hands, which were also an integral part of the ancient ritual. Despite their incompatibility with the new, Christian conception of death, and despite recurrent condemnations, an ensemble of ritual elements endures from ancient times. We thus face here a situation in which a series of strongly gendered, relatively socially disruptive practices appear to endure almost unchanged over several large scale cultural transformations. How does Mary’s voice come to articulate and channel these laments? Why does the radical shift in both law and ontology occasioned by Christianity’s penetration and displacement of “pagan” traditions fail to silence these voices?

Religious Functions and Contexts The fi rst element in our response to this apparent immobility within funerary rites has to do with the properly ritual functions that they fulfi ll, which is enable the passage of the dead into the beyond. Lamentation induces the liminal state characteristic of rites of passage. The voice, gestures, and music of the threnos construct a spatiality and temporality situated outside the reach of secular society. Threnos is performed during the prothesis and ekphora , the presentation and wake of the body, and the carrying of the corpse, respectively, as well as during the entombment. Threnos can be understood as the sign of this “liminal” status that allows the dead and the living to mingle together during a certain part of the ritual. The soiled state in which mourners bury themselves, along with fl ow- ing blood, scratches, torn clothing, and torn-out hair, play the same role and are eff orts by the living to join the dead—still a corpse, soiled as well, a transitioning and ill-defi ned object—according to a sequence for funerary rituals founded on symbolically linked mechanisms. 17 This aspect can be seen clearly in Lucian’s description: the philosopher indicates that amidst the lamentations clothes are also torn and that those in mourning sprinkle earth on their heads to give themselves the same desolate appearance as the dead. 18 With this example, the satirist perfectly describes one of the signifi cations of this ritual, which grants the living 52 HÉLÈNE BERNIER-FARELLA the same status as the dead. Furthermore, a verb signals this liminal status of the phase of incorporation, showing that those close to the dead must then “soil” (μιαίνεσθαι ) themselves in order to share the fate of dead, who are perceived as being contaminated. It is only after the moment of aggregation , to use the terminology of Arnold van Gennep for the stage in ritual when the living are as if dead and the summoned dead person is as if brought back to life, that the defunct can be transformed in order to take in a fi nal stage, his defi nitive place. 19 In this state of aural confusion, which serves as a prelude to the dead man’s passage into his new condition, lamentations also function as incantations , that is, ritual summons whose purpose is to put humans in contact with invisible forces. This function is fused with the fi rst, for its purpose is to create a state of confusion between the status of those in mourning and the defunct. Ululations and “shouts” are already frequent in scenes of summoning the dead preserved by ancient tragedies. 20 Thus, for example, the “summoning” of Darius’s soul by the Persian queen Atossa in Aeschylus’s Persians combines repeated calls, insistent refrains, and incantatory cries, in a structure similarly found in the funerary lamentations chanted by women during both pagan Antiquity and the Christian period alike. These shouts and calls should be understood as the main ritualistic means used by the living to mingle with the dead and thus to help him cross over defi nitively into the afterlife. Specifi c bodily movements accompany this ritual function of the voice. Gudrun Ahlberg, who interpreted the archaic iconography of the ekphora and the prothesis , demonstrated how the existence of a circling procession performed by family mourners walking around the bier (a circumambulatio ) indicates “the close connection of the mourners with the bier” and thus with the dead, in an obvious liminal unity wherein the living and the dead share the same status.21 Several ethnographical accounts of Modern Greece or Greek-infl uenced southern Italy attest to the long-lasting display of such motions into the twentieth century. In Lucania, a region of the Italian peninsula populated by Greek cities and strongly infl uenced by Greek culture, oscillating movements traditionally accompany dirges, and mourners brush the deceased’s body with a handkerchief that they put afterward on their own faces. Still today in Lucania, when mothers mourn a son, they dance around the funerary bed, clapping, so as to wake the dead (man). 22 The threnos thus presents itself as a moment of intense “mixing,” of communication between the dead and the living, which afterward enables each party to return to his proper place. By giving shape to suff ering, lamentations confer a comprehensible form on an incomprehensible event. While the voice is admittedly not the only instrument in this process, it nonetheless forms the most effi cient means charged with carrying out the ritual’s function, which is—fi rst and foremost—to complete his death and send him across into the afterlife. The endurance of these practices, in which Marian lamentations participate, appears to us to be especially implicated in the ritual function, which we have just examined, and in the social consequences specifi cally brought about by this liminal state, consequences that seem indispensable to the continued equilibrium of Greek society, both antique and Byzantine, as we will now demonstrate. RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE 53

Lamentations highlight a social metalanguage that is employed in every ritual of passage, in a form specifi c to the Greek context. As anthropologist Victor W. Turner has shown for other contexts, whose mechanisms remain pertinent here, this kind of liminal phase provides a privileged context in which episodes of social transgression can occur, taking advantage of the generalized confusion between social statuses and gender roles and—we might add—the mixing of cosmogenic levels. 23 The category of symbolic ritual inversion stressed by Turner frequently attributes a starring dominant role to socially inferior groups, habitually left on the fringe of the public sphere, especially during liminal moments specifi c to rite of passage. Turner’s theories allow us to recognize the funerary ritual as a socially subversive moment, necessary for the preservation of what he calls structure , and this because they allow a cyclical lessening of tensions. There existed, in both the religious calendars of ancient city-states and in the rites of passage that gave rhythm to the lives of their inhabitants, a certain number of inversion rituals that produced reversals in the power status of their actors, and during which women (or more rarely slaves) substituted themselves for men. 24 A portion of both personal and civic ancient religious life was, moreover, guided by women. With the advent of Christianity, the symbolic, ritual inversions that had existed in the polytheistic world began to disappear. Women’s former roles likewise began to fade away along with the ancient religions and the Christian religion’s concomitant prohibition against women occupying high- profi le roles. 25 Funerary rituals, however, continued to be left wholly in the hands of women. Thus during the Christian period, lamentations become one of this marginal group’s only occasions for public expression. Funerary rituals, with their forceful vocalizations and expressive movements become rare occasions for women to ease the tensions of their perennially inferior status and social muteness. Indeed, one after another, Byzantine civil codes reiterate the powerlessness with which women are stricken—exclusion from public life, exclusion from public offi ce, and exclusion from personal representation in court—renewing the status as “minors” that had restricted women in Greek antiquity. 26 Throughout the early Christian and Byzantine periods, women are thus condemned to a social silence—often explicitly so, as Jo ëlle Beaucamp has shown. 27 It comes through clearly that in Byzantine Christendom, the simple fact of a woman speaking in public was received by Church authorities as potential disruption (against the Christian ethos and also against the social order), one that needed to be contained, regardless of the content of what was said. It is thus comes as no surprise if Church authorities associated these acts of ritual speech with shame- less indecency. Basil of Caesarea’s Homily on Drunk People (Homilia in Ebriosos ) includes reproaches against the impudence of women attending vigils for the saints. They come wearing trailing dresses with their hair loose, he writes, and they perform sensual dances. 28 Considering funeral wakes and funeral prayers to be events dangerous to the good moral conduct of young Christian girls, Chrysostom advises parents to forbid maidens to attend any of them: “ δεῖ δὲ καὶ ἐκφορῶν καὶ παννυχίδων ἀπείργειν ” (They should not attend wakes for the dead nor vigils in honor of the saints). 29 Thus alongside their religious functions, the 54 HÉLÈNE BERNIER-FARELLA social functions of lamentation rituals furnish a second explanation for the phenomenon’s exceptional continuity and endurance.30 In this way, the importance of the speaker begins to come into focus: the identity of the group who speaks holds equal importance to what is said; the discourse functions ritually only in so far as it is enunciated by the marginal group. As we will see shortly, this function of the ritual voice that seeks to express and perhaps contest a socially marginal status can be found even in the Virgin Mary’s own speech.

Silence and the Psalms: A Christian Alternative to Lamentation Episcopal condemnations were not the only means by which the Eastern Church Fathers sought to silence these funerary voices. The scale of what was at stake shows in the variety of means utilized in the eff ort to Christianize traditional rituals. As early as the fourth century, ecclesiastical authorities sought to mask the endurance of pagan ritual by superimposing a number of Christianized elements over the female ritual voice. These included the invention of a saintly, “murmured” death; the implementation of funerary chants consistent with Christian beliefs and led by priests; and attempts to instrumentalize the Marian voice. The Eucharistic off ering that characterized early Christian funerary rites was replaced by the singing of Psalms and hymns, which now accompanied the procession leading the dead man to his tomb. 31 In contrast to traditional lamentations, the content and tone of these hymns is controlled and no longer left to the initiative of those performing the ritual. It is important to notice the chronological coincidence between these changes in funerary ritual and the more openly hierarchical structure of Christian communities, led by bishops whose roles grew considerably in importance. Let us now return to Gregory of Nazianzus, this time to Gregory’s writings about the deaths of his sister Gorgonia and his brother Caesarius, texts con- spicuously without loud acts of lamentation. In the case of Gorgonia, Gregory’s description noticeably quiets even plain speech.

Ἔλυετο μὲν ἤδη καὶ ἀνέπνει τὰ τελευταῖα καὶ χορὸς ἦν περὶ αὐτὴν οἰκείων τε καὶ ξένων χαριζομένων τὰ προπεμπητήρια ̇ . . . κ α ὶ φ ί λτ ρ ο ν ἁ π ά ν τ ω ν ἀ γ ω ν ί ᾳ σ ύ γ κ ρ α τ ο ν, τῷ μὲν ὅ τι ἀκούσωσι ποθούντων , μνήμης ἐμπύρευμα , τῶν δὲ ὅ τι φθέξωνται, τολμῶντος δὲ οὐδενός . Καὶ κωφὰ τὰ δάκρυα καὶ ἡ τῆς λύπης ὠδὶν ἀθεράπευτος — οὐδὲ γὰρ ὅσιον ἐδοκει θρήνοις τιμᾷν τὴν οὕτω χωριζομένην — σιγὴ δὲ βαθεῖα , καὶ τελετὴ ὁ θάνατος .32

[She was just passing away, and at her last breath, surrounded by a group of relatives and friends performing the last offices of kindness, . . . anguish and affection being blended in the minds of all. Some longed to hear some burning word to be branded in their recollection; others were eager to speak, yet no one dared; for tears were mute and the pangs of grief unconsoled, since it seemed sacrilegious, to think that mourning could be an honour to one who was thus passing away. So there was solemn silence, as if her death had been a religious ceremony.] 33

This silence is not however without words: the observant pastor sees Gorgonia’s lips “gently moving” and bravely bends to listen: “ Ψαλμῳδία τὸ ὑπολαλούμενον ἦν καὶ ψαλμῳδίας τὰ ἐξόδια ῥήματα ” (this murmur was a psalm—the last words RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE 55 of a psalm!). 34 With a whispered prayer, the dying saint’s existence draws to a close, setting forth a recognizable topos of hagiographic literature. 35 Nor is the choice of prayer insignifi cant, since the Church had precisely selected Psalms to replace traditional lamentations. The psalm Gorgonia murmurs emphasizes the peacefulness of Christian death: “In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for thou alone, O LORD, makest me dwell in safety” (Psalm 4:9). In these and other early hagiographic narratives, the saint’s fi nal words do not belong to them, no more than do those spoken by their loved ones during the funeral procession; they are drawn from Scripture and singularly refl ect a dominant eschatology that transforms Christian death into slumber. It is through Psalms as well that Gregory’s mother, refusing the traditional threnos, laments her son, Caesarius:

ὕμνοις ἐξ ὕμνων παραπεμπόμενος , μαρτύρων βήμασι πομπευόμενος , γονέων χερσὶν ὁσίαις τιμώμενος , μητρὸς λαμπροφορίᾳ τῷ πάθει τὴν εὐσέβειαν ἀντεισαγούσης , δάκρυσιν ἡττωμένοις φιλοσοφίᾳ , ψαλμῳδίαις κοιμιζούσαις τοὺς θρήνους . 36 [(Caesarius) after being escorted home amidst a succession of hymns and public orations, has been honoured by the holy hands of his parents; while his mother, substituting the festal garments of religion for the trappings of woe, has overcome her tears by her philosophy, and lulled to sleep lamentations by psalmody.] 37

In his Life of Macrina , Gregory of Nyssa (d. 395) attempts to arrange lamenting women behind the nuns, and the men behind the monks, in order to produce an orderly and harmonious choir of suitably blended voices, all singing Psalms. 38 Gregory’s purpose here also includes shaping a Christian gestural vocabulary, since the ritual voices he sought to appropriate and tame were accompanied by bodily gestures. Liturgy indicates that by the eighth century, and very likely earlier as hagiography indicates, the funerals of ordinary Christians also used the singing of Psalms (which are songs of hope and of mercy) as a pendant to women’s spontaneous lamentations insisting on the bitterness of death. 39 This model, based on the calm silence of saintly death, is shaped by what seems to be an explicit enterprise of Christianization whose stakes include not only the elimination of lamentations, but also control over the female voice. Should we thus understand that Mary’s lamentations at the Cross take up on behalf of the Church otherwise condemned ritual lamentations? Do these texts grant to a single, authorized voice—that of Mary—a discourse too disruptive to allow ordinary women? The process of Christianization that provides a foundation for this Marian voice in fact shows itself to be more complex than a simple appropriation.

Lamentations of the Virgin At times, history off ers its own kinds of polyphony, resulting in unique situations that the historian struggles to explain. Such is case for the ritual complaints of Mary evoked at the beginning of this chapter. Two distinct and often incompatible traditions develop around Mary’s attitude before the Cross. In one, Mary masters and restrains the despair she feels as a grieving mother, in conformity 56 HÉLÈNE BERNIER-FARELLA with the model of a good Christian death just outlined. In the other, more fraught with paradox, the Theotokos (Mother of God) enacts the very ritual lamentations we have been describing, even to the point of tearing at her own fl esh. In this second tradition, the ritual quality of Mary’s laments is above all evident in the parallels between the themes developed in Mary’s voice on the one hand and the traditional lament in its “pagan” form on the other. The hymns dedicated to the Planctus Mariae of Romanos the Melodist, the best-known Byzantine hymnographer of the late fi fth to early sixth centuries, carry forward ritual formulas habitually found in the dirges sung by women upon the death of a son who has died without ever having married. Mary’s reference to the briefness of her son’s existence, “the short path,” takes on a very common traditional formula used in pagan texts to describe the bitterness of premature death or of death before marriage. 40 Indeed, this premature death is consistently judged in the ancient Greek and early Byzantine worlds as being one of the most dreadful, opening up a risk that the dead man will be unable to take his place in the afterlife.41 Unable to evoke her own son’s marriage, Mary asks him if he is running off to Cana to celebrate a new wedding.42 The author of the Christos Paschon portrays Mary’s lamentations as those of a mother witness to her son’s death. Mary weeps in keeping with the codes of traditional lamentations, including women’s lamentations over their own fates. This underscores the social function of lamentations as a discourse that a marginalized group (in this case women) produces about its own ontological and social condition. Although Mary bemoans the fate of humanity, her words concern women especially: “γυνὴ γάρ εἰμι κἀπὶ δακρύοις ἔφυν ” (I am a woman, born to shed tears). 43 Her words echo those of the choir of women who accompany her and who bemoan the disgrace of seeing their off spring die:

Πάντων ὅσ᾽ ἔστ᾽ ἔμψυχα καὶ γνώμην ἔχει , γυναῖκές ἐσμεν ἀθλιώτατον φυτόν , ὅσαι τεκοῦσαι καὶ θανόντ᾽ εἶδον τέκνα . 44 [Among all living and intelligent beings, we women are the most pitiful creatures, we bear children and we watch them die.]

In addition to Mary’s denigration of her status as a woman, the drama contains appeals to justice and curses upon the murderers Pontius Pilate and Judas, curses whose character once more reprises the ritual formulas used in the lamentations chanted over bloody deaths. 45 Also forcefully present is the idea that, having lost her son, Mary has lost all social support.

[τέθεικας :] Οἲμοι , συνθάνοιμί σοι , Τέκνον Ἰδοὺ τέθνηκας , τίς με δέξεται πόλις ; τίς γῆν ἄσυλον καὶ δόμους ἐχεγγύους ξένος παρασχὼν ῥύσεται δέμας τόδε . 46 [Alas, I want to die along with you, oh my son. Now that you are dead, which city will host me? Which stranger, giving me an inviolable asylum and a hospitable home will protect me?] RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE 57

These Marian lamentations express the social destitution of the woman left to fend for herself. Having gained momentary access to public expression through funerary ritual, the female voice can rise up to channel grievances and denounce the fragility of women’s social identity. This aspect of Mary’s laments refl ect a facet of women’s funerary laments alluded to earlier in discussion of the social functions associated with the liminal moments produced in rites of passage. More than a simple choir uniting two incompatible voices, the Marian discourse and the liturgy it inspires can be best explained by the will to Christianize a process the Church has not managed to stamp out. Unable to be reduced to silence by virtue of the structural importance of what they express, these lamentations are Christianized by their spokesperson, the Mother of God. By this means, their ritual necessity, the necessity of being intoned by women in mourning for one and many losses, is canceled out by the outcome of the Christic gesture, since the Resurrection renders mourning henceforth unnecessary, whether for Mary or for any other Christian. Mary’s lamentation appears thus as the last possible occurrence of this ritual chant and in a certain sense commemorates its vanity. Like the Eucharist, the Easter liturgy is largely constructed as the commemo- ration of a foundational event, that of Christ’s Passion. In the Christos Paschon as in Marial hymnography, fi nal hope triumphs over short-lived distress; Mary herself proclaims that her lamentations are only temporary because her Son is destined to return to life.47 Another character, “the theologian,” who seems to personify the ecclesiastic institution, specifi es that no other woman but Mary is allowed to sing dirges. 48 This narrative substitution actually inscribes itself in the ritual context in so far as the liturgy becomes part of the new ritual. The substitution of traditional lamentations by the Marian voice continues throughout the medieval period. In the fi rst Byzantine version of the Acts of Pilate , a text partially included in the Holy Saturday liturgy, the Virgin laments while beating her breast and lacerating her cheeks, leaving no doubt as to the ritual character of her tears. 49 Later versions give her lamentations still further development, such that they contain numerous elements common to both antique and modern vernacular ritual lamentations. 50 Despite the richness of Marian traditions, which aims to put traditional lamentations onto Mary alone, and to do so in the context of the Easter liturgy that precedes the Resurrection, another development of these Christian lamentations demonstrates that this process did not lead to the cessation of ritual lamentation but rather the opposite. Until very recently, women in a great number of Greek communities would gather at the church to mourn the deceased Christ just as they would for a deceased family member.51 On the occasion of these feasts called “moirologia,” the death of Christ appears to off er an additional opportunity for funerary lamentations, rather than a means of Christianizing deep rooted funerary discourses. In this context women take on the Marian voice in order to continue their most audible public discourse, that of funerary lamentation. The last question to be asked is thus how we might understand this Christian expression of ritual lament that continues to be withheld from ordinary women. For Gail Holst-Warhaft, the ritual value of these texts is less urgent than their role in a network of gender-based power relations; in this perspective the clergy 58 HÉLÈNE BERNIER-FARELLA substitutes for the unmastered voices of real women that of Mary, controlled by the clergy and, ultimately, masculine. 52 For Gregory Dobrov, Mary’s lamentations do conserve a ritual value and also participate in a form of “dialogic interaction” that brings together the irreconciliable discourses of the Church and traditional female lamentations.53 Neither of these interpretations takes into account the determining context for these Marian lamentations, which is that of the Christianization of funerary rites themselves. Yet beyond the question of the Christianization of funerary rites, a further theological explanation can be found. In her suff ering, Mary expresses a humanity that also serves to recall Jesus’s own humanity, thus voicing a position that aligns itself with the orthodox defi nition of the nature of Jesus, as it was defi ned by the patriarchs who gathered at the council of Nicea in AD 325 and then at Chalcedon in AD 451 and whose dog- mas clearly express opposition to both Arian conceptions of Christ that favored his divine nature and to the unitarian conception of the Christic economy. The persistence of these unorthodox beliefs may have infl uenced representations of Mary’s attitude at the Cross. In AD 451 the Council of Chalcedon, even while fi rmly condemning Monophysitism, had already put forth the title of Theotokos (mother of God) to designate Mary in order to promote the formula of consub- stantiality for Christ’s dual nature, both human and divine. This explanation, which emphasizes the humanity of Mary, who suff ers the same pain as ordinary women when faced with the death of her son, does not however account for the suff ering that Mary expresses in recognizably codifi ed gestures elsewhere censured by the Church. These traces of the persistence of traditional rituals might seem paradoxical, in so far as the offi cial position of the Orthodox Church remained strongly opposed to funerary lamentations. The observations this chapter has developed surrounding the social mechanisms that underpin funerary ritual and highlighting the structural importance of the female voice to that rite and its liminal passages off er an important explanation for the durability of these lamentations, but do not shed light on their appropriation by the Church itself. In order to comprehend this surprising superposition of funerary voices in the standard devotional texts or in the liturgy, it is important that the more specifi c religious functions of the funerary ritual be considered. The superposition of Christian doctrine and traditional lamentations in Mary’s discourse is in fact emblematic of a larger phenomenon that impacts the funerary ritual in its ensemble. When we put Christian ritual into the perspective of “pagan” ritual, several phenomena become apparent. The fi rst salient element is the kinship between pagan and Christian eschatologies, despite the new dogma of the resurrection of the body, which is totally foreign to Hellenic thought. 54 Examination of this eschatological framework tends to show that Christian ritual was developed around representations that in some cases were dogmatically well-established (e.g., the resurrection of the body, the Last Judgment) but that others, which might be called interstitial beliefs , remained enveloped in a sort of haziness. For example, the fate of souls awaiting Parousia (the Second Coming) is not specifi ed in dogma, which allows for variations in doctrinal positions. 55 This haziness tends to perpetuate “older” or “pagan” representations of the fate of the dead and the relationships between the dead and the living. Thus the concern RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE 59 to “help the dead cross over,” which we have seen was the primary religious function of the rite during Antiquity, remains unchanged, explaining in part the importance of maintaining a ritual that answers this need. The fact that Psalms, like lamentations, are made of chanted words indicates the great continuity of their shared ritual mechanism. The change in religion must not obscure for us the core observation that the voice itself retains the same power to eff ect the ritual as previously. In the Greek context, representations of the afterlife and ritual remained closely related from Antiquity to the Christian Middle Ages. The endurance of traditional, pre-Christian beliefs explains a situation of ritual doubling wherein each “pagan” act is preserved and supplemented by a Christian equivalent. 56 Amongst numerous examples, we might cite an off ering made in the form of alms to the Church, which was added to food off erings made at the tomb and the funerary meal still shared. Libations of wine and the funeral banquets continued throughout the Byzantine period and are also duplicated in the distribution of blessed food, the kolyva . After the tradition of using a coin as a viaticum comes the practice of representing the sign of the cross, a new viaticum, and even drawing it on the body of the deceased. 57 The traditional ritual purifi cation by water remains, but is supplemented by unction with blessed oil. 58 In sum, it is the ensemble of ritual gestures that preceded Christianity that are preserved and against which are juxtaposed new ritual gestures with equivalent functions. The funerary lamentations of early Christian women and their metamorphosis into the chanting of Psalms or the performed lamentations of the Virgin Mary are thus but one part of a larger ritual reworking that, borne out by active and shared representations, remains coherent across centuries and even millennia. The question is not therefore one of synthesis but rather one of superposition, with ancient practices sometimes closely reproducing themselves within the structure of Christianity, as can be forcefully apprehended through the lamentations of Mary at the Cross. The relays of borrowing, condemnation, superposition, or re-creation of new codes for this ritual voice accurately represent the functional complexities surrounding the public voice in Byzantium. Understood in their respective contexts—the religious context of Christianization, the ritual context of Christian funerals, the social context in which they make themselves heard —the instru- mentality of Greek funerary voices reveals itself. Through song, the funerary voice makes it possible for the world of the living to mix with the world of the dead. The necessity of this function explains in part the persistence of lamentation songs during the funeral ritual’s moment of greatest liminality. This lamenting voice is likewise the bearer of an intelligible discourse incompatible with Christian dogma. As an instrument of social regulation capable of conferring a public voice upon an otherwise excluded group in a context of gross inequal- ity, lamentation remains an indispensable practice, one which the introduction of chanted psalms cannot erase. This type of persistence is usually interpreted as a relic or legacy, a kind of folklorization, of practices henceforth without purpose. In such a view, these supposedly isolated instances of a shipwrecked system endure by force of habit alone; we only say something “survives” when 60 HÉLÈNE BERNIER-FARELLA it is “supposed” to die. Yet, once we understand the ritual necessity of these voices of lamentation, we are able to grasp the enduring coherence of their place within a system of Christian rituals that has not entirely erased their former mechanisms.

Notes Translated by Irit Ruth Kleiman. 1 . Critical edition and French translation published as: Gregory of Nazianzus, La Passion du Christ: trag é die , ed. Andr é Tuilier, SC 149 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1969). Henceforth cited by verse number as Christos Paschon . 2 . Christos Paschon , vv. 899–902. Where not otherwise indicated, all translations from the Greek were prepared by the author (translator’s note). On the attribution of authorship, see Marek Starowieyski, “Les Apocryphes dans la trag é die Christus Patiens ,” Apocrypha 5 (1994): 269–88, at 280–84. 3 . See especially Margaret Alexiou, The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition (London: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 62–66, and 102–29; and Margaret Alexiou, “The Lament of the Virgin in Byzantine Literature and Modern Greek Folk- Song,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 1.1 (1975): 111–40. In addition to the Christos Paschon , normative examples of this tradition include the hymns of Romanos the Melodist; Symeon Metaphrastes, Sancta Mariae Planctus ; Germanus of Constantinople, In dominici corporis sepulturam ; and Gregory of Nicomedia, In SS Mariam assistentem Cruci . For an example from apocryphal literature, see Acta Pilati ( The Gospel of Nicodemus ), X. 2. See the bibliography at the end of this volume for complete publication details and below for discussion of the Acta Pilati . 4 . For a contextual overview, see Loring M. Danforth and Alexander Tsiaras, The Death Rituals of Rural Greece (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1982) and Antigone Samellas, Death in the Eastern Mediterranean (50–600 AD): The Christianization of the East (T ü bingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002). 5 . See especially, Ernesto De Martino, Morte e pianto rituale: dal lamento funebre antico al pianto di Maria (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 2000), 15–53. 6 . Plutarch describes some varieties of these lamentations in “Solon,” Chapter 21, Section 4. See Plutarch’s Lives , ed. and trans. Bernadotte Perrin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1914), 1: 445–78, at 462. See also Alexiou, The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition , 12; and De Martino, Morte e pianto rituale , 178–92. 7 . F or more on recurrent themes, see Alexiou, The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition , Chapters 8 and 9, 160–203. 8 . Gregory of Nazianzus, Epitaphios for His Brother Caesarius 1, in Gr égoire de Nazianze, Discours 6–12 , ed. Marie-Ange Calvet-Sebasti, SC 405 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1995), 182. 9 . John Chrysostom, De consolatione mortis 5, PG 56, col. 297, ll. 14–18. See also Gregory of Nyssa, De mortuis , in Sermones , vol. 9 of Gregorii Nysseni Opera , ed. G ünter Heil (Leiden: Brill, 1967), 3–68; and Gregory of Nyssa, Gregorio di Nissa: Discorso sui defunti , ed. and trans. Guiseppe Lozza (Turin: Societ à Editrice Internazionale, 1991). 10 . John Chrysostom, XXXI in Matthaeum , PG 57, col. 374, ll. 5–23. See also Chrysostom, De Lazaro concio V : Ad homiliam de dormientibus , PG 48, col. 1019– 1020, ll. 1–6; Chrysostom, In Acta Apostolorum XXI.4, PG 60, col. 168–69; and Basil of Caesarea, Homilia de gratiarum actione , PG 31, col. 229. RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE 61

11 . John Chrysostom, Homilia in Johanem LXII 4, PG 59, col. 346. 12 . See, for instance, the sixth-century testimony of Severus of Antioch in Homelia XLIV , published in Les “Homiliae Cathedrales” de S év ère d’Antioche, Hom élies XL à XLV , ed. Maurice Bri è re and Franç ois Graffin (Turnhout: Brepols, 1971), 106, ll. 4–25. For a broader study, see Johannes Quasten, Musik und Gesang in den Kulten der heidnischen Antike und christlichen Fr ü hzeit (Munster: Aschendorff, 1930), 295–347. 13 . Andrew of Crete, De humana vita et de defunctis , PG 97, col. 1281. Cf. John Chrysostom, Homilia in Johanem LXII 4, PG 59, col. 346; discussed by Alexiou, The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition , 29; and Samellas, Death in the Eastern Mediterranean , 79–80. 14 . Women are clearly depicted in ritual gestures on a krater from Athens (NM 802) and on a fragmentary krater from Amsterdam (Allard Pierson Museum, 2015). See Gudrun Ahlberg, Prothesis and Ekphora in Greek Geometric Art (Gö teborg: Paul Astr ö ms Fö rlag, 1971), 77–78. 15 . For a few examples from Euripides, consider Andromache , vv. 94–96; Helen , vv. 164–179; The Trojan Women , vv. 1235–36; The Suppliants , vv. 71–82; Electra , vv. 146–49. 16 . Lucian of Samosata, De luctu 12, in Lucian in Eight Volumes , ed. and trans. A. M. Harmon (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969), 4:118–30. 17 . Robert Herzt, “Contribution à une repré sentation collective de la mort,” L’Ann ée Sociologique 10 (1907): 48–137. 18 . Lucian of Samosata, De luctu 12, in Lucian 4:118. Walter Burkert, Homo necans: Rites sacrificiels et mythes de la Gr è ce ancienne , trans. H él è ne Feydy with Karola Machastchek (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2005), 5. 19 . Arnold van Gennep, Les rites de passage: é tude systé matique des rites de la porte et du seuil [ . . . ] (Paris: E. Nourry, 1909), 27. 20 . Evangh élos Moutsopoulos, “Euripide et la philosophie de la musique,” Revue des Etudes Grecques 75 (1962): 400–402. Hecuba laments and invocates her dead child in the same ritual moment: “Hecuba: My children, hear, listen to your mother’s voice! // Chorus: It is the dead you address with your cry of lament. // Hecuba: Yes, as I let my aged limbs sink to the ground and strike the earth with my two hands.” Euripides, The Trojan Women , v. 1303–1305, in Works , ed. and trans. David Kovacs, vol. 4 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). 21 . Ahlberg, Prothesis and Ekphora in Greek Geometric Art , 300. 22 . De Martino, Morte e pianto rituale , 86–103. 23 . Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-structure (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969). 24 . See Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Le Chasseur noir : Formes de pens ée et formes de soci ét é dans le monde grec (Paris: Maspero, 1981). 25 . On women in Greek religious life, see Pierre Brul é, La fille d’Athè nes: La religion des filles à Athè nes à l’ époque classique (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1987); and Pauline Schmitt-Pantel, “La religion et l’aré t é des femmes: à propos des Vertus de femmes de Plutarque,” in La Religion des femmes en Gr è ce ancienne: Mythes, cultes et soci é t é , ed. Lydie Bodiou and Vé ronique Mehl (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009), 145–59. 26 . See Barbara Levick, “Women and Law,” in A Companion to Women in the Ancient World , ed. Sharon L. James and Sheila Dillon (Chichester, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 103; Jo ëlle Beaucamp, “La Situation juridique de la femme à Byzance,” Cahiers de civilisation mé dié vale 20 (1977): 145–76; reprinted in Beaucamp, Femmes, 62 HÉLÈNE BERNIER-FARELLA

patrimoines, normes à Byzance (Paris: Association des amis du Centre d’histoire et civilisation de Byzance, 2010), 21–56; and Beaucamp, Le Statut de la femme à Byzance, 4e –7e siè cle , vol. 2, Les pratiques sociales (Paris: De Boccard, 1992). 27 . Jo ëlle Beaucamp, “La Christianisation du droit à Byzance: L’exemple du statut des femmes,” in Femmes, patrimoines, normes à Byzance ,” 423–44. 28 . Basil of Caesarea, Homilia in ebriosos 14, PG 31, col. 440, ll. 39–45. 29 . John Chrysostom, De sacerdotio III 13.5, in Sur le Sacerdoce: Dialogue et hom élie , ed. Anne-Marie Malingrey, SC 272 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1980), 216. 30 . See Danforth and Tsiaras, The Death Rituals of Rural Greece , 13–22. 31 . Les Constitutions Apostoliques (written near Antioch, ca. 380) contains the last reference to the funerary Eucharist accompanied by the singing of Psalms and a procession to the cemetery (VI, 30 and VIII, 41). Les Constitutions apostoliques , ed. Maurice Metzger, SC 336 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1987), 3:256–58. 32 . Gregory of Nazianzus, Epitaphios on His Sister Gorgonia 22, in Calvet-Sebasti, Discours 6–12 , 292–94. 33 . Translation cited from Gregory of Nazianzus, “On His Sister Gorgonia,” Internet History Sourcebooks Project, http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/basis/gregnaz- gorgonia.asp . 34 . Gregory of Nazianzus, Epitaphios on His Sister Gorgonia 22, in Calvet-Sebasti, Discours 6–12 , 297. 35 . This is also the case in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina 13–25. The critical edition is Vie de sainte Macrine, ed. and trans. Pierre Maraval, SC 178 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1971), 247; see also Gregory of Nazianzus’s Epitaphios for His Brother Caesarius 15 (Calvet-Sebasti, Discours 6–12 , 218). See below for details regarding online English translations. 36 . Gregory of Nazianzus, Epitaphios for His brother Caesarius 15, in Discours 6–12 , 218. 37 . Translation cited from Gregory Nazianzen, Oration 7: Panegyric on His Brother S. Caesarius , online at newadvent.org/fathers/310207.htm. 38 . Gregory of Nyssa, Vie de sainte Macrine 9.13–25, ed. Maraval, 248. A 1916 English translation is online at legacy.fordham.edu/halsall/basis/macrina.asp. 39 . For liturgical evidence, see Elena Velkovska, “Funeral Rites According to the Byzantine Liturgical Sources,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 55 (2001): 21–51. For hagiographic sources, see Callinicus, Vie d’Hypatios 51.7, ed. G. J. M. Baterlink (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1971), 290. 40 . See Tertullian, De Anima 56.3, ed. J. H. Waszink (Amsterdam: J. M. Meulnhoff, 1947), 74; or Erwin Rohde, Psyche: The Cult of the Souls and the Belief in Immortality among the Greeks (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1925), 727. 41 . For a study of this topic, see Sarah Iles Johnston, Restless Dead: Encounters between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). 42 . Romanos the Melodist, Marie à la Croix 1, in Romanos le Mé lode: Hymnes , ed. Jos é Grosdidier de Maton, vol. 4, Nouveau Testament (XXXII–XLV) SC 128 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1967), 160. For a discussion, see Gregory W. Dobrov, “A Dialogue with Death: Ritual Lament and the ‘Threnos Theotokou’ of Romanos Melodos,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 35.4 (1994): 385–405. 43 . Christos Paschon, v. 748. These utterances recall words that Euripides places in the mouth of Medea. 44 . Christos Paschon , vv. 1019–21. RITUAL VOICES AND SOCIAL SILENCE 63

45 . Christos Paschon , vv. 267–357 and vv. 1435–49. For the theme of vengeance in ancient rites, see Gail Holst-Warhaft, Dangerous Voices: Women’s Laments and Greek Literature (London: Routledge, 1992), 4 and 43–47. 46 . Christos Paschon , vv. 876–90. 47 . Christos Paschon , v. 720. 48 . Christos Paschon , vv. 1000–1004. 49 . Acta Pilati X. 2, in Constantinus de Tischendorf, ed., Evangelia Apocrypha adhibitis plurimis codicibus Graecis et Latinis (Leipzig: Avenarius and Mendelssohn, 1853), 282–83. On this source, see R émi Gounelle, ed. and trans., Les Recensions byzantines de l’Evangile de Nicod è me (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008), 68–73. See also, De Martino, Morte e pianto rituale , 288–98. 50 . The Gospel of Nicodemus (= Acta Pilati) M2, M3 10.1.2 B, vv. 5–30, and 10.1.3c, vv. 1–45, in Tischendorf, Evangelia Apocrypha . 51 . Bertrand Bouvier, Le Mirologue de la Vierge: Chansons et po è mes grecs sur la Passion du Christ (Geneva: Droz, Institut suisse de Rome, 1976); and Alexiou, The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition , 62–78. 52 . See Holst-Warhaft, Dangerous Voices: Women’s Laments and Greek Literature , 6–9. Cf. Alexiou, The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition , 36–37. 53 . See Dobrov, “A Dialogue with Death: Ritual Lament and the ‘Threnos Theotokou,’” 390. 54 . See H él è ne Bernier-Farella, La Christianisation du rituel fun éraire dans l’aire culturelle grecque: Un ph é nom è ne de longue dur ée (Turnhout: Brepols, forthcoming). 55 . Nicolas Constas, “‘To Sleep Perchance to Dream’: The Middle State of Souls in Patristic and Byzantine Literature,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 55 (2001): 91–124. 56 . On “ritual doubling,” see Bernier-Farella, La Christianisation du rituel fun éraire , Chapter 7. For a more detailed study of one exemplary practice, see H él è ne Bernier-Farella, “Les M écanismes rituels de la parent é spirituelle dans les monas- t è res byzantins: Rites de comm émoraison et nourritures funè bres (IVe–XIIe si è - cle),” in Les R é seaux familiaux: Antiquité tardive et Moyen Age , ed. B é atrice Caseau (Paris: ACHCByz, 2012), 21–44. 57 . The motif of the cross becomes frequent in funerary monuments beginning in the fourth century. See D. I. Pallas, “Ἀνασκαφὴ ἐν Παλαιᾷ Κορίνθῳ ,” Praktika Ergon (1953): 175–83. Cf. Symeon of Thessalonica, De Ordine sepultura , PG 155, col. 676. 58 . Symeon of Thessalonica, De Ordine sepultura , PG 155, col. 687.

CHAPTER 4

VIVA VOCE : VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS AMONG TWELFTH-CENTURY CLERICS

Bruno Lemesle

Introduction Writing in his Summa on Gratian’s Decretum 1 toward 1164, canonist Rufi nus of Bologna 2 evokes criminal prelates, saying, “vocem accusandi, reprehendi, docendi non habent” (they do not have a voice to accuse, punish, teach). 3 Should this enumeration be understood as a commonplace statement about three possible functions of the voice, or should we suspect a set of deeper associations? Is Rufi nus’s use of the word “voice” simply an alternative to other rhetorical or stylistic possibilities—such as the word “word” in particular—or is it truly a deliberate choice on the part of the canonist? Analysis of the use of the word “voice” in Gratian’s Decretum , in the Summae of canonists who glossed the Decretum during the second half of the twelfth century, and in pontifi cal letters, leads clearly to the second conclusion. These documents reveal a wealth of occurrences of the word “voice.” Their comparison with the canons compiled in Gratian’s Decretum show both innovations in the word’s use and a relatively higher frequency in its occurrence. Indeed, Gratian and the decretists,4 that is, the commentators on the Decretum who followed him, placed greater emphasis on the voice than had their predecessors, introducing the word into their commentaries on the canon texts in places where it had not originally appeared. In doing so, they placed signifi cantly greater emphasis on the voice than had earlier authors. At fi rst, the attempt to catalog the word “voice” in these sources seems to reveal a multiplicity of meanings and uses. There is the voice of praise and also the divine voice revealed to the prophets; there is the voice of incorporation in the sacrament of the Eucharist; there is, of course, the voice of preaching and pastoral care, and there is the voice of denunciation and accusation, as well. However, one also fi nds on these pages the “dead” voices of monks, simoniacs without voices, and the epileptic’s confused voice. The strangeness of these last voices strikes us 66 BRUNO LEMESLE immediately, and thus we will attempt—so much as it is possible—to understand the meanings that the commentators on Gratian’s Decretum gave to them. The fi rst impression produced by this brief enumeration is of semantic inconsistency. Rufi nus’s wording suggests, however, a completely diff erent reality, one in which correspondences, and sometimes explicit similarities, exist across different registers. This is what I propose to establish by showing how diff erent uses of the word “voice” convey a unity of meanings. On these pages I will argue that these seemingly diverse uses demonstrate an intentional choice in the second half of the twelfth century, both in the writings of the decretists and the popes. Why do they use the word “voice” where previous texts used other terms? To answer this question we need to understand the reasons behind their choice and to determine the issues to which they respond during this period. My method will be to fi rst review and analyze “positive” or “affi rmative” uses of the voice, then those uses that seem to oppose them—or at least to be diff erent—and then fi nally I will assess the explicit connections between them.

Praise, Pastoral Care, and Confession The decretists frequently introduced the theme of the voice into their glosses, either because they had the desire to explain the canons more explicitly or out of a desire to enrich them. 5 This need gives expression to their primary concern for conversion and preaching and it also demonstrates their reservations, even their hostility, toward the career advancement and promotion of monks sworn by the observance of their rule to silence and prayer. Glossing a chapter of the Decretum that deals with the “eulogia,” Rufi nus draws an analogy between prayer and the voice because prayers are like good words ( eulogia ) and the one who brings them is praised with a sonorous voice: “Eulogia sunt manualia munera, que solebant episcopi vel clerici metropoli- tano ad sinodum referre, et dicuntur eulogia quasi boni sermones; cum enim quis huiusmodi dona portat, sonora voce ei benedicitur et pleno ore salutatur” ( Eulogia are gifts that one holds in one’s hand and that bishops and clerics bring to the metropolitan [i.e., the archbishop] during the synod; they are called eulogia , meaning good words; because, indeed, he who brings gifts in this way is praised in sonorous voice and greeted with a full voice). 6 In a commentary on the mass, Rufi nus seeks to explain why the mass is not sung aloud: “Queri solet, cum in secreta totius misse virtus consistat, quare non alta voce canitur, ut audiens populus devotior reddatur. Et sciendum quod olim manifesta voce dicebatur, sed—ut doctores tradunt—pastores, dum illam usu cotidiano audiendi cognitam in agro decantarent, divinitus percussi sunt” (It is common to ask, given that the virtue of the mass is entirely in its secrecy, why the mass is not sung aloud in order to fi ll the people who hear it with greater devotion. One should know that long ago it was spoken aloud but, just as the doctors teach, the shepards, who were used to hearing it every day, sang the mass in the fi elds and were struck divinely by the revealed voice: it is believed that the custom was changed because of this). 7 It is worth comparing Rufi nus’s words with those of his contemporary, John Beleth, who probably taught in VIVA VOCE 67

Paris and who wrote his Summa de ecclesiasticis offi ciis between 1160 and 1164. Beleth explained that only night masses were sung aloud: “Offi cium noctur- num, quod alta voce cantatur et manifesta, representat prophetas et alios sanctos patres veteris testamenti, qui alta voce et aperta ea, que de Christo erant ventura, predixerunt. Quod horas diurnas voce demissa et quasi sub silentio cantamus, signifi cant, quod apostoli in passione Christi latuerunt et non sunt ausi predicare aperte” (The nocturnal offi ce where one sings aloud in a clear voice, represents the prophets and the other Holy Fathers of the Old Testament, who foretold aloud about the coming of Christ in clear voices. That we sing during daylight hours in quiet voices and almost in silence signifi es that the apostles, during Christ’s Passion, hid themselves, and did not dare to preach openly).8 In this way both authors express the value that they accord to a clear and audible voice as a vector for the divine word, apt—according to Rufi nus—to inspire the faithful with greater devotion. More than simply a vector, voice is presence, according to Rufi nus. In a gloss on baptism regarding the oath of heretics, he writes that the authority of the Holy Father is present in the voice. “[Q]uia vox illa . . . i.e. auctoritas Patris, cuius verba in voce representata sunt, vel Spiritus sanctus” (Because this voice . . . that is to say the authority of the Father or of the Holy Spirit whose words are made present in the voice). 9 In writing about the Eucharistic celebration, Rufi nus emphasizes the function of the voice. He glosses a passage in which readers give their approval by making explicit, “i.e. longe, magna scilicet alta voce annunt” (i.e., they give their agreement fully with a full voice, that is to say, with a loud voice). 10 Above all, it is the voice through which the Eucharistic celebration becomes possible, because the voice is, according to a gloss by Simon of Bisignano, incorporation: “missus celestis venit ad consecrandum Dominicum corpus per quem ad altare celeste defertur hostia iuxta vocem sacerdotis dicentis: ‘Omnipotens Deus’” (the messenger of heaven comes to consecrate the body of the Lord, by which the host is off ered to the altar by the voice of the priest when he says: “Almighty God”). 11 The voice is the link between God and men; it makes manifest His presence and the incorporation in the Eucharistic host. This is why Rufi nus, in the introduction to his Summa , can write that the truest reasons become stronger by the voices of divine law (“verisimillimis rationibus, que divine legis vocibus invalescant”).12 At the time when Rufi nus is composing his Summa , the decretists are beginning to put forward the idea of the conscience of the judge; nonetheless, they place more emphasis on the visual: the judge/he who judges has “God before his eyes,” that is, he looks to God before judging men. By choosing this passage to evoke divine voices and to consider them as the foundations of judges’ consciences, Rufi nus again enacts a marked choice in favor of the voice; the theme of the voice is not a simple metaphorical fi gure because it is either a source of inspiration or it acts “directly.” Indeed, the voice touches the soul directly because of the sound that it makes. Let us examine this notion more closely. A treatise by Saint Augustine included in the second recension of the Decretum 13 that reproaches school masters for laugh- ing at the simplicity of priests who sometimes speak Latin poorly without always 68 BRUNO LEMESLE understanding the meaning of the words they pronounce, asserts, “Nouerint etiam, non esse vocem ad aures Dei, nisi animi aff ectum” (They should know that there is no other voice for God’s ears but for the soul’s emotion). 14 Since the author of the palea then compares the church and the court of justice, Rufi nus glosses the passage in this way: “sicut reputatur bene dicere in foro qui elegantia verborum et sonorum utitur, etiamsi alias contra ius loquatur” (he who in court has a reputation for speaking well uses the elegance of words and of sounds, even if he otherwise speaks against what is right).15 Glossing the same passage around 1177–1179, Simon of Bisignano makes explicit the meaning of the word “court,” saying that one must understand the lay forum as well as the ecclesiastical forum. But whereas Rufi nus’s interpretation had drawn the text of the Decretum toward a commentary that was rather negative, regarding words that were elegant but contrary to the spirit of the law, Simon interprets the passage much more positively, and it should be said that he is closer to the meaning of the original text. “Dicitur aliquid benedici sono, idest propter sonoritatem et leporem verborum. Nam curritur ad vocem iucun- dam. Sic in ecclesia aliquid bene dicitur voto, idest propter aff ectum mentis” (One says that something is blessed by sound, that is, by reason of the beauty and sonority of the words. Indeed, one hastens towards a pleasing voice. Thus in the church, something is well spoken in a vow, by reason of the soul’s emotion [ i.e., a monastic vow is well spoken in that the spiritual vow is pleasing to God ]).16 In this passage the Decretum links the voice to the sound it pronounces. Sonority is what makes it possible to distinguish between what is understood through learning and what is understood with the heart. The voice is thus associated with the soul, because the voice speaks to the soul and reaches it. People, adds Augustine, say Amen to the sound of the voice they hear more than to its meaning because “they summon God with words that have no grammar and do not exist” (“cum barbarismis et soloecismis Deum invocare”). 17 Simon of Bisignano adds to this the joyful sound of the voice that resounds within the church, but he also glosses the comparison between the two jurisdictions, which he explains by evoking the two courts, the secular one and the ecclesiastical one. He thus establishes, like Augustine, an explicit correspondence between the voice that resonates throughout the church and the voice that fi lls the tribunal. The voice, understood in its sensory, sonorous aspects, is endowed with a quality that transcends the intelligible meaning of the pronounced words. Nonetheless, when the decretists wrote about the power of the voice, they were particularly concerned with the apostolate and preaching, just as the continuator of the Decretum after Gratian himself had been. Analysis of papal letters confi rms this preoccupation. Let us consider a passage from the Regulae pastoralis liber (The Book of the Pastoral Rule , or Pastoral Care ) by Pope Gregory the Great ( ca . 540–604) inserted into the Decretum by Gratian.18 There we fi nd a long passage warning the rector against silence: to be sure, silence is preferable to imprudent speech that leads to error, but silence without discernment leaves in a state of error those who might otherwise be instructed, emphasizes the pope. Gregory then develops the subject of the pastor who defends his fl ock against wolves by shouting. He adds that in the Acts of the Apostles, the excellent preacher is called “semiverbius” by the Wise Men.19 What does this word mean? Rufi nus asked himself this question just as we VIVA VOCE 69 have done, then off ers a commentary explaining that semiverbius is “he who sows words”; he adds that Christ told Paul to triumph with his voice. 20 But why were the decretists concerned with this question? To what extent are their phrases mere commonplaces, simple commentaries on matters banal and obvious for the period? Simon of Bisignano puts us on the path to understanding the metaphor of the pastor who defends his fl ock and the problem it confronts: What happened when a monk was elected bishop? For example, did he need to respect the rule of silence imposed by the Benedictine Rule? Simon takes the fi rm position that a monk who becomes bishop is not obligated to observe his vow of silence; on the contrary, he should raise his voice like a trumpet. 21 Simon’s gloss reveals still more clearly the epoch’s preoccupation with this theme since it is an addition to the commented canon and not a commentary. Indeed, the chapter of Gratian’s Decretum that Simon comments is only concerned with the question of land holdings and the acquisition property realized by the monk who becomes a bishop. A problem of compatibility existed between the Rule, whose reach extended only to those who had adopted it and lived under it, and Canon Law, whose reach was more general; it was thus to the latter that the monk who was promoted to bishop had to conform. As for the image of the trumpet, it is a favorite one amongst those who emphasize the apostolic vocation of the clergy and, especially, of prelates. Both Gregory the Great (in the passage cited here) and later, in the second half of the twelfth century, Pope Alexander III refer repeatedly to Isaiah, 58:1: “Cry aloud, spare not, lift up your voice like a trumpet.” 22 Between God and the faithful, the Pastor’s mediation remains essential. In the fi fteenth century, on the other hand, language will play the role of a transparent vehicle rendering direct communication between the faithful and, for instance, the Virgin Mary, as shown by C édric Giraud’s study of the sermons of Bernard de Rosier in this volume. Already, however, in the twelfth century, the role of the voice in guiding the fl ock of the faithful is underscored. All this explains to use the plurality of positive meanings that these authors attributed to the voice. Before tackling the function assigned to the voice in a legal context, let us briefl y consider a few others that deserve mention. Glossing the word priorum , Simon of Bisignano justifi es the dominant role of prelates within the church through reference to their voices: “Priores dicuntur maiores ecclesie persone quia primam et digniorem vocem habent in capitulo” (We call prelates the greatest [ maiores ] persons in the church because they have the fi rst and the most worthy voice[s] in the chapter). 23 In the logic of causality given here, Simon implicitly sets aside reasons such as knowledge or virtue in favor of the dignity of the voice, which appears to contain and express all qualities. He even goes so far as to reverse the order of his causality—it is not because they are the best that they stand in the fi rst row but rather the other way around. The decretist plays, of course, with the polysemic richness of the word “voice,” but it would be an error to think that his use of the word is only metonymic. The full meaning of Simon’s commentary rests on the plenitude of vocal expression, in agreement with what we have seen earlier concerning the relation between the voice and God (since the best receive inspiration from Him), or between the voice and the soul. 70 BRUNO LEMESLE

Before turning to the functions attributed to the voice in the legal, court context, we ought to acknowledge briefl y certain other situations that refl ect the specifi c attention given to the voice at this time. For instance, according to Rufi nus, an engagement to be married can only be expressed by the voice. 24 Confession, also, must be made by one’s own voice, which is implicitly to say, not by written confession. According to Gratian, “His auctoritatibus asseritur neminem sine penitencia et confessione propriae vocis a peccatis posse mundari . . . Unde votum confessionis reputatur pro opere vocis” (By these authorities it is verifi ed that no one can be cleansed of his sins without penitence and without making confession in his own voice . . . This is why the votum of confession is held to be an act of voice).25 It is indeed a matter of the confession of one’s own sins because, as we will see later, the admission of others’ faults is, to the contrary, always suspect. In this passage the voice itself echoes the relationship between the penitent’s voice and his heart that Bernard of Clairvaux evokes around the same time, as Marisa Galvez shows in her essay in this volume. Sometimes, the description of confession by the voice is reinforced by the formula “viva voce,” “with the living voice,” as it is in one provision by Pope Nicholas I included in the second recension of Gratian’s Decretum dedicated to the question of bishops who, having communicated with excommunicated people, must be deposed: “publice viva voce se violasse confi tentes” (They have confessed aloud [“with live voices”] that they have publicly violated [the anathemata]). 26 Papal letters frequently use this expression to characterize the Pope’s monitions, the grievances or denunciations that have been addressed to him personally, or also to order the letters’ recipients to issue injunctions orally, “viva voce.” 27 The authors thus implicitly establish the superiority of this form of “communication” in relation to written documents; they place less emphasis on the physical presence of people than on the relationship manifested through the voice. This presence does not manifest itself if the voice has not been heard. A gloss by Simon of Bisignano about the various kinds of confession gives indirect evidence of this idea. In a passage of Gratian’s Decretum , the deliberate absence of a person summoned to appear at the court of the synod is characterized as a confession of his crime.28 Simon gives the following explanation: “Nota quod confessio fi t mul- tipliciter. Confi tetur enim quis per absentiam, ut hic; voce propria ut C XV q V c ult” (Let it be noted that [ juridical] confession can take multiple forms. Indeed, he who is absent, confesses through his absence, as is the case here; [or] he confesses with his own voice as [it is said in the law] C XV q V c below). 29 By associating an absence that has the value of a confession with a confession made with the living voice, Simon also implicitly establishes a relation between the voice and presence; he confi rms assertions that link physical presence and the voice and proceeds as if, without expression by the voice, presence was without eff ect.

To Denounce, to Accuse, to Testify This attribution of value to the voice is very clear within the judicial sphere and deserves consideration. Indeed, the accent placed on the voice accompanies the procedural innovations that characterize the legal history of the second half of VIVA VOCE 71 the twelfth century and the desire to correct excesses, beginning with those of the prelates. These are the voices of denunciation, accusation, and witnessing. I will begin with one of the False Decretals, attributed to Pope Callixtus I and collected by Gratian, in which it is written that “per scripturam nullus accusari potest, sed propria voce, et presente eo, quem accusare voluerit, suam quisque agat accusationem” (no one can be accused except by the voice of the person who desires to make the accusation and in the presence of the accused. In this way the accuser sets in motion his accusation). 30 This False Decretal is actually inspired by the Interpretatio of the Theodosian Code (Book 9, 1.15), which mentions the necessary presence of the accuser before the accused, but not his voice. However, Gratian and the decretists do not settle for this decretal. For them, the voice not only sets the judicial case in motion but is also, they insist, necessary to create the situation that places the two parties brought together into a more active or privileged kind of relation. Moreover, they expand their commentary to include the matter of witnesses. In the title of the ninth question of the third case (casus ), Gratian asserts that, “De accusatoribus vero vel testibus, quod in absentem vocem accusationis vel testifi cationis exhibere non valeant, multorum auctoritatibus liquet” (according to numerous authorities, neither accusers nor witnesses can be produced in the absence of their proper voice to accuse or to testify). 31 Writing about the absence of the accused defendants, Rufi nus glosses this question; they can be absent, either by contumacy or by necessity. In the latter case they cannot be condemned by the voice of those who accuse or who testify. 32 The Summa of decretist Roland of Bologna, a canonist who taught in that city circa 1150–1160, had already made a similar statement: “Adversus eos qui se contumaciter absentant, accusationes ac testifi cationes recipiuntur lite iam contestata, quod de eo, qui necessitate non voluntate absens est, penitus impro- batur” (Accusations and testimonies against those who are absent by contumacy following the beginning of the trial may be received, but for those who are absent by necessity and not by their own will, this is entirely forbidden). 33 The case’s inscription—that is, its entry into writing—was not, however, set aside: without it, the case could not be opened. The assertion of the necessity of the accuser’s voice was accompanied by a reminder of the obligation to inscribe the case, without which the accusation could not be further taken into account. 34 Regarding the case of a bishop accused of simony, we read in a palea that the accusers were brought before him to present their accusations orally (viva voce) and in writing. 35 Nonetheless, when Gratian’s Decretum and the canonists mention inscription, it is not on inscription that they place their emphasis (insofar as it is obvious) but rather on the voice that must precede it. Simon of Bisignano glosses another canon of the second recension of Gratian’s Decretum , specifying in what cases inscription is necessary, for instance, in cases of the accusation, excommunication, or reconciliation of priests who have separated themselves from the Church through their excesses. In a chapter on the voices of witnesses and accusers, Simon gives a broader interpretation of this canon, one constructed around the word gestorum used in the chapter: “in causis semper scripturam gestorum requirit. Unde ex hoc potest colligi quod tam voces testium quam accusatorum sunt inscribende” 72 BRUNO LEMESLE

(in [legal] cases, the facts must be put into writing. Thus we can conclude that the voices of the witnesses are to be written down just as is done with those of the accusers). The canon Simon is glossing, however, does not mention witnesses. 36 What must be observed here is the addition of the term “voice” into the gloss; this allows Simon to diff erentiate clearly two stages of accusation, in which the second is the inscription. In doing this, he eff ectively places the emphasis on the fi rst stage, by saying that a showing of the voice is necessary prior to inscription (and not only undiff erentiated gestorum). 37 The voice is thus the manifestation of the two parties’ attendance because, even more than their presence, it is the voice that opens the case, as we have seen. This expression by the voice is likewise a safeguard for the accused, as we can read in Gratian’s Decretum and among the writings of its commentators: “Illi, qui aut in fi de catholica, aut inimicitia suspecti sunt, ad pulsationem episcoporum non admittantur. Nec illi, qui aliorum sponte crimina confi tentur. Et ideo rep- licanda sollicite est veritas, quam sponte prolata in illis habere vox non potest” (Those who are suspect in their Catholic faith or hostile to it are not allowed to prosecute bishops. Nor those who spontaneously confess the crimes of others. For this reason the truth must be sought carefully, because it cannot be possible to raise a voice against them casually).38 What does this mean? One should not be able to accuse a bishop easily; nor should one accord credence too easily to those who, confessing their own faults, insinuate accusations against another person. How does one go about (re)producing the truth? You simply have to subject the informer to torture, continues the text, a sermon by Saint Ambrose of Milan: “Hanc diuersis cruciatibus e latebris suis religiosus tortor exigere debet, ut dum penis corpora subiciuntur” (The religious torturer must obtain the truth by diverse methods to make it come out of its hiding place, as happens when the body is subjected to physical pains). 39 These safeguards in favor of the accused in Gratian’s Decretum are not new. They are the continuation of Carolingian procedures that aimed to protect bishops. Then, beginning in the middle of the twelfth century, another tendency, completely opposite, appears. Thus, when Simon of Bisignano glosses the sermon of Saint Ambrose just cited, he turns it toward a diff erent meaning. Whereas the original text off ered safeguards to bishops under accusation, Simon affi rms: “Vox habere non potest, idest vox istorum sponte confi tentium tamquam nullius vox contra illos admittitur quos accusant vel contra quos testifi cantur” (Their voice cannot be received, that is, the voice of those who confess spontaneously is held to be a null voice against those whom they accuse or against whom they testify).40 This clarifi cation enacts a reversal of position by which the decretist shows himself disposed to facilitate the possibility of accusing or testifying. Gratian also moves in the direction of broadening the possibility of bringing legal accusations against bishops who have committed excesses when he extends that right to monks. 41 We fi rst read that no monk can sue anywhere, whether in secular or ecclesiastic court: “Nullus monachus talia usquam arripiat, nec secu- laria aut ecclesiastica negotia perturbare presumat, quia mortua est in talibus uox eorum” (A monk must never be involved in such matters, nor should he dare to disrupt secular or ecclesiastical aff airs, because monks’ voices are dead in VIVA VOCE 73 these matters). 42 However, Gratian follows this passage from the False Decretals with a dictum that signals a new direction: “Sed aliud est, quod ex presumptione assumitur temeritatis: aliud, quod ex necessitate geritur karitatis. Monachi enim ex presumptione episcopos accusare non possunt: ex karitate possunt. Unde et in canonibus precipitur, ut cubicularii episcopi sint uel religiosi clerici, uel electi monachi, ut de eius vita testimonium dicere possint” (Yet, the matter is diff erent, depending on whether one considers the cause of the accusation to be presump- tive rashness or the necessity of extending charity to the accused. Thus, monks may not accuse bishops audaciously, but they may do so for reasons of charity. For this reason, the law recommends that those who are chamberlains to the bishop or religious clerks or elected monks be able to give testimony concerning the bishop’s comportment.) 43 Monks who, by reason of their proximity to a bishop for one reason or another come to know the details of their lives can be admitted as witnesses if they have knowledge of poor comportment. At the same time, neither pagans, nor heretics, nor Jews can accuse Christian people nor raise defamatory voices against them. (“Pagani, vel heretici, sive Iudei non possunt Christianos accusare, aut vocem infamationis eis inferre.” 44 ) Gratian comments on this canon the way one comments that a glass is half full rather than half empty. One must understand, he writes, that heretics cannot accuse orthodox believers. He continues: “Unde econtra intelligitur, quod heretici ab hereticis inpeti possunt . . . Unde generaliter colligitur, quod in accusatione equalitas fi dei et conversationis inter accusantem et accusatum semper consid- eranda est, ut is, qui accusat, uel par, uel superior inveniatur” (For this reason one must understand, on the other hand, that heretics can be accused by other heretics . . . Generally speaking, equality of faith and religious status between the accuser and the defendant are required in an accusation, he who accuses is equal to or higher than the one that he accuses). 45 As we see, Gratian’s commentary, while it confi rms the limit imposed by canon law against the possibility of accusing Christians, prefers to highlight the possibility for “pagans,” heretics, and Jews to accuse all those who are not orthodox Christians. I still must mention another procedure available: denunciation. To denounce the wrongs of a brother is each Christian’s duty. Charitable admonition—that is, with the goal of helping those who have sinned rectify their wrongs—is described in the Gospel of Matthew (18:15–17).

If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault, between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have gained your brother. But if he does not listen, take one or two others along with you, that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of two or three witnesses. If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if he refuses to listen even to the church, let him be to you as a gentile and a tax collector.

Historians have long known that ecclesiastical authorities made constant remind- ers of this evangelical obligation during the High Middle Ages, before it was transformed into a judicial procedure with the advent of Gratian’s Decretum .46 Gratian and the decretists explicitly encouraged judicial denunciation, meaning 74 BRUNO LEMESLE in a court. According to Gratian, he who prosecutes somebody for a crime, accusing or denouncing him, helps his brother more than he who tries to conceal it, for in that case he only encourages the crime. 47 His intentions can therefore only be charitable. But what happens if the informer, even if he is driven by the best intentions, makes a mistake? In this case, judges Gratian, he must be granted forgiveness. If the accuser formally renounces his accusations due to lack of proof or because he was misled by others, or even because he was misled by anger, he should not be prosecuted. 48 He who charges another with a crime must put it in writing, and that is equivalent to a promise to prove its truth. 49 However, following Gratian, the decretists (Rufi nus, Stephen of Tournai, Roland of Bologna) say: he who has only made his accusation verbally (viva voce) should not be subjected to tal- ion; that is, he will not have to undergo the punishment that would have been infl icted on the accused had he been found guilty.50 Moreover, Gratian and the decretists took care to diff erentiate between informers driven by the spirit of charity and those who act out of malice. Even without that contingency, Stephen of Tournai says that slanderers should not be subject to the same consequences as those who bring their accusations in writing. 51 We observe that the voice of denunciation, like the voice of accusation, is a voice that brings individuals together and places them in relationship to one another, even if this relationship is produced within the formal and solemn setting of the court. The objective is always to correct and punish excesses, in this case transgressions, infraction, and crimes. This is the reason why the voices of accusers and witnesses must be heard where the bishop is concerned. For this same reason, the monks’ voices must be heard, even if reputed “dead,” when they bear witness to a bishop’s excesses. In all these cases alterity reigns, since the voice that denounces, accuses, or testifi es is driven not by hostility but by charity, understood in its medieval defi nition as love for one’s fellow man. He who denounces, accuses, or testifi es does so, at least in theory, on behalf of another’s salvation. The larger historical issues at stake in this manner of seeing things are worth emphasizing. The denunciation of excesses within the clergy, especially among the prelates, becomes a leitmotif in papal letters beginning with Eugene III, and especially from the time of Alexander III. The refl ections of Gratian’s commentators speak in one voice with those papal letters insofar as they reverse the earlier tendency inherited from Carolingian legislation. Whereas that legislation protected the prelates, the decretists now begin to create opportunities to indict bishops. The spectacular growth in the number of denunciations of excesses contained in papal letters is due neither to a degradation of the clergy’s behavior during this time, nor to the simple phenomenon of increased archival evidence, but rather to an unprecedented desire by the popes to discipline the clergy and the prelates.52 The principal reasons behind this desire for control were the desire to maintain control over bishops with close ties to the upper aristocracy, to have available a clergy that would be unifi ed and obedient to a pontifi cal monarchy (especially in the context of competition between the papacy and the Empire), and to obtain from that clergy a norm of moral behavior. The accusations, the VIVA VOCE 75 denunciations, the judicial inquiries, the trials, the threats of judgment, and even actual sentences (especially of suspension, deposition, and excommunication), were the primary means used to arrive at this goal. 53 From this point onward, the emphasis on the voice fi ts into a larger encouragement of denunciation. More than any desire to better eradicate reproachable acts, the purpose behind this encouragement was a desire to impose correction.

Dead Voices, Confused Voices, Those without Voice We come now to the fi nal stage of our review: “Dead voices,” “confused voices,” and even those “without voice.” Whereas some voices are positively valued, others are not. It is thus necessary to draw certain distinctions: Some voices are dead, or rather, deathly, others are frankly sinister—all three words translate the Latin funestus . The same word is used in Latin to indicate “dead” voices that are not necessarily condemnable and others which are so. The dead voices that are not condemnable are in fact those of the monks. The general rule was, as we have seen, that for this reason they could not be legal plaintiff s. Monks can neither accuse priests nor testify against them: “Placuit eorum accusandi sacerdotes et testifi candi in eos vocem obstruere, quos non humanis vocibus, sed divinis mortuos esse scimus, quia funestam vocem potius interdici quam audiri oportet” (It is appropriate to quiet their voices from accusing priests and testifying against them; we know that they are dead, not to human voices but to divine voices; thus it is better to forbid their funerary voices than to hear them).54 For Rufi nus, the consequence is that monks should not be promoted to ecclesiastical offi ces: “Generaliter ex canonibus mandatum est, ut monachi ad offi cia ecclesiastica in ecclesiis non promoverentur, quia mortua est vox eorum” (The law recommends in general that monks be not promoted to ecclesiastical offi ces because their voice is dead). 55 Rufi nus makes this assertion in a gloss on a dictum by Gratian, following a lengthy development on the subject of the necessity of priests’ physical integrity. The title of the initial canon is: “He who by his own will cuts a part of his fi nger cannot be ordained.” 56 Gratian’s dictum explains, “Similiter intelligendum est de his, qui per languorem a medicis secantur, aut a barbaris absciduntur, aut a dominis castrantur” (One must also understand this about those who because of disease undergo amputation by doctors, are muti- lated by barbarians, or castrated by their masters). 57 Rufi nus’s hostility toward the promotion of monks to ecclesiastical offi ces surfaces here clearly, even if he stops short of associating the monks’ dead voices with the diverse physical amputations that he elsewhere enumerates more meticulously than does Gratian. Rufi nus campaigned resolutely on behalf of the clergy and bishops and against monks, because the former raises its voice to guide the fl ock while the latter’s voices are dead. “[S]ic intelligitur, ut sint mortui divinis vocibus, id est ecclesiasticis offi ciis, quia secundum antiqua statuta non possunt predicare, baptizare et similia facere” (In this way we understand that they are dead in favor of divine voices, namely, the ecclesiastical offi ces, because according to ancient statutes, they cannot not preach, baptize, or do similar activities). 58 76 BRUNO LEMESLE

Commenting on the term funesta applied to the monks’ voices in Gratian’s Decretum , Rufi nus gives the following explanation: “Vox funesta dicitur que super funus sonat, i.e. lugubris, qualis debet esse sive criminosorum, qui plan- gunt pro irriguo inferiori, sive monachorum, qui saltem fl eant pro irriguo supe- riori” (A voice is considered funesta when it resonates for funerals, that is, for mourning. This is how the voice of criminals who weep in lamentation over the lowest things should be, or that of monks, whose weeping at least waters higher things). 59 The dead voice is thus sinister or mournful depending on whether the description applies to criminals who weep or monks who pray for the dead. In contrast, there is no room for ambiguity when one confronts the crime of simony, for this time the voice of the simoniac has no need to be characterized, given that simoniacs no longer have voices. Here is what Simon of Bisignano says on the topic: “Simoniaci enim etsi aperte non impugnent ecclesiam, fi dem tamen dicuntur negare contrariis factis. Habitu enim interdum sine voce loquitur et simulatis operibus sine voce mentiuntur” (Simoniacs indeed are said to deny the faith by adverse acts even if they don’t overtly fi ght the Church. One sometimes speaks by one’s behavior, without voice, and one lies without voice by one’s feigned works).60 When Simon glosses this chapter of Gratian’s Decretum , he introduces a reference to the voice that was not mentioned there; once more, he reveals the importance given to the voice. 61 But once there is trickery and lying, one can no longer speak of “voice.” This is to say that the voice is inherently positive and affi rmative; the “dead voice” is not exactly the opposite of voice, but rather an expression intended to characterize another type of situation. Indeed, there exist other negative voices, also, called “confused voices,” and which the decretists considered to be inspired by the Devil. In his gloss on a letter of Pope Gelasius I (d. 496), related to a bishop whose behavior is a source of scandal for the faithful, Simon of Bisignano explains the expression, “vocesque dedisse confusas, et spumas ore iactasse” (he spoke with a confused voice and froth spewed from his mouth), 62 with the comment, “per hoc enim presumit canon eum esse epilepticum” (on this account the canon presumes him to be epileptic). 63 Epilepsy is associated possession, as we can also read in the title of a canon from the second recension of Gratian’s Decretum , “Arrepticii vel epileptici sacris altaribus non ministrent” (Possessed people and epileptics should not serve at the altar). 64 Rufi nus glosses the same passage like this: “Qui a demonibus eliduntur vel eff eruntur incursibus, non ministrent altaribus, ab his excepimus illos obsessos a demonibus et elatos, qui probantur elisi sine huiusmodi passioni- bus, scilicet spume iactatione et vocis confuso strepitu et repentina collapsione” (Those who are vexed by demons or transported by their assaults should not serve at the altar. We except those who are besieged and transported by demons [i.e., epileptics], when it has been proven that they do not suff er from certain symptoms, such as frothing of the mouth, confused cries, or sudden collapses).65 For Rufi nus as for Simon of Bisignano, the confused voice, characterized by the loud noise it produces, and in direct contrast to the harmonious beauty of a divine voice, is the voice of those possessed by the Devil. The canonists eff ect a signifi cant shift when they explicitly associate the “confused voice” with demonic possession. Indeed, the chapter Rufi nus glosses does not mention the voice, and VIVA VOCE 77 the one Simon comments does not allude to demonic possession. The decretists thus joined explicitly together two things that—at least in canon law—had not been so before: in their writings, the priest whose voice is confused is possessed by the Devil. 66

Connections and Conclusions: From One Voice to Another We must conclude this study of the diff erent uses of the word “voice” by the canonists with a consideration of the relations they establish between each. We might at fi rst be tempted to believe the relation between pastoral care and the ecclesiastical tribunal to be a distant one. Rufi nus would dissuade us from this view, if that were necessary. Turning again to his gloss on a canon prohibiting monks from accusing priests or testifying in court, we read: “Istud capitulum de monachis introducit magister, cum magis de criminosis hoc dictum esse intel- ligatur . . . Tales non humanis vocibus mortui sunt, qui locuntur sicut ceteri homines, sed divinis, quia contra divinos, id est fi deles homines, vocem accusandi, reprehendi, docendi non habent” (The master introduces this chapter as being about monks but it seems that one should rather understand that he is talking about criminals . . . Such men are not dead to human voices, for they speak like other men, but they are dead to divine voices because they do not have a voice to accuse, punish, teach men of God, namely, faithful men [i.e., bishops and priests]). 67 Thanks to this enumeration, Rufi nus introduces an explicit association between the three functions of the voice. The dead voice is not silence: monks should not accuse or testify; their voices should be sealed because they are mournful and pray for the dead. The decretists do not call into question the authenticity of silence evoked in the next chapter of this volume by Babette Hellemans. In contrast, silence is the opposite of the voice that bishops use to preach, not in the way a negative trait is the opposite of a positive trait, but rather because the religious statute of the person who has accepted a rule of silence is diff erent from that of the man whose status as a member of the clergy obliges him to use his voice to guide his fl ock. Let us recall that a palea in Gratian’s Decretum compares without hesitation the sound of the righteous voice in the court and in the church, and also that Simon of Bisignano had the last word on the chapter by comparing the courts and the church.68 The sound of the voice that aff ects the soul must be understood as true for the priest’s voice that addresses the faithful, as well as for he who speaks righ- teously in court. In the end, how do we explain the interplay of these connections? It was in the twelfth century that preaching spread and reached considerable importance. This movement, which began during the fi nal decades of the eleventh century, followed as a consequence of Gregorian reforms that took as one of their objectives a moral transformation of the clergy. The clergy’s pastoral function was thereafter strongly promoted, and clerical authors discovered the role of the voice—and not only of the word—in their pastoral activities. The commentators of Gratian’s Decretum were often themselves bishops or masters in the cathedral schools of cities themselves in rapid expansion. Thus they were drawn to valorizing the clergy (or tended to do so) by attributing to it exclusive rights to 78 BRUNO LEMESLE teach and preach, which are, after all, specifi c aspects of the pastoral realm. This is probably the reason why, not recognizing the right of monks to this role, they considered that the usage of their voices should limit itself to prayers for the living and for the dead, from whence the unsettling or strange expression regarding the monk’s “dead voice,” which signifi es that they should not use their voices outside the cloister. The twelfth century is also the moment when the denunciation of clerical excesses begins to grow—that is, the denunciation of clerical infractions and crimes. Clerical excesses were certainly not more numerous than before, but their denunciation had as a goal to make clerical behavior conform more closely to moral norms. Hence Gratian and the commentators of the Decretum explicitly encouraged denunciation and, in doing so, highlighted the importance of the voice’s capacity to denounce, accuse, and testify. Thus the voice must be heard in court. The church, like the court, is the ultimate site for the manifestation of the voice, which realizes presence in every sense of the word, sets justice in motion, and creates relationships between men.

Notes Translated by Irit Ruth Kleiman. 1 . On Gratian’s Decretum , see Peter Landau, “Gratian and the Decretum Gratiani ,” in The History of Medieval Canon Law in the Classical Period, 1140–1234 , ed. Wilfried Hartmann and Kenneth Pennington (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 22–54. 2 . We know very little about Rufinus except that he taught canon law in Bologna. Kenneth Pennington and Wolfgang P. M ü ller, “The Decretists: The Italian School,” in Hartmann and Pennington, History of Medieval Canon Law , 135. 3 . Heinrich Singer, ed., Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus (Paderborn: Ferdinand Sch öningh, 1902), ad C 2 q 7 c 53, 258. All translations from the Latin are previously unpublished and have been prepared for this volume. The editor thanks Cé dric Giraud for his assistance. 4 . Gratian’s disciples and successors continued his work, beginning almost immediately to write summae and glosses. On the Italian context, see Pennington and Mü ller, “The Decretists: The Italian School,” 121–73; for reception north of the Alps, see Rudolf Wiegand, “The Transmontane Decretists,” in Hartmann and Pennington, History of Medieval Canon Law , 174–210. 5 . Among other works on pastoral care and preaching, see Jean Long è re, La Pré dication mé dié vale (Paris: Etudes augustiniennes, 1983); Michael Richter, “A quelle date a-t-on cess é de parler latin en Gaule? à propos d’une question mal pos é e,” Annales ESC 38.2 (1983): 439–48; Philippe Buc, “Vox clamantis in deserto ? Pierre le Chantre et la pr é dication la ï que,” Revue Mabillon 65 (1993): 5–47; Michel Banniard, “La Voix et l’é criture: émergences m é dié vales,” Mé dié va les 12.25 (1993): 5–16; Michel Zink, La Pr é dication en langue romane avant 1300 (Paris: Honoré Champion, 1976); Jean Gaudemet, “Patristique et pastorale: La contribution de Gr égoire le Grand au Miroir de l’é v êque dans le D é cret de Gratien,” Etudes d’histoire du droit canonique d é dié es à Gabriel Le Bras (Paris: Sirey, 1965), 1:129–39. 6 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad D 18, C 8, 41. 7 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad tertia pars D 1, 549. Simon of Bisignano takes Rufinus’s gloss up again by altering it: Petrus V. Aimone ed., VIVA VOCE 79

Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis (Fribourg: 2007), 499; online at www. unifr.ch/cdc/fr/document . 8 . Heriberto Douteil, ed., Johannis Beleth: Summa de ecclesiasticis officiis (Turnhout: Brepols, 1976), 2:192. 9 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad D 19 c 8, 43. 10 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad D 21 c 1, 44. 11 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad D 1 c 1, 499. 12 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , 4. 13 . The second recension is several years posterior to the first (1140). See Anders Winroth, The Making of Gratian’s Decretum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 14 . Emil Friedberg, ed., Corpus juris canonici , vol. 1, Decretum magistri Gratiani (Leipzig: 1879), D 38 c 12. All citations from Gratian’s Decretum are taken from this edition. 15 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad D XXXVIII c 12, 92. 16 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad D XXXVIII c 12, 38. 17 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, D XXXVIII c 12. 18 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , D XLIII c 1. On pastoral care by Pope Gregory the Great, see Michel Banniard, Viva voce: Communication é crite et communication orale du IVe au IXe siè cle en Occident latin (Paris: Institut d’ études augustiniennes, 1992), 132–35. 19 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , D XLIII, c 1. 20 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad D XLIII c 1, 102. Caesarius of Arles reminded bishops of Saint Paul’s words about their duty of preaching; see Longè re, Pré dication mé dié vale . 21 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad C 18 q 1 c 1, 338. 22 . See PL 200, col. 430 and 486. Bible passages are quoted from the Revised Standard Version. 23 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad C 17 q 4 c 22, 334. 24 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad C 27 q 2, 444. 25 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 33 q 3 D 1 c 87. 26 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , C 11 q 3 c 10. 27 . Especially in the writings of Eugene III, Alexander III, and Innocent III (see PL 180, 200, 214, 215, 216). 28 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 3 q 9 c 10. 29 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad C 3 q 9 c 10., 152. 30 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 3 q 9 c 3. 31 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 3 q 9 c 3. 32 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , ad C 3 q 9, 269. 33 . Friedrich Thaner, ed., Summa Magistri Rolandi (Innsbruck, 1874), 19. 34 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 3 q 9 c 3. 35 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , C 2 q 5 c 17. 36 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad C 2 q 1 c 9, 122. 37 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad C 2 q 1 c 9, 122. 38 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 5 q 5 c 4. 39 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 5 q 5 c 4. 40 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad C 5 q 5 c 4, 163. 41 . Regarding this question, see Ronald Knox, “Accusing Higher Up,” Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung fü r Rechtsgeschichte: Kanonistische Abteilung 77 (1991): 1–31; Kenneth Pennington, “The ‘Big Bang’: Roman Law in the Early Twelfth Century,” Rivista 80 BRUNO LEMESLE

internazionale di diritto commune 18 (2007): 43–70; Stanley Chodorow, Christian Political Theory and Church Politics in the Mid-Twelfth Century: The Ecclesiology of Gratian’s Decretum (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972), esp. 183–84. 42 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 2 q 7 c 543. 43 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 2 q 7 c 543. 44 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , C 2 q 7 c 25. 45 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , C 2 q 7 c 25. 46 . Erwin Jacobi, “Der Prozess im Decretum Gratiani und bei den ä ltesten Dekretisten,” Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung fü r Rechtsgeschichte: Kanonistische Abteilung 3 (1913): 223–343; Lotte Ké ry, “Inquisitio-denunciatio-exceptio: Mö glichkeiten der Verfahrenseinleitung im Dekretalenrecht,” Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung fü r Rechtsgeschichte: Kanonistische Abteilung 87 (2001): 226–68 (231–32); Lothar Kolmer, “Die denunciatio canonica als Instrument im Kampf um den rechten Glauben,” in Denunziation: historische, juristische und psychologische Aspeckte , ed. Gü nter Jerouschek, Inge Marssolek, and Hedwig R ö ckelein (T ü bingen: Diskord, 1997), 26–47; Charles Lefebvre, “Evang élique dé nonciation,” in Dictionnaire de droit canonique , ed. Raoul Naz (Paris: Letouzey et Ané , 1953), 5:557–69; Piero Bellini, “Denunciatio evangelica” e “Denunciatio judicialis privata”: Un capitolo di storia disciplinare della Chiesa (Milan: Giuffrè , 1986). Paul Fournier, however, did not perceive a regular procedure before the era of Gregory IX’s Decretals; see Paul Fournier, Les officialit é s au Moyen Age: Etude sur l’organisation, la compé tence, et la proc é dure des tribunaux eccl é siastiques ordinaires en France, de 1180 à 1328 (Paris: Plon, 1880), 256–57. 47 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 5 q 5 dpc 3. 48 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 2 q 3 dpc 4; c 5; dpc 5; c 6. 49 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 2 q 8 c 3; C 2 q 3 c 6 (palea). 50 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad C 2 q 3, 243; Thaner, Summa Magistri Rolandi, ad C 2 q 3, 16. 51 . “ne crederentur conviciantes, i.e. nudo verbo crimen intendentes, ad simili- tudinem supplicii posci sicut scripto accusantes.” Stephen of Tournai, Die summa ü ber das Decretum Gratiani , ed. Johann Friedrich von Schulte (Giessen: Emil Roth, 1891), ad C 2 q 3, 186. On denunciation, see Bruno Lemesle, “Dé noncer le crime aux XIIe–XIIIe siè cles,” in Dé noncer le crime du Moyen Age au XIXe si è cle , ed. Martine Charageat and Mathieu Soula (Pessac: Maison des Sciences de l’Homme d’Aquitaine, 2014), 41–55. 52 . Prior to the pontificate of Eugene III (1145–1153), mentions of excesses are slight or nonexistent. The term of this pope marks the beginning of a significant increase, with mentions in 27 letters. This growth becomes remarkable under Alexander III with mentions in 97 letters. Nonetheless, if we count the average production by year in order to account for differences in the length of their pontificates, we arrive at an average of 4 letters per year under Eugene III and 5 per year under Alexander III. See Bruno Lemesle, “Corriger les excè s . . . dans les lettres pontificales,” Revue historique CCCXIII/4, 660 (2011): 747–80. 53 . In papal letters, the term excessus always designates either infractions against Church discipline, or offenses and crimes; see Lemesle, “Corriger les exc ès.” 54 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, C 2 q 7 c 53. 55 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister RufinusRufinus , ad D 55C 6 q 1, 147. 56. Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , D 55 c 6. 57 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , D 55 dpc 6. 58 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad C 2 q 7 c 53. VIVA VOCE 81

59 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad C 2 q 7 c 53, 259. 60 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad C 1 q 1 c 20, 97–98. 61 . It is significant that the title of a canon taken from the Council of Carthage of 421 collected in the second review of Gratian’s Decretum mentions the divinae voces , functioning likewise as a substitution to the canon’s text discussing the divinae leges (C 3 q 5 c 6). 62 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani , C 7 Q 2 c 2. 63 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , 184. 64 . Friedberg, Decretum magistri Gratiani, D 33 C 3. 65 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , 79. 66 . For another perspective on the voice of the possessed in a quite different context, see Andreea Marculescu’s study of French Mystery plays later in chapter 8. 67 . Singer, Die Summa decretorum des Magister Rufinus , ad C 2 q 7 c 53, 258. 68 . Aimone, Summa in Decretum Simonis Bisinianensis , ad D XXXVIII c 12, 38.

CHAPTER 5

ABELARD AND HELOISE BETWEEN VOICE AND SILENCE

Babette S. Hellemans

his chapter studies both the letters of Heloise and Abelard and elements of T their still-controversial reception. Its aim is to consider voice and silence as types or expressions of rhetorical individuality. I begin with a stance against what I see as a persistent idea about the famous letters exchanged between Abelard and Heloise: namely, that they are actually true letters , written between a couple in a consecutive order and revealing to the reader a sense of growing insight into their existence, both as a couple and as two individuals. My approach in this chapter draws on certain aspects of the debate that surrounds these letters in European scholarly tradition, and especially in Germany, where the tendency is arguably to emphasize the historical context of a source, as opposed to what might be described as the more politically engaged, gender-focused scholarship predominant in North America. 1 My aim on these pages is a modest one, namely, to consider a particular historiographical approach to a body of commonly discussed sources. Thus, I propose to act on the assumption that an involvement, such as “growing insight,” is not a primary concern within the monastic culture of the period. Extraordinary and moving as these letters might be, notions of individuality in a monastic culture are defi ned less in terms of being than of belonging . The individual’s fate is often decided outside his (or her) comprehension and control and its ultimate meaning is associated with God, meaning that a person’s death is never fi nal. Although themes like “identity” have received substantial attention in scholarship dealing with the social aspects of premodern culture, there is benefi t to be gained from what I would call a hermeneutical examination based on a philosophical-anthropological notion of personal identity. 2 According to the philosophical-anthropological viewpoint, identity is considered as a complex of several aspects, in other words, the individual collects notions of per- manence, individuation, and transactions. Claude Lé vi-Strauss described how, 84 BABETTE S. HELLEMANS within social structures, we often fi nd a mirror eff ect in which identity is based on a collaboration of the “metonymic opposite.”3 This and other hermeneutical tools will prove especially useful in my attempt to show that the value of the Abelard-Heloise letters lies in their power to translate a number of concrete terms, including culture, individuality, voice, and silence into a new frame. Employing theoretical tools such as a conceptualized notion of voice for “writing history” is only useful when we are able to detect notions of change , and when friction between diff erent disciplinary fields is not considered a nuisance but rather as a “trading zone” of transhistorical theory. Acknowledgment of such tensions makes the fragility of representing history apparent and therefore more interesting. To underscore such a historiographical paradigm is to recognize two things: that voices from the past are fragile and that they haunt the present. The voices present in ancient documents do not simply represent history, they also break through into the present as a new kind of narrative form. The recognition of history’s fragility, therefore, implies a feeling of disbelief vis- à-vis the horror of dumbness, while it also goes against a complacent and omniscient picture of history. It is the primacy of the voice, both its fragility and its sustainability, that turns everything else into its consequence. My argument is that the modern striving for authenticity, individuality, self- realization, and humanity as an individual will-to-be, blurs the problem of reading the letters as an internal discussion between Abelard and Heloise. In such a view of history, the ethical truth of the dispute between both fi gures is not challenged. Moreover, when we succumb to a temptation to take the letters at face value, without situating them in a complex notion of individuality, we tend to overlook that they have been formulated in terms of a specifi c history, belonging to a specifi c civilization. In my view, the letters are conceptualized as and permeated with an ethical response to the human condition. The two voices build their new “historical” ethics as a critical approach to knowledge, such that the complexities we read at the surface of the changing situation at hand in their narrative almost pale in comparison with the ethical meaning of a monastic life in the twelfth century. 4 For the sake of precision I should add that my emphasis on conceptualizing the voice (and silence) is not aiming at debunking the myth of history: there are basic facts about both Abelard and Heloise’s lives that can be pieced together from the apologetic Historia Calamitatum as well as from other texts. 5 Perhaps I should add, in order to avoid confusion, that when I use the names of Abelard and Heloise in this chapter, I bear in mind that these two people are known both in a historical and literary guise. The individual letters bear the names of both the writer and the addressee, suggesting an interplay between the voices of two authors. However, those letters are literally bound together into a manuscript that contains, among other things, a monastic Rule for nuns. The use of names lends itself, perhaps deceptively, to biographical speculation about the characters to whom the letters refer. Yet, within monastic culture, letters were used to describe parallel sets of experiences. And monastic culture generally interprets individual-ness ( singularitas ) in a negative way: solitary life should be avoided and communal life cherished. 6 As a result, my reading of the epistolary disputations between Abelard and Heloise revolves around notions of historicity ABELARD AND HELOISE 85 and myth, ideas of anachronism and tradition or of the intersections between modern views of the self and monastic ideals, and, above all, the function of the topos of silence. My attempt to address the osmotic symptoms of voice and silence from the point of view of a twelfth-century disputation ( disputatio ) may indeed appear to be self-defeating, so counterintuitive is the theme of fi nding or recovering the human voice in the letters written between Abelard and Heloise. Yet to comment upon the restoration of the voice in the letter exchange between Abelard and Heloise is, in my opinion, extraordinarily useful, especially since this corpus is particularly concerned with passages : that is, the passage from magister Peter Abelard’s fi rst, autobiographical letter, the Historia Calamitatum , to an exchange of letters between two former lovers, the passage from “lover” to “monk” or “nun,” or the passage from adopting the monastic vow to becoming the leader of monastic life. I want to suggest that, rather than listening to the struggle between the two voices of Abelard and Heloise, we should focus our attention to the underlying philosophical voice that speaks from the corpus as a whole. 7

Silent, yet Noisy In the middle of the letters of disputation between Abelard and Heloise we witness a wonderful moment of inner struggle. The prompt is Heloise entering the monastic realm as a “handmaid of Christ,” a way of life in which every notion of an individualized past is erased. Heloise seems to be in a resigned and silent mood after all the chatter and arguments. She believes the tongue might exercise too much infl uence over her writing. Worst of all, she says in her Letter 6 , the tongue overwhelms the grieving heart with words to the extent that there is no peaceful space in which to contemplate the words by themselves. The temptation of turning backward to a worldly life has continued at some length in the Letters , before reaching its climax in a furious fl ight of taming the tongue:

Ne me forte in aliquo de inobedientia causari queas, verbis etiam immoderati doloris tue frenum impositum est iussionis, ut ab his mihi saltem in scribendo temperem a quibus in sermone non tam diffi cile quam impossibile est prouidere. Nichil enim minus in nostra est potestate quam animus, eique magis obedire cogimur quam imperare possimus . . . Reuocabo itaque manum a scripto in quibus linguam a verbis temperare non ualeo. Vtinam sic animus dolentis parere promptus sit quemadmodum dextera scribentis! [2] Aliquod tamen dolori remedium uales conferre, si non hunc omnino possis auferre. Vt enim insertum clauum alius expel- lit, sic cogitatio noua priorem excludit, cum alias intentus animus priorum memo- riam dimittere cogitur aut intermittere. Tanto uero amplius cogitatio quelibet animum occupat et ab aliis deducit, quanto quod cogitatur honestius estimatur, et quo intendimus animum magis videtur necessarium. [I would not want to give you cause for finding me disobedient in anything, so I have set the bridle of your injunction on the words which may issue from my unbounded grief; thus in writing at least I may moderate what is difficult or rather impossible to forestall in speech . . . I will therefore hold my hand back from writing words which I cannot restrain my tongue from speaking; would that a 86 BABETTE S. HELLEMANS

grieving mind would be as ready to obey as a writer’s hand! [2] And yet you have it in your power to remedy my grief, even if you cannot entirely remove it. As one nail drives out another hammered in, new thought expels old when the mind, intent on other things, is made to give up or interrupt its recollection of what went before. The more fully, indeed, any thought engages the mind, distracting it from other things, the more such thought is considered worthwhile and the focus of the mind appears inevitable.] 8

This passage in Heloise’s words owes something to Saint Jerome’s discussion of the good and the bad monk, in his famous Letter CXXV to Rusticus, a young monk of Toulouse. The related theme in Jerome’s Letter CXXV concerns his eff ort to create rules for a monastic life, and this includes forceful advice to Rusticus not to become an anchorite but rather to continue his ascetic life in a community. As we can read, Heloise is specifi cally referring to passage 14 of Jerome’s Letter CXXV:

Philosophi saeculi solent amorem veterem amore novo quasi clavum clavo expellere. Quod et Asuero septem principes fecere Persarum, ut Vasti reginae desiderium aliarum puellarum amore conpescerent. Illi vitium vitio peccatumque peccato remediantur, nos amore virtutum vitia superemus. 9 [The world’s philosophers drive out an old passion by instilling a new one; they hammer out one nail by hammering in another. It was on this principle that the seven princes of Persia acted towards king Ahasuerus, for they subdued his regret for queen Vashti by inducing him to love other maidens [Esther 2:1–4]. But whereas they cured one fault by another fault and one sin by another sin, we must overcome our faults by learning to love opposite virtues.] 10

The expression “as one nail drives out another hammered in,” here quoted by Jerome, comes from Cicero’s passage on the cure of love (IV 35,75), written in the Tusculanae disputationes , a treatise that was meant to make the Stoic tradition more accessible. 11 We have here a classic example of intertexuality within a specifi c literary community. Heloise tries to hold her writing hand, since she “can not restrain [her] tongue from speaking,” while this very same “hand” moves on to a long tradition of Stoic erudition, through Jerome all the way back to Cicero. Immediately after the shift from Heloise’s tongue to the writing hand, and further on to Stoicism, we encounter the moment of Heloise’s silence to which we will turn shortly. To understand fully the background of Heloise’s rhetorical turn toward the Christian-Stoic tradition of monasticism and the distinctive features of its identity (and consequently, the distinctive features of female monasticism as shaped by Jerome), we should refl ect a moment on the monastic “sin” ofsingularitas . In monastic literature, the human being diff ers from all other human beings who have a sense of a public realm, since the nature of the monastic community is not part of this world—which is not quite the same as not belonging to the world. The monastic “private” man (or woman) behaves on the surface like a “public man” (or woman), making use of rhetorical genres, such as letters. The monastic author delivers long letters that are rhetorically structured in which he tries to enlighten his reader about ABELARD AND HELOISE 87 intimate details of his love life, acceptance of the monastic vow, and the exploits of the monastic life. This all is “told” to the community not as a confession or private letter, but rather in the shape of a public account. As a result, all major moments in the account are rhetorically highlighted and justifi ed (apologia ), and all those moments—even the moments of temptation and mental weakness—are considered as a whole, defi ning the unity of the human image in monastic literature. The public and rhetorical moments imply, however, that the external form is not coinciding with the inner and private self. As we see in the example of “Heloise,” in her movement from tongue to writing, the inner content is absolutely private and we have only Jerome’s letter and a monastic surrounding at our disposal. This rhetorical side of the individual has its formalistic and conventional nature. In other words, the private silence of “Heloise” only gains meaning thanks to social, monastic events. The idea of directing the mind is omnipresent in the ethical works of Peter Abelard. It creates the basis of an attitude toward life, based in the detachment from outwardly driven things. The job of the ascetic philosopher, so Abelard reminds us frequently, is to vanquish the turmoil of chatter and intentions and to pick out the verbal elements with which to make a new monastic rule for women.12

The Secrecy of the Heart In the sequence within Letter 6 directly after the moment at which Heloise tries to get a hold on her thoughts, she moves to a focal point to which “we direct our minds.” Thus she continues:

Omnes itaque nos Christi ancille et in Christo fi lie tue duo nunc a tua paterni- tate supplices postulamus, que nobis ad modum necessaria prouidemus. Quorum quidem alterum est ut nos instruere uelis unde sanctimonialium ordo ceperit, et que nostre sit professionis auctoritas. Alterum uero est ut aliquam nobis regulam instituas et scriptam dirigas que feminarum sit propria et ex integro nostre conuer- sacionis statum habitumque describat, quod nondum a patribus sanctis actum esse conspeximus. Cuius quidem rei defectu et indigentia nunc agitur ut ad eiusdem regule professionem tam mares quam femine in monasteriis suscipiantur, et idem institutionis monastice iugum imponitur infi rmo sexui eque ut forti. [And so all we handmaids of Christ, who are your daughters in Christ, come as suppliants to demand of your paternal care two things which we see to be very necessary for ourselves. One is that you will teach us how the order of nuns began and what authority there is for our profession. The other, that you will establish some Rule for us and write it down, a Rule which shall be suitable for women, and also describe fully the standing and manner of our religious way of life, which we find was never done by the holy Fathers. Through lack and need of this it is the practice today for men and women alike to be received in monasteries to profess the same Rule, and the same yoke of monastic ordinance is laid on the weaker sex as on the stronger.] 13

Placing this passage rhetorically after the moment of falling silent, moving from tongue to hand, seems essential in the monastic culture to which Heloise refers. Silence was, in ascetic Christian culture, not only a sign of initiation into the 88 BABETTE S. HELLEMANS ideal of a new and unworldly life. In some monastic communities silence was also used to break with the premonastic lives of monks and nuns; silence served as an instrument in the perpetual withdrawal from a world preoccupied with intrigues, rhetorical command over language, and political pursuits. There existed also a broader sense of interiority in medieval culture, in which silence was part of the stronghold that the person was permanently building in order to protect the self from exposure. Indeed, being silent was not merely interpreted as keeping secrets or being unreliable—the psychological method by which we tend to interpret self-imposed silence today. On the contrary, talking was seen as a risk since the topic of the conversation could backfi re on the uttering self. The medieval person with tightly shut lips was progressively and quietly building his identity, trying to avoid the risk of a drawback in the argumentation. Medieval identity was, consequently, constructed around the notion of a public fi gure or a persona , and too much talking was considered a risk in this process of identity-making. Medieval individuality was in a way “ineff able,” since an exterior concept by which the notion could identify itself was lacking. 14 Let us go back to Heloise’s moment of silence. We read in the previous paragraph how she used her hand to make her mouth shut. Or perhaps we should say that she decided to remain silent because, abounding in emotions, her mood would slip too easily into pen and parchment. In the context of the ineff ability of identity we need to adopt a medieval antipsychology of sorts, in order to come closer to the historical context of monastic literature. Medieval authors display an aversion to transgressing the divine privilege of knowing what is inside a person’s heart: the so-called notion of occulta cordis . 15 This intersubjective distance, the distrust of the spontaneous dialogue, is also present in the visibility of a “body language.” The medieval person is afraid to show too much of his soul. Hence Heloise’s simultaneous movement of a hand that stops writing at the very moment her outpouring of emotions comes to a standstill. When Heloise falls silent, whether rhetorically or in point of fact, she stops compromising her identity. Heloise thus imposes narrative order on all kinds of emotional turmoil—the tribal politics of marriage, the squabbles of Letters 1–5, the dysfunctional Rule of Saint Benedict for women. But she never lets us forget the process by which that order of events has been achieved. She is constantly reminding us that her lucidly written letters are stories, shaped by a writer with certain esthetic impera- tives and an intellectual tradition, including its prejudices. Our modern ideal of a spontaneous character that has nothing to hide, where the talking goes along with the thinking, is alien to medieval society. 16 I have two reasons to insist on the ascetic context of these letters as an eminent part of their structure. First, it is the rhetorically self-refl exive commentaries in Letter 6 which have gathered the most scholarly attention over the past decades, at least in part because of the great increase in scholarly attention to women’s history. The parts that have been studied most intensely are those that address the duplicity of Abelard and Heloise’s monastic enterprise in Letter 6. Heloise’s submission vis-à -vis Abelard’s paternalism and the regaining of her “voice” were favorite topics in Abelardian research during the 1980s and early 1990s. The way in which notions of voice and silence have been claimed in this debate shows ABELARD AND HELOISE 89 a scholarly awareness of “listening” to marginal voices and especially concerns with the woman’s voice in history. The studies collected in the volume Listening to Heloise , edited by Bonnie Wheeler, show a particular engagement with the challenge of bringing Heloise’s voice back to the discursive element of historiography. 17 To this day, the uncertainty and instability going along with a focus on language is perceived as a threat to the foundations of historiography. In what I have come across up until now, I have conveniently forgotten that it is not for me to say who, in this text, is good or who is bad. The point has been made: when it comes to choosing one of the two epistolary voices, every historian stands in quicksand. There is no fl oor under his enterprise, no basis for moral certainty. The observations about the thicket of medieval subjectivity have been made elsewhere. 18 But something is at work here, beyond the suppression of the female voice or the almost anachronistic self-awareness of a learned woman, representing two sides of the same coin. The easy answer is the triumph of divine and human love set against monastic monotony and apatheia . I actually think the letters of Abelard and Heloise show exactly the opposite. Rather than striving for empathy, the letters reveal a parallel movement of monastic theory and praxis, that is, they show the theoretical discourse of “how to live” combined with participation in the divine way of life, the actualization of the divine in the human, and the process of transformation. Heloise’s rhetorical “observations” of a woman’s body further on in Letter 6—the glossiness or humidity that make the female body sensual, the drunken attraction of female smell, the diffi culty of continence—use Aristotle, Ovid, and Macrobius, or other authorities both religious and pagan. In this rhetorical and external description of the female body, what strikes me most is the mix between male desire and female behavior, including an emphasis on the attitude of women in a worldly, “public” context. How can we restore the dual- ism that arises from this single voice? Time and again these sequences of noisy and worldly examples manifest themselves, especially when there is a particular emphasis on the rhetorical self in the inner and silent realm of monasticism, devoted to the ascetic way of life. The attention these vividly sensual or “public” examples have received in scholarship has tended to overshadow everything else in the letter exchange as a whole. From what we have seen so far, it seems clear that the authenticity of a female subject—Heloise—does not, strictly speaking, unfold in biographical truth. Heloise’s letter depicts, rather, the unusual moments of a tangible world in a real life, moments that are very short and ephemeral in comparison with a monk’s life. But these tangible moments shape the nature of monastic life, as surfaces in relief, as well as the subsequent moments of monastic life, with its cyclical pace that includes praise, songs, and silence, thus stretching out beyond the biographical truth of an individualized entity in the form of the rebirth of the monk into yet another state of “monkness.” In fact, as this mix of external and internal moments of desire reminds us, Letter 6 shows a complicated blend of Stoic coolness and passionately human warmth. Yet, this type of rhetorical self-refl ection is subordinated to a higher logic that contains a state beyond this dialectic biographical mix. There are (at least) two competing 90 BABETTE S. HELLEMANS versions of history. On the one hand, there is the legend “Abelard and Heloise,” wherein a luminous and intellectual couple blow away the cobwebs of grim twelfth-century asceticism and usher in the modern rational era. On the other hand, there is the counter-narrative of solid twelfth-century monastic reform, including people like Bernard of Clairvaux and Peter the Venerable, in which those two monastic heavyweights suggest that the “free-spirited” couple was in fact sharing the same “monastic” world. 19 While this counternarrative produces a possibly jarring shift in perspective, it fails to decisively disrupt the Abelard and Heloise legend. This is not because the couple’s correspondence is “truer” than the letters written between them and others such as Bernard or Peter the Venerable, but because it is rhetorically more persuasive. We withhold our sympathy from Bernard’s interferences in Abelard or Heloise’s life not because his commitment is without merit, but because he does not fi t into the legend in a sympathetic way. For instance, after Abelard’s condemnation Bernard visited Heloise in the Paraclete at her request and was received as a friend. 20 In the absence of moral certainty, then, our sympathy toward Abelard and Heloise is essentially esthetic.

The Authenticity of Silence In 1975 the scholar Peter von Moos published a landmark article about Heloise in the famous volume resulting from the 1972 conference Pierre Ab élard—Pierre le Vé né rable: Les courants philosophiques, litté raires et artistiques en Occident au milieu du XIIe siè cle . 21 Heloise’s silence was also the topic of von Moos’s 1974 book Mittelalterforschung und Ideologiekritik, der Gelehrtenstreit um Heloise .22 In each work, von Moos pointed to the rhetorical fi gure of silence and what he called the “hermeneutical na ï veté ” of straight, historical reading. He continued to work on this issue for more than 30 years, publishing several articles adding signifi cant specifi cations and growing insights. Let me briefl y sketch the chief argument of von Moos as he has developed the theme up until the present day. In the revised version of Le silence d’Hé lo ï se et les id é ologies modernes published in a 2005 volume of collected essays, von Moos tries to get a grip on all the methodological discussions involved. 23 He structures his arguments in thirty-three points, and in each of them he makes up the balance of the arguments discussed, often with footnotes longer than the points themselves. I will now briefl y discuss point nine of von Moos’s article, which deals with the problem of subjectivity, and his point twenty-four, dealing with the rhetorical fi gure of speech called “aposiopesis,” from the Greek “maintaining silence.” I shall begin with the latter. Aposiopesis, also called reticentia , praeteritio , or simply fi nis ante legitimum fi n e m , is a fi gure of speech wherein a sentence is deliberately broken off and left unfi nished, leaving the ending to be supplied by the imagination, thus giving an impression of inability to continue. The technique of aposiopesis—the use of silence—gives the reader the impression that the character/speaker reveals a sense of timidity or discreteness. Mostly, the fi gure of speech is used to show that the character is overwhelmed with emotions. 24 In eff ecting a restoration of the meaning of Heloise’s silence we might start to understand what it means ABELARD AND HELOISE 91 for a monastic person to fail to acknowledge the monastic vow, with such a fear of the demands that the required love for God is incapable of being given expression. 25 So, when Heloise breaks off her speech in the beginning of Letter 6 in the phrase “I have set the bridle of your injunction on the words which may issue from my unbounded grief,” von Moos highlights this fi gure of speech, arguing that Heloise’s silence might be a case of aposiopesis. Overwhelmed by emotion, she doesn’t want to take the risk of “doing things,” which involves for Heloise “putting the emotions into written words.” The wider context of the corpus of letters makes it clear that the logic of acknowledgment and failure is a key to understanding the monastic shape of Skepticism as we fi nd it in Abelard’s thought. We will touch upon this issue only briefl y in the present article. For the moment, it will suffi ce to establish that the introduction of Heloise’s silence as a fi gure of rhetoric is indeed a very strong point in Peter von Moos’s analysis, especially since it traditionally implies the control of emotions, so important for the ascetic context of our source. Von Moos, however, connects the fi gure of aposiopesis to what we have discussed earlier, the theory of the so-called occulta cordis : the incommensurability of the human heart. This fi gure of speech is not only about Heloise’s timidity or emotional struggle: she falls deliberately silent in the context of style and argument. So we now have elements with which we can begin an analysis about the inco- herence among the historicity of the events (the letters are antedated), the use of aposiopesis, and a-psychological narration. The usual interpretations follow one of three lines: either the letters are historically authentic; or the letters are a literary construction; or the letters are not to be understood in terms of events and history, but rather the whole corpus has a ritualistic character as the foundational text of the Paraclete that must be accepted as the premise from which Heloise’s silence derived. Arguments ensue, in each instance, about whether the letter corpus seems plausible in what is acceptable for its society. This brings me point number nine in von Moos’s article, about subjectivity and, closely related to this concept, authenticity. It goes as follows: if we acknowledge that our a priori admiration for Heloise is based on a Vorurteil (prejudice) in the positive or negative sense of the word, that is, based on post-Romantic and anachronistic presuppositions, or on anticlericalism or Catholic arguments, in short, on all the stuff that makes Heloise mythical—what are we going to do about the authenticity of her silence ? Not all the dice are thrown yet, says von Moos: if scholars are right about the possibility that Heloise’s silence refers to a sense of interiority, her intimate life, silence with a voice showing that she is truthful toward herself, reducing the depth of this insight to merely a rhetorical fi gure, an argumentum e silentio , would be a rather easy escape. On the other hand, if we take the letter exchange as purely descriptive of biographical events, that is, as a set of personal and autobiographical letters composed in a very coherent order, we also have a serious forensic problem. What are we going to do with the fact that the letters have indeed been composed as a whole? Von Moos points to the problem of the “intertextual subject” by which the biographical dimension is lifted out, and he argues in favor of an agnostic attitude of sorts. 26 In such a hollowed-out “biographized” individual there is no interiority or 92 BABETTE S. HELLEMANS intimacy, no secrecy or privacy: (s)he is all surface. For this intertextual subject everything is public, down to the last detail. So what do we have? From a forensic point of view it seems advisable to stick to the materiality of the source: the way the manuscript is constructed, how it was used in the Paraclete or elsewhere, and why the book has this specifi c shape of a dialogue—and why it concludes with a monastic rule. 27 From an interpretative point of view we might benefi t from some of von Moos’s suggestions. Although his suggestions and observations are presented in the 2005 article in an unrelated way, as an enumeration, the two points I have extracted from his longer list show the relevance of von Moos’s arguments. When von Moos emphasizes—justifi ably so to a point—that the art of rhetoric was to be found in the “public square,” the square he has in mind seems more that of a market place in the centre of Paris than a convent garden. It is commonly held that the sense of public nature of the “I” in rhetoric as part of the human image belongs to the classical heritage. According to this view the long-term history of the “I” of refl ective consciousness— owner or disowner of experiences or memories—became after Aristotle less a matter of theoretical knowledge and more, especially from Epictetus and Augustine onward, a matter of practicality and discipline in the sense of commitment, a matter of keeping emotional balance and serenity.28 The notion of a refl ective consciousness shows certain dominant ways of thinking about selfhood and the historical voice of the self in Western culture, in which the skeptical inquiry of Descartes’s—“I think therefore I am”—occupies a special place. It will suffi ce for my argument to state that, ever since Descartes connected the notion of “thought” as a psychological process to consciousness in his Meditations—the idea of an “I” or personhood—the subject is made out of the personal identity.29 If we bend this shift from a Cartesian form of confession or self-awareness that is quintessentially refl ective, to a medieval universal “I” whose self- management is shaped by rules, collective rhythms and other exercitia such as sexual control, the ethics of the self we deal with in the letter corpus should be understood within the specifi c parameters of “spiritual exercises.” 30 As Giles Constable has shown, letter writing was, monastically speaking, a semipublic cultivation of the ascetic self, especially when the correspondence was carried out between a man and a woman. 31 The enclosed garden of the convent represented a threshold space in-between the public and the private realm, in which the most elevated truths, from the monastic topos of individual humility to revealed truth, were negotiated. In such an all-encompassing “public space” we have to acknowledge that the confessional mode, glorifi cation, or perhaps self-annihilation between two voices represents a sharply formulated approach to life. Yet in the letters of Abelard and Heloise things are more complicated. In view of Abelard and Heloise moving between the public and the monastic realm they cannot say exactly what their shape of life is. The hand that writes Letter 6 does not struggle with the loss of an individualized voice: the scene is much more alarming than that since it refers to the loss of the restorative voice, the turn to a perpetual monastic life. If the loss of words refers to the human diffi culty of reminding oneself of something, silence refers to a sublime point of view on the question of how to live an accomplished life by accepting the monastic vow. The self at once present and absent in language, tunes downward the noise caused by the introduction of such a category as the sublime ABELARD AND HELOISE 93

(we may call it God). Abelard’s view on language is permanently haunted by an apparent loss for words, which is also a loss of memory, partly expressed by a turn from the sublime to grammar. These comments on Abelard are not meant to be criticisms, nor do I have any pretensions (or desire) to join an analytical discussion of philosophy. It was, after all, never Abelard’s pedagogy to skip the basics of the artes liberales , in which the grammar of the trivium is considered as only the fi rst step of knowledge and understanding, to speculate on divine knowledge. It would be contrary to Abelard’s spirit—if we were able to fi nd a coherent one—to assume that grammar could lead to theology. 32 If playing down metaphysical noise and the stripping of language would be all that Abelardian redemption would amount to, we would not do justice to his concept of his desire for the perfect life. In the tension between sublime logic and chatter about how to live well, Abelard points to the human problem of a distinction between absolute and relative intramural talking. For the sake of some conclusive arguments, let us state three things. First, that there is a confl uence of spiritual and intellectual struggle in Abelard’s writing; second, that we classify the Historia Calamitatum and the Letters as intellectual; and, third, that these works show in large part Abelard’s mind at “home” in order to bring his language back from metaphysical truth to everyday use in life. So if we remember how Heloise in Letter 6 fell mute, trying to control—in the phras- ing of Jerome, and Cicero—her emotion, it would now be more accurate to state that the conversation between Abelard and Heloise fl agged because in the acknowledgement of monastic life there seems no place for ordinary talking. In the monastic context, the direction of Heloise’s mind toward meaning, her struggle with words, and her attempts to defi ne an (absent) object ultimately culminate into resisting the temptation to give meaning. “Speak to us then, and we shall hear,” she says at the end of Letter 6. The naming of something like an approach of life—hovering between past and future—should be free from a false sublimity. To see this as submission if compared to modern standards is to miss the historical point entirely.

The Restoration of the Voice In order to restore something we called the human voice in Abelard and Heloise’s letters, we now turn back the hands of the clock. My aim is not to create an external voice, but rather to think about how a philosophical-anthropological interpretation of individuation, according to the principle of metonymic mirroring, might sound. So Abelard tells Heloise, once again, that she should accept the new state of aff airs. Once again, she replies to him that she cannot forget about their mutually shared past and the physical love they once experienced. She was prepared to accept anything, even the humiliation of extramarital love and the birth of an illegitimate son, if only a defi nitive separation could be avoided. The love Heloise off ers and has off ered is, itself, endless and complete, she thinks. But it isn’t, says Abelard, for man is the epitome of God’s creation and he is related to his Creator in love, a love that is essential, substantial, and providential.33 We could summarize the emotion in the story, that is, Abelard’s life, by saying that it is a story of original sin, including God’s judgment and 94 BABETTE S. HELLEMANS the longing for salvation. This would begin to show us how these two voices’ experience of love diff ers from the experience of emotions in a world like ours. It would be an easy solution to say that these people feel a kind of guilt we do not feel any more. But to understand the story of their love is best given by trying to connect the story to their view on the human condition. Since both are now members of an ascetic community, trying to accept the new state of aff airs, the parameters of their project to understand love are called into question. 34 For the project has the common ground of a life of observance, and its reliance on individual responses to this monastic call. Abelard’s emphasis on the acceptance of divine love as providential, therefore, suggests that past emotions are not a discrete episode inside a life story but, rather, constitute the living out of a story that has a certain shape . The two voices of a couple are restructuring the direction of their human love to the realm of divine love, as they go on narrating their new situation as members of an ascetic community. Their dialogue continues until the end of sixth letter, when the female voice chooses to be silent:

Tibi nunc, domine, dum uiuis, incumbit instituere de nobis quid in perpetuum tenendum sit nobis. Tu quippe post Deum huius loci fundator, tu per Deum nostre congregationis es plantator, tu cum Deo nostre sis religionis institutor. Preceptorem alium post te fortassis habiture sumus et qui super alienum aliquid edifi cet fun- damentum ideoque ueremur de nobis minus futurus sollicitus uel a nobis minus audiendus, et qui denique, si eque uelit, non eque possit. Loquere tu nobis, et audiemus. Vale. 35 [It is for you then, my lord, while you live, to establish for us what [Rule] we should adhere to for all time, for after God you are the founder of this place, through God you are the planter of our community, with God you should be the instructor of our religious life. After you we may perhaps have another to guide us, one who will build upon another’s foundation, and so, we fear, he may be less likely to feel concern for us, or be less readily heard by us; or indeed, he may be no less willing, but less able. Speak to us, and we shall hear. Farewell.] 36

This break in the process of talking is conjured in the end of the letter exchange and of Abelard’s account of his own, intellectual, thinking about God who loves and creates men freely, re -creating sinners and re -establishing this bond. 37 The Pauline notion of God’s love pro nobis , for us who are born and nursed, created and re-created, is a recurrent motive in Abelard’s writings. His strong emphasis on redemption is rather extraordinary because, in contrast with many of his contemporaries who connected the notion of passions ( passiones ) or bodily lust (concupiscentiae carnis ) with sin, Abelard begins at the other side of the logical spectrum and starts with the fact that God’s love is both a magnifi cent and a terrifying gift and that a denial of this gift would imply contempt for God. 38 But what about Heloise’s part in the letter exchange? How does the notion of restoring and repairing things from the past unite both the content and the shape of this corpus of letters? Abelard’s immediate reply to Heloise’s listening silence (her phrase, “speak to us then, and we shall hear”) is the creation of a rule of observance. There Abelard develops his ideas about the philosophical principle of “how to live” and pours them into the monastic shape of rhythm and practice. This much, roughly speaking, is common ground among the older theories of Stoic and ABELARD AND HELOISE 95

Christian understanding of controlling the passions, from the fi rst beginnings of an ascetic life of withdrawal up until Heloise’s own life and emotion. We remember, also, the taboo of singularity in monastic life ( singularitas ). To be clear, the response of Abelard to Heloise isn’t a brief outline. Arriving at the turning point where Heloise falls silent, he instead keeps on talking about monastic life and its origins, the nature of the monastic vow, responsibility for the organization of a monastic community, and the understanding of faith and divine love. On the hinge point between silence and voice, we see how elements of a shared human belief are turned into a more general belief about the meaning of grace and how to transcend the condition of humanity, how to take up a life with God. Such a way of life is, furthermore, perfectly intelligible to both Abelard and Heloise, and can even be considered as a highly reasonable desire. Perhaps it is from this perspective that the letters are written. But what, then, in the face of a mutually shared belief in the transcendence of the human condition as the concluding argument of a letter exchange, did the kind of life they once shared look like? Should we view the moment of Heloise’s silence as the setting of a new norm or the mute yet vociferous telling of what “really” happened?

Notes 1 . For example, Linda Olson and Kathryn Kerby-Fulton, Voices in Dialogue: Reading Women in the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005). 2 . An overview of recent work on identity and premodernity pertinent to this chapter is Alois Hahn, “Wohl dem, der eine Narbe hat: Identifikationen und ihre soziale Konstruktion,” in Unverwechselbarkeit: Pers ö nliche Identitä t und Identifikation in der vormodernen Gesellschaft , ed. Peter von Moos (Cologne: Bö hlau Verlag, 2004), 43–62. 3 . Claude L évi-Strauss, L’Identit é : S é minaire interdisciplinaire dirig é par Claude L évi- Strauss, professeur au Coll ège de France, 1974–1975 (Paris: Grasset, 1977). 4 . On twelfth-century Humanism, see Richard W. Southern, Scholastic Humanism and the Unification of Europe , 2 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995–2001). 5 . For the remaining corpus of extent letters written by Peter Abelard, translated into English, see Jan M. Ziolkowski, Letters of Peter Abelard: Beyond the Personal (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2008). 6 . See, for instance, Bernard of Clairvaux, Letter 11, in Sancti Bernardi Opera , ed. J. Leclercq, H. M. Rochais, and Ch. H. Talbot, vol. 7, Epistolae, I: Corpus episto- larum 1–180 (Rome: Editiones Cistercienses, 1977), 224; Reprint, SC 425 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1997). 7 . The notion of the “voice” is essential in the work of the American philosopher Stanley Cavell. “I propose here to talk about philosophy in connection with something I call the voice, by which I mean to talk about the tone of philosophy and about my right to take that tone.” Cavell, A Pitch of Philosophy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 3. With an emphasis on the restoration of the human voice (Cavellian in its approach), Ludwig Wittgenstein’s ordinary language philosophy represents the connective tissue of the applied method, since there is no separation between the natural talking in the letters and its continuation as a philosophical voice. 96 BABETTE S. HELLEMANS

8 . Peter Abelard and Heloise, The Letter Collection of Peter Abelard and Heloise , ed. and rev. trans. David Luscombe, after Betty Radice (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2013), 218–19. All passages, both Latin and English translation, cited from this edition. Note that Troyes, Biblioth èque municipale, ms. 802, fol. 34d, clearly writes “Domino specialiter,” and not “Suo specialiter.” 9 . Jerome, Select Letters , trans. F. A. Wright (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1933), 420. The date of Jerome’s letter is AD 411. 10 . Jerome, Epistolae 125, 14. Translation from The Letters of St. Jerome , part of the Christian Classics Ethereal Library. Online at http://www.ccel.org/ccel/ schaff/npnf206toc.html; this passage at http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/ npnf206.v.CXXV.html ; last accessed January 2015. 11 . “[E]tiam novo quidam amore veterem amorem tamquam clavo clavum eicien- dum putant; maxime autem, admonendus est, quantus sit furor amoris. Omnibus, enim ex animi perturbationibus est profecto nulla vehementior.” M. Tullius Cicero, Tusculanae Disputationes , ed. M. Pohlenz (Leipzig: Teubner, 1918), 4.75. 12 . See B. S. Hellemans, “The Man without Memory: Peter Abelard and Trust in History,” in On Religion and Memory , ed. B. S. Hellemans, W. Otten, and M. B. Pranger (New York: Fordham University Press, 2013), 45–63. 13 . Abelard, Letter Collection , ed. Luscombe, 218–21. 14 . Aaron J. Gurewitsch, Das Individuum im europ ä ischen Mittelalter (Munich: Beck, 1994), esp. Chapter 3. 15 . Peter von Moos, “ Occulta cordis : Contr ôle de soi et confession au Moyen Age,” in Entre Histoire et litté rature: Communication et culture au Moyen Age (Florence: SISMEL—Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2005), 579–610. 16 . On the broad topic of body language and the notion of spontaneity in medieval culture, see Jean-Claude Schmitt, La raison des gestes dans l’Occident m é dié val (Paris: Gallimard, 1990). 17 . Bonnie Wheeler, ed., Listening to Heloise: The Voice of a Twelfth-Century Woman (New York: St. Martin’s, 2000). 18 . Carolyn Walker Bynum, “Did the Twelfth-Century Discover the Individual?” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 31.1 (1980): 1–17; expanded version in Carolyn Walker Bynum, Jesus as Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1982), Chapter 3. For a more recent discussion, see Jan M. Ziolkowski’s “Introduction,” in Abelard, Letters of Peter Abelard , ed. Ziolkowski. 19 . See, for instance, the article of M. B. Pranger, “Elective Affinities: Love, Hatred, Playfulness and the Self in Bernard and Abelard,” in Medieval and Renaissance Humanism: Rhetoric, Representation and Reform , ed. Stephen Gersh and Bert Roest (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2003), 55–72. 20 . Abelard, Letter Collection , ed. Luscombe, xxv. 21 . Pierre Abélard—Pierre le Vénérable: Les courants philosophiques, litt éraires et artistiques en Occident au milieu du XIIe si è cle (Paris: Editions du CNRS, 1975). 22 . Peter von Moos, Mittelalterforschung und Ideologiekritik, der Gelehrtenstreit um Heloise (Munich: Fink, 1974). 23 . Peter von Moos, Entre Histoire et litt érature: Communication et culture au Moyen Age (Florence: SISMEL—Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2005), 3–43. 24 . Andrea Grun-Oesterreich, “Aposiopesis,” in Encyclopedia of Rhetoric , ed. Thomas O. Sloane (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 25 . This passage refers to Cavell’s notions of acknowledgment and the voice; Stanley Cavell, The Cavell Reader , ed. Stephen Mulhall (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), 22. ABELARD AND HELOISE 97

26 . Peter von Moos acknowledges that he himself does not always manage to keep aloof from the historical and biographical flavor in his own analysis (von Moos, Le Silence d’H élo ïse , 17n31). 27 . Peter Godman’s book has quite a Romantic vision of a first person’s sensibility in the correspondence, although he acknowledges that the aim of the letters is somehow public because they are “not simply addressed to her [Heloise] and the nuns of the Paraclete but also to a wider readership. Predominantly clerical and monastic, its members were aware of the properties of spiritual guidance. They had also been alerted, in the HC [ Historia Calamitatum ], to the tongues of gossip that had wagged about the couple’s relationship. Both of them are conscious that the eyes of the world are upon them.” Godman, Paradoxes of Conscience in the High Middle Ages: Abelard, Heloise and the Archipoet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 127. 28 . See, for instance, A. A. Long’s view on the representation of the self (phantasia ) in Long, Stoic Studies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), especially Chapter 12. 29 . For further reading, see especially Christopher Gill, The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), and in particular, Chapter 6.5 on Epictetus. 30 . See Pierre Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life: Spiritual Exercises from Socrates to Foucault , ed. Arnold Davidson, trans. Michael Chase (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), esp. 206–13 and the editor’s introduction. 31 . Giles Constable, “Monastic Letter Writing in the Middle Ages,” Filologia mediolatina 11 (2004): 1–24. 32 . On the connections between the fields of logic and divinity, see Eileen Sweeney, “Literary Forms of Medieval Philosophy,” in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2013 Edition), ed. Edward N. Zalta. Online at http://plato.stanford. edu/entries/medieval-literary/ . 33 . Theol. Christ . III, 1258–59; Theol. ‘Schol’ . III.i, 1088, III v. 1101cd; Exp. in Epist. ad Rom . I, ii, 813c; iv. xi. 937b; Dialogus 1658. Appendix B in Abelard, Letter Collection , ed. Luscombe, contains a bibliography of Abelard and Heloise’s writings, including detailed publication information for the works cited here. 34 . I use the notion of project similar to Martha Nussbaum “as in the debate between the Greek tragic poets and their opponent Plato. It is the project of a dialogue . . . in pursuit of the human question, ‘How should one live?’” Nussbaum, Love’s Knowledge: Essays on Philosophy and Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 289. 35 . Abelard, Letter Collection , ed. Luscombe, 256–59. 36 . Compare the almost verbatim repetition of a passage in letter 2, also from Heloise to Abelard: “For you alone, after God, are the founder of this place, you alone the builder of this oratory, you alone the creator of this community.” Abelard, Letter Collection , ed. Luscombe, 127. 37 . Richard Weingart, The Logic of Divine Love: A Critical Analysis of the Soteriology of Peter Abailard (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), 203–204. 38 . This explains also why Abelard’s idea on atonement is not intrinsically developed and why the Augustinian Encheiridion principle is to be found in the nucleus of Abelard’s thought. For a fine sketch of the common medieval opinion about passion and suffering, see Martin Elsky, “Erich Auerbach’s Passio as Passio [Passio als Leidenschaft],” Criticism 43.3 (2001): 288–308.

PART III

RHETORIC AND SUBJECTIVITY: POLYPHONIC VOICES CHAPTER 6

THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER: “ALER M’ESTUET” BY THE CHÂ TELAIN D’ARRAS

Marisa Galvez

Is it possible to hear the inner voice of the medieval crusader? Although far from the genre of modern war literature in which one might hear a soldier’s inner confl ict between a greater moral cause and personal beliefs, vernacular crusade love songs composed in Old French from the late twelfth to mid-thirteenth century can exhibit an interior complexity of a departing crusader.1 These songs lament the poet’s departure from his lady and refl ect an eff ort to domesticate an unknowable situation using the conventional tropes of courtly lyric. I argue that the crusade songs of the Northern French trouv è res warrant closer study because they internalized ecclesiastical ideology and translated it into a courtly code specifi c to the needs of an elite class of crusading noblemen. Rather than focusing on how these songs portray diff erent lay attitudes toward the crusading movement, 2 this chapter focuses on the poetics of these songs—courtly tropes, metaphors, the translatio of penitential discourse—that while often seen as simply conventional, represent confl icting moral values regarding crusade and complex attempts to personalize and valorize this internal confl ict in an independent courtly voice. As often noted, the trouv ères’ counterparts, the troubadours and Minnesingers , also composed crusade lyric but were not uniformly of the same high rank and not expected to go on crusade. In order to hear the ambivalent voice of the crusader in these songs, I read them against various penitential and confessional texts of the period related to crusading. Participating in a penitential discourse developed by key fi gures such as Bernard of Clairvaux, Innocent III, and University theologians, as well as preachers such as Bishop Maurice of Sully, crusade love songs develop what I call a courtly “voice-text” that responds to emerging debates about confessional self-representation and the expression of sincere penance. I will develop this concept further using specifi c examples. In this essay I focus on “Aler m’estuet” (“I must go”) by the Ch â telain (or Huon) d’Arras, dated to the fi rst quarter of the thirteenth century. 3 Although knowledge 102 MARISA GALVEZ of the Châ telain is scarce, he shares the same courtly aesthetic as other trouvè res of crusade songs such as Conon de Bé thune, the Châ telain de Couci, and Thibaut de Champagne. Joseph B é dier assumes that he was from a noble family of Artois and took part in the crusade movement at the end of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth centuries. 4 The Ch â telain belongs to the same cultural and social milieu as the other aforementioned trouv è res, all high-ranking nobles primarily from northern France active in crusade expeditions, and their songs would have been known during a time of ecclesiastical reform that aff ected the preaching and practice of crusading. As leaders of expeditions abroad, trouv è res were invested in how they fashioned themselves as crusaders.5 The transmission of these crusade love songs in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century chansonniers attests to their creators’ prestige. This transmission also makes it likely that these works would have been performed in public and reached a large audience either at home or abroad long after their production, at a time when the crusading movement is generally perceived to have come of age.6 Perhaps because of the shared background of these poets, these lyrics refl ect a standardization of courtly tropes applied to crusade.7 In his crusade love song, the Châ telain d’Arras creates his own “crusade voice” that promotes an aristocratic idiom of crusade intention, an affi rmation of his piety as a crusader. As has been recently argued by Lisa Perfetti, the fi gure of the “crusading lover” in these songs refl ects various political, social, and material motivations for taking up the cross.8 Despite the problems inherent in identifying a corpus of crusade poems, scholars have generally divided the Old French songs that treat some aspect of crusade into two categories: exhortational poems that encourage men to take the cross or criticize those who are reluctant or fail to complete fulfi ll their vows; and love songs in which the crusader laments a lady left behind. 9 While the eroticized poetics of crusade love songs can “enhance the image of the crusader,” 10 I also see the love songs of trouv è res as expressing ambivalence about the penitential aspect of crusading through a courtly code. Crusading having by now become a normal feature of the European scene and infl ected with secular ideals—recruitment increasingly concentrated in circles of vassals for instance11 —powerful lords and leaders of crusade expeditions were invested in crafting a crusading voice that espoused both the earthly virtues of their class and the proper piety of a crusader. At stake was the articulation of sincere intention to go on crusade that at once professes the repentance of a Christian soldier and asserts the chivalric values of a restricted social group, these values being signifi cant for maintaining mutual service and feudal obligation at home and abroad. Reading “Aler m’estuet” against the penitential discourse of the period, I will show how the Ch â telain’s voice emerges through that of the ventriloquized lady and is formed in opposition to the silent voice of interior refl ection that one was supposed to have as a crusader embarking on a penitential journey. The Châ telain distinguishes and authorizes his crusading voice by claiming at once to be a pious crusader and an unrepentant courtly lover. By looking at various examples of pastoral literature, I will explain how the immediate cultural climate of penance and confession demands and produces the Châ telain’s self- authorized crusading voice. THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 103

Intentio Recta vs. Courtly Intention: The Voice of the Lady as Inspiration Evident in theological writings, pastoral literature, and visual culture, penance formed the immediate context of crusade lyric composed at this time. The pastoral reform movement, culminating in the Fourth Lateran Council (1215), reaf- fi rmed penance as a prerequisite for salvation. In penitential sermons related to crusade, ecclesiastical authorities and preachers invoked the voice of the Lord or honed their own voices to incite a lay audience to crusade. Pope Innocent III’s offi cial decrees and legislation represent the Western Church’s concern for a centralized spiritual reform among laity inherently related to crusading. In his fi rst general crusade letter issued in 1198, Post miserabile , Innocent explicitly established crusading as a penitential activity in that those who went on crusade who have “done penance [for sins] with voice and heart” would receive the reward of eternal salvation. Following contemporary theological discussions, he emphasizes both inner contrition and confession. 12 In his encyclical Quia maior of 1213, the famous letter viewed by historians as the culmination of crusading propaganda, Innocent summoned believers to a new crusade, the Fifth Crusade, and referred to crusade as not only an opportunity but a means for salvation. 13 Innocent describes crusade as a divine test and the Holy Land as Christ’s patri- mony. A model sermon for use in his newly established system for preaching the cross, the letter shows how Innocent guides preachers to invoke God’s voice in need. I have included the relevant Latin:

We cry out on behalf of him, made obedient to God the Father even to the death on the cross, who, while dying on the cross called out in a loud voice [moriendo voce magna clamavit in cruce ], crying out that he might save us from the torture of eternal death [Mt 27:50; Lk 23:46; my emphasis]. And he cried out also for himself and said, “If anyone wishes to follow me, he should deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.” (Mt. 16:24)

Here Innocent invokes not only the image of the Lord on the cross but his voice: the Lord calls out to his followers to take up the cross. Hearing God’s voice in need, crusaders should respond in a spirit of penance, conversion, and action. Before this encyclical was issued, trouvè res were already embracing crusade as a penitential activity in their lyrics, apparently having absorbed contritionist sermons and taking up the position of preacher. The twelfth-century trouvè re Conon de Bé thune, a participant in the Third and Fourth Crusades, exhorts all people, including clergy, the elderly, and women, to go on crusade in their own ways as a penitential activity in “Ahi! Amour, con dure departie” (Ah, Love, what a cruel separation). In “Bien me de üsse targier” (I should defer to another time) he encourages an internal and physical process of self-denial: “On se doit bien eff orchier / De Dieu servir, ja n’i soit li talans, / Et la char vaintre et plaissier” (One must force oneself to serve God, even if you have desires elsewhere, and vanquish and break corporeal desires, l. 9–11). 14 As Jean-Charles Payen notes, the penitential language here likely alludes to the doctrine of double penitence espoused by Hughes of Saint Victor that instructs internal and external acts of penance. 15 For those who might 104 MARISA GALVEZ hesitate to go on crusade (or the equivalent of the physical journey to the Holy Land) because of their earthly attachments, Conon suggests the ascetic training of “vaintre” and “plaissier” to overcome that weakness. Crusade chronicles and the writings of clerical apologists affi rm Innocent’s exposition of crusading as successful only if accompanied by a spiritual reawaken- ing. Crusaders understood that divine aid would be forthcoming if soldiers carried out religious obligations, particularly confessing sins before battle. They participated in penitential activities to maintain morale. In his chronicle of the Fourth Crusade, Henri of Valenciennes reports that crusaders participated in penitential activities directed by clerics before battle. After assuring the men that divine aid would come to those who were sincerely repentant, the cleric Philip commands them to “in the name of penitence to fi ght against the enemies of Jesus Christ” (“Je vous commanc a toz, en non de penitence, que vous poigni és econtre les anemis Jhesu Crist”). 16 Not only would victory come to those who were properly repentant, but attacking the enemy was also viewed as a form of penance. Innocent and his followers were infl uenced by the most signifi cant preacher of the Second Crusade, the Cistercian abbot Bernard of Clairvaux, who formulated “right intention” ( intentio recta ). 17 Although crusade as an act of love formed a part of religious orthodoxy at the time, Bernard’s crusade sermons cultivated an aff ective piety that served as an important template for crusade love songs, especially in his emphasis upon expressing sincere love. 18 Bernard insists that the physical imitatio Christi is of little value unless accompanied by an internal, spiritual imitatio. This imitatio takes the form of a moral regeneration that is a mark of true repentance. 19 In “De laude novae militiae” ( ca. 1128–1137), a treatise addressed to the Templars but applicable to aristocratic crusaders, Bernard emphasizes that with pure conscience and intentio recta the true soldier of Christ accepts death as a martyr and is therefore fearless. 20 He warns that the knight must fi ght for no cause other than Christ, even though among noblemen, religious motivations were balanced with chivalric ideals of lordship, honor, and renown. In a recruitment letter to the duke and people of Bohemia from 1147, he portrays crusade as a test and act of love, an opportunity for laymen to set aside earthly cares and gain salvation. In addressing potential soldiers of Christ, he uses aff ective language that enlists the heart, voice, and desire:

I am urged by this zeal to write to you what I would prefer to try to inscribe in your hearts with my voice and I would do that if I had the means [ voce cordibus vestris inscri- bere laborarem ] . . . But the part of me about which I have been complaining is not with you; the part which will be of more use to you, my heart, is brought straight to you, in spite of the distance which separates our burdensome bodies. 21

Bernard’s eff ort to inscribe his voice within the hearts of his listeners parallels his preaching of the crusader as desiring bodily union with Christ in “De laude novae militiae”:

What in fact is there to fear for the man, whether he is living or dying, for whom to live is Christ and for whom it is gain to die? He remains in this world faithfully THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 105

and willingly for Christ; but his greater desire is to be dissolved and to be with Christ [sed magis cupit dissolvi, et esse cum Christo ]; this in fact is better.22

Bernard appeals to his listeners by fi rst vividly stressing the emotional and spiritual relation between himself and his listeners: he inscribes himself within their hearts. This aff ective relation between preacher and would-be crusader corresponds with the second image of a desired union between Christ and penitent soldier of Christ. The knight with “right intention” has no earthly cares and therefore enters fearlessly into battle. The Ch â telain d’Arras’s “Aler m’estuet” transforms Bernard’s emphasis on a crusader’s heartfelt contrition: the expression of sincere repentance as moti- vation for crusade becomes the courtly unrepentance of fi ne amour (refi ned, pure love) as the basis of crusading intention. The Châ telain responds to Innocent’s call to hear the voice of Christ, as well as Bernard’s emphasis on the voice reaching hearts, and desire for spiritual union with Christ. The desirous intentio recta of the penitent crusader who longs to dissolve himself with Christ becomes the desirous courtly intention of the unrepentant crusader who longs to be with his lady. Both Bernard and the Châ telain form a crusade intention based on longing and corporeal distance and rely on the heart’s transmission through the voice to create the crucial aff ective relation between crusader and other as either Christ or lady. The opening strophe of “Aler m’estuet” demonstrates how the Ch â telain d’Arras has internalized the homiletic message of crusade as penitential activity through the image of God’s suff ering. However, at the same time that he proclaims his willingness to suff er Outremer , he declares his love for his lady left behind:

Aler m’estuet la u je trairai paine, En cele terre ou Diex fu travellié s; Mainte pensee i averai grevaine, Quant je serai de ma dame eslongi és; 4 Et sacié s bien ja mais ne serai li és Dusc’a l’eure que l’averai prochaine. Dame, merci! Quant serai repairié s, Pour Dieu vos proi prenge vos en pitiez. 8 [I must go there where I will endure suffering / In that land where God was tor- tured; / I will have many heavy thoughts / because I will be away from my lady; / And know well that I will never be happy / Until the time I will have her close to me. / Lady, have mercy! When I will have returned, / I beg you by God that pity takes you.]

The Châ telain opens his song with an image of Christ’s suff ering that ought to inspire the pious crusader with right intention. Yet the external physical suff ering that will earn him salvation confl icts with his “pensee” or thoughts that are focused on his lady and his hoped for reunion with her upon his return. This hope replaces the internal imitatio of Christ, the internal activity of desiring spiritual union with Christ preached by Bernard. Like Bernard, he thinks about how voices can reach 106 MARISA GALVEZ hearts, but now in an earthly context: the memory of her voice, which at fi rst resembles a dangerous siren that tempts him from the moral path, gives him the fortitude to be a good crusader:

Douce dame, contesse et chastelaine De tout valoir, cui sevrance m’est gri és, Si est de vos com est de la seraine Qui par son chant a pluisors engigni és; 12 N’en sevent mot, ses a si aprocié s Que ses dous cans lor navie mal maine; Ne se gardent, ses a en mer plongi és; Et s’il vos plaist, ensi sui perelli és. 16 En peril sui, se pit és ne m’a ï e; Mais, se ses cuers resamble ses dous oex, Donc sai de voir que n’i perirai mie: Esperance ai qu’ele l’ait mout piteus. 20 Sovent recort, quant od li ere seus, Qu’ele disoit; “Mous seroi esjo ï e, Se reparié s; je vos ferai joiex; Or soié s vrais conme fins amourex.” 24 Ha! Diex, dame, cist mos me rent la vie; Biaus sire Diex, com il est precieus! Sans cuer m’en vois el regne de Surie: Od vos remaint, c’est ses plus dous osteus. 28 Dame vaillans, conment vivra cors seus? Se le vostre ai od moi en compaignie, Ad ès iere plus joians et plus preus. Del vostre cuer serai chevalereus. 32

[Sweet lady, countess and baroness / of high worth, the separation from whom grieves me, / it is with you as the siren / who by her song deceived many sailors. / They didn’t understand [lit.: know her words], she approached them in such a way / that her sweet song made their ship go off on a bad course; / they weren’t careful, and so she made them drown at sea. / And so it pleases you, in this way I am in the same peril. I am in peril, so pity does not rescue me. / But if her heart resembles her sweet eyes, / I know in truth that I will never perish by it; / having hope that she has a pitiful heart. / Often I remember when, being alone with her, / she said, “I would be very happy / If you returned, I will make you joyous; / for now be loyal like a true lover.” Ah! God, lady, these words give me life; / Good lord God, how they are precious! / Without a heart, I go away for the kingdom of Syria: / With you it remains, its sweetest refuge. / Worthy lady, how will a body live without a heart? / If I have your heart with me in company, / I will be the most joyful and brave. / By your heart, I will be valiant.]

Replacing the preacher’s voice that inspires intentio recta, the lady’s voice inspires crusading chivalry. While the poet narrator begins the song thinking of Christ’s suff ering, in the process of “recorder” or remembering, the lady’s voice begins to inhabit THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 107 his thoughts and ultimately inspires crusade. The memory of her voice occasions the exchange of his heart with hers, and with her heart he will be “chevalereus.” The Ch âtelain establishes his crusade intention as one founded upon the courtly ideal of unrequited fi ne amour even as he embraces crusading as a meritorious act, one leading to salvation according to Bernard’s preaching of the Second Crusade and Innocent’s policy of crusade as a means for salvation. I would thus go farther than Perfetti’s emphasis upon the Châ telain’s status as a “suff ering lover” of unrequited love and “erotic attachment to the lady” as “not necessarily incongruous with his dedication to fi ght in the Holy Land” by stressing that the trouvè re deliberately transforms the ecclesiastical discourse of the penitent voice or preacher by producing an erotic voice that calls for his devotion and physical sacrifi ce for crusade. 23 That is, he establishes a moral and social autonomy from the dominant penitential discourse by creating a distinct voice that embodies wayward earthly intention (seen explicitly in the corporeal desire of the siren) transformed into a force for good that aligns with Christian morality. This voice affi rms his earthly sacrifi ce for crusading, but also valorizes the corporeal desires that he supposedly should “vaintre” and “plaissier” (vanquish and break) by adhering to the courtly code. Moreover, through this deployment of earthly love and sacrifi ce, the Châ telain maintains his own crusade intentio against ecclesiastical writing that increasingly used the language of feudalism to engage the popular imagination for crusade recruitment. For example, in Quia maior Innocent proclaimed:

[God has granted the faithful followers] an opportunity for salvation, indeed a reason for salvation so that those who strive mightily for him might be happily crowned by him, and those who are unwilling at a time of such necessity to become his servants will merit a just sentence of damnation on the final day of the last judgment.24

Innocent believes that the crusader should feel obliged to serve God in time of need in the same way a vassal should want to serve his lord; a vassal should not desert his lord in need. A crusading song “Vos qui ameis de vraie amour” (1150–1200), 25 composed at the same time as Bernard’s preaching, testifi es to the appropriation of feudal language by the mid-twelfth century:

Vos qui ameis de vraie amor Esveilli és vos, ne dormeis mais: . . . Ke venus est li jors de paix 5 Que Deus, per sa tr és grant dousor, Donrait a ceals ki por s’amor Panront la creux, et por lor fais Soufferont poene nuit et jor; Or vairait il ses amans vrais. Cil doit bien estre forjugi és 11 Ki a besoing son seignor lait: 108 MARISA GALVEZ

[You who love with true love, / awake! Sleep no more! . . . the day of peace has come / Which God, in his great tenderness, / Will give to those who for love of him / Take the cross and for their burden / Suffer pain both night and day. / Then he will see who truly love him. Anyone deserves to be condemned / Who has deserted his lord in need.]

In light of ecclesiastical eff orts to make crusade ideology more accessible through the appropriation of feudal language and invocation of crusade service as an act of Christian love or “vraie amor,” 26 the Châ telain d’Arras distinguishes his intention through courtly fi ne amour . He combines two competing spiritualities through the craft of lyric: continual devotion to the lady and a willingness to physically fulfi ll a crusade vow that brings spiritual redemption. The uphold- ing of these spiritualities cleansed by penitential acts such as crusading demonstrates what Richard Kaeuper has called a “chivalric independence” within an “undoubted piety.” 27 Indeed, in his study of chivalric romances Kaeuper explains how the constant theme of necessary confession and penance shows both that knightly views “were not fully in accord with ecclesiastical precepts” and that the “aristocratic capacity to make use of all religious options” shows how “knightly ideology fused elements of current theological thinking on confession and penance in a manner best calculated to advance chivalry.” 28 In “Aler m’estuet” the Châ telain asserts his own voice through the voice of the lady: he ventriloquizes her voice in order to demonstrate a piety that outwardly devotes itself to Christ, yet inwardly maintains an intentio of earthly love.

Confessional Discourse and “Aler m’estuet” So far I have attempted to show how “Aler m’estuet” responds to the reform movement’s emphasis on crusading as a penitential activity, as seen from Innocent’s sermons and the aff ective exhortation of Bernard’s sermons for crusaders. Furthermore, the crusading voice that relies on the lyrical form and poetics of the chant or song (l.41) responds to the new theological and pastoral under- standings of the sacrament of penance in several ways. By the end of the twelfth century, theologians and canonists had been revising the doctrine of penance for nearly a century. Replacing the ancient penitential system practiced into the eleventh century, in which penalties calibrated to the crimes were administered publicly upon sinners, 29 the new penance was administered privately and secretly according to the circumstances of the individual sinner. Twelfth-century theologians such as Peter Abelard scrutinized the three parts of penance— penitentia , confessio , and satisfactio —inherited from several centuries of Christian teachings on penance. Thinkers such as Peter Lombard and Gratian at midcentury lay weight on actual declaration, rather than the Abelardian suffi ciency of intention; these debates over the sacrament of penance and confession shaped the canons of the Fourth (=Lateran) Council of 1215. 30 As a participant in the theological conversation about the outward and inward practice of penance, Abelard emphasized penitentia as the “sorrow of mind over what is has done wrong,” what was later termed repentance or contrition. 31 No forgiveness of sin could occur THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 109 without true contrition of the heart or interior penance, and the period stressed the intensity of a sincere repentance: when tears spontaneously emerge from the depths of the sinner’s heart, it is the sign of divine grace. 32 From the writings of Abelard and later theologians who taught in the cathedral school of Notre-Dame of Paris, Lateran IV legislated new ethical and intellectual demands of religious knowledge and practice upon the laity, especially the idea of complete and true confession guided by confessors’ manuals and pastoral works for the cura ani- marum (ecclesiastical care of the souls) focused on the penitents’ personal needs. As evident from the fi rst strophe of “Aler m’estuet” that refers to Christ’s passion, crusading trouv ères internalized the heightened refl ection upon penance to be seen in not only ecclesiastical literature, but also in vernacular genres of narrative and lyric during the decades before and after Lateran IV. With the Council’s transmission of codifi ed religious knowledge to the laity and legislated reform outside of monastic and university circles, the thirteenth century saw the production of vernacular confessional manuals, sermons, and collections of exempla meant for spiritual instruction, especially the proper practice of confession. In addition to Summae dedicated to the practical application of the sacrament produced at the turn of the century by Peter the Chanter and his school, vernacular penitentials adapted from Latin confessor manuals proliferated in Anglo-Norman and French, such as the late thirteenth-century Manuel des p é ch é s of William of Waddington.33 The pastoral reform movement aff ected vernacular and popular expression in courtly and moral literature, as seen from the appearance of major collections of exempla, as well as the confessional scenes with hermits that punctuate Arthurian romance.34 “Aler m’estuet” responds to the new penance and its emergent repercussions in pastoral and vernacular literature. The trouv ère participates in these debates about the practice of sincere repentance by crafting his own crusading sincerity. In response to theologians and priests’ concern for confession by voice and its relation to contrition and satisfaction, the Châ telain professes—rather than confesses—crusade in order to create an alternative penitential mode that affi rms the chivalric values of secular knights. As we will see, the sincerity of his profession depends on his ability to profess his crusade intention through the voice of his lady.

Penitential Self-Representation For our comparison of secular lyric and pastoral texts, what was more important than the legislation of mandatory confession was how the Council codifi ed what, how, and to whom all Christians should confess. 35 Alongside the emphasis on inward refl ection, vernacular pastoralia stressed confession as a dialogue between priest and sinner, one that involved the representation of sin and the translation of religious truth. For instance, Aden Kumler’s study of late thirteenth-century illuminated manuscripts intended for the spiritual instruction of elite laity shows how the “performance” of images in such manuscripts relies on a dialogic relationship between painting and viewer, consistent with contemporary paradigms for the modus confi tendi or proper conduct of confession. 36 110 MARISA GALVEZ

The trouv ères would have been expected to take confession and communion before every military engagement, yet they also formed their own courtly voice of ambivalence in response to the penitential love of God that they should express as a crusader. In his poem’s envoi , the Châ telain professes an “amour vraie enterine” (true, sincere love l. 42) that asserts Christian piety undergirded by the courtly code: his love is both “lié s et dolans” (joyful and sad, l. 43). Although his body goes on crusade, he is joyous in hopes of returning to her and at the same time sad to be apart from her. His contradictory intention claims a diff erent kind of sincere love by virtue of refusing to repent earthly cares, the “vraie amors” of perfect contrition (see “Vos qui ameis”). 37 This “amour vraie enterine” articulates the paradoxical psyche of the pious crusader as incapable of relinquishing earthly cares. Comparing the Ch â telain’s use of “heart” and “voice” to articulate intention reveals a close engagement with contemporary sermons. In the fi rst strophe, and in the Ch â telain’s departure “without a heart,” the trouv ère constructs his own crusading voice against a penitential discourse that is increasingly more explicit in mapping the process of inward contrition and external confession. The Ch â telain’s anticontritionist vox emerges more clearly when read against a thirteenth-century Old French translation of Bernard’s Sermones per annum . The example later illustrates how Bernard’s ideas were being translated into the vernacular during the fi rst decades of the thirteenth century, a period that saw a proliferation of homiletic texts in the vernacular focusing on confession. Bernard explains the connection between the compunction (remorse, regret) of the heart and oral confession using various bodily instruments and external signs such as tongue ( lingua ), words ( verba ), and oral confession (confessio oris ).

Li primiere oyvre de la foyt que per amor oyvret, est li compunccions del cuer, per cai om getet sens dotte les diaules fors, quant om raiet ler pechiez del cuer. Apres parollent de noveles langues cil qui croient en Crist, quant les envizieies parolles se departent de lor boche, et quant il ne parollent mais de la viez lengue des primiers peres, qui ch ëurent en parolles de malice, quant il escusarent lor pechiet. Et quant li primier pechiet sunt destruit per la compuncion del cuer et per la confession de la boche, si est apres mestiers qu’il ostent les serpenz, c’est qu’il estignent les enve- limeies semontes, por ceu qu’il ne rechecent. 38 [The first work of faith that one undertakes in love is the compunction of the heart, so that man throws out the devils without hesitation, when he extracts the sins of the heart. Afterward those who believe in Christ speak the new tongues, when the defiant (or reluctant) words leave from their mouths, and when they no longer speak the former language of the first fathers, falling into words of malice when they excuse their sins. And when the first sins are destroyed by the compunction of the heart and through oral confession, so afterward it is useful that they remove the serpents, that they extinguish the poisonous suggestions, so that they do not fall again.]

Here expressing the remorse of the heart through confession makes the sinner speak with “noveles langues,” new tongues as a penitent. He or she no longer speaks the malicious words or “parolles” (in the Latin, “in verba malitiae”) that attempt to excuse one’s sins, the “viez lengue” of the forefathers. The emphasis THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 111 on the tongue ensures the proper representation of penitence: Bernard makes the process of conversion more vivid by representing the tongue as metonymy for a penitential language ( parolle ) that expresses the contrite heart. As private confession always understood the exterior performance of self-disclosure, the transformed tongue implies the social and ethical implications of “the secret world of the soul.” 39 Dissimulation through language—an unrepentant tongue speaks “parolles de malice” to excuse sins—has social impact beyond the private reconciliation with God conferred through the sacrament. Further, the use of the diff erent words parolles , lengue , and boche demonstrates how confessors were concerned about the accordance of external instruments and the repentant heart: focusing on the instruments of language demonstrates that the heart must control the words that emerge from the mouth (boche), thereby resulting in a transformation of the tongue (noveles langues as unifi ed heart and language). Bodily instruments can stray because of a wayward intention. The training of the former tongue (the sinful self) into a new tongue through the dialogic practice of confession indicates eff orts to shape the performance of confession by explicitly describing the relation between the heart and the tongue or voice that materially manifests sincere contrition. A pious, repentant crusader about to depart should have a voice that arises from a contrite heart. In the Sermones per annum Bernard explains that the voice (vox ) should come from the contrition of the heart ( contritio cordis ), as oral confession should proceed from a humble, simple, and true heart (“ex voce confessionis corde humili, simplici fi delique processerit illa confessio”), and that true remorse should be manifested through tears. 40 In a public performance among peers, and in addressing a lady (“Dame, merci!” l.7), instead of refl ecting inwardly and repenting his sin, the Ch â telain instead refl ects outwardly and professes his continual service to his lady. That is, his voice of crusading intention comes from a place from without an Other rather than from within a repentant heart, which results in his decision to go to Syria without his heart. The Ch â telain constructs a crusading voice against Bernard’s contritionist view in which external signs (ideally tears, but also tongue and voice) should accord with the heart. His body contradicts his intention, which is to remain with his lady; this intention ultimately makes his heart leave his body. In addition to focusing on bodily instruments, such as the tongue to qualify and emphasize true contrition, preachers also qualify what constitutes sincerity by describing the effi cacy of signs such as tears and penitential works. For instance, in an Anglo-Norman collection of anonymous sermons from the thirteenth century, the preacher explains that sincere tears have a voice that reaches God, but vain tears do not:

Il sut larmes qui unt voiz et altres qui n’unt nule voix. Les larmes que home plore pour vanit é si cum pur perte d’aucun avoir u de aucun mal talent u par carnel amor, u par carnel haenge celes larmes n’unt nient de voiz . . . mais celes larmes sunt raisonables e unt grant voiz devant deu qui vienent del celestel. 41 [There are tears that have a voice and others that don’t have a voice. The tears that man cries out of vanity as for the pure loss of not having something or of some bad 112 MARISA GALVEZ

desire or carnal love, or by carnal hate, these tears have nothing of a voice . . . but when they come from the heavens, those tears are reasonable and have a great voice before God.]

Sinners have many instruments at their disposal with which to express their devotion; the heart and works can pray if the tongue cannot, as a late twelfth- or early thirteenth-century Lenten sermon in Walloon dialect explains:

Se la lengue ne puet tant orer, si (hore) li cuers et nos ueures soient teles qu’eles orent por nos a Deu, et ensi porons orer sens entrecessement et par lengue u par cuer et par bones oeures. 42 [If the tongue cannot pray, so then the heart and our works are such that they pray to God for us, thus we can pray incessantly by either tongue or heart and by good works.]

The practical emphasis on bodily instruments reveals a pastoral wariness of corporeal or material signs (tongue, voice, tears) constitutive of subjective expression. In striving to explain how the tongue, voice, and a penitential act can function as signs for the heart, these pastoral texts encourage the lay penitent to think of these signs as subjects that can effi caciously express the inner repentance of the sinner before God or the priest. The Ch â telain replaces the proper textual object of confession—the sincere voice or external sign—formed through the sacramental encounter, with a penitential self-presentation formed through the code of courtly lyric. Having his lady’s heart with him as he goes on crusade, he compares himself to Lancelot, who wins the double reward, or “double gueredonans,” of earthly fulfi llment and salvation.

Se le vostre ai od moi en compaignie Ad ès iere plus joians et plus preus. Del vostre cuer serai chevalereus. 32 Del gentil cuer Genievre la roï ne Fu Lancelos plus preus et plus vaillans; Pour li emprist maine dure aatine, Si en souffri paines et travas grans; 36 Mais au double li fu gueredonans Apr ès ses maus Amors loiaus et fine: En tel espoir serf et ferai tous tans Celi a cui mes cuers est atendans. 40

[If I have your heart with me in company, / I will be the most joyful and brave. / By your heart, I will be valiant. With the noble heart of Guinevere the queen, / Lancelot was the most brave and bold; / for her he endured many hard conflicts, / he suffered pains and great tortures; / but he earned the double reward / after these hardships, from loyal and true Love, / in such a hope I serve and will always serve / She to whom I have entrusted my heart.] THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 113

He endures hardship for his lady, and these chivalric, courtly acts in turn serve the Lord. The joyfulness and sadness that comprise his “amour vraie enterine” come from the hope of return and the sense that she will continue to remember him (lines 25–40), not from the hope of redemption in service of the lord as seen in Bernard’s description of the crusader who hopes to “be dissolved with Christ.” Like private confession that is actually public and social in returning the penitent back to the Christian community and engaging the sinner in the discourse of the confessional project, 43 the courtly crusade avowal purports to be a private confession to an unnamed, unattainable beloved but functions as witness and public performance of his authentic intention as courtly crusader. His credibility assumes his public’s valorization of both earthly and spiritual sacrifi ce for crusade. Both confession and courtly profession are public secrets in this sense. The sincerity of this crusading voice, his professed “amour vraie enterine” that inspires crusade, opposes the sincere repentance stressed by preachers. In explaining how such repentance should transform the voice or tongue and the relation between heart and voice, theologians and reformers were drawing from the Augustinian tradition of signs as something beyond the senses, as Augustine explains: “A sign is a thing which causes us to think of something beyond the impression the thing itself makes upon the senses.” 44 The concept of sincere tears as having a silent voice that reaches God follows Augustine’s description in Confessions 11.27–28 of the bodily voice ( vox corporis ) in contrast to silent, noncorporeal speech (vox mentis ). Indeed, as Stephen G. Nichols notes in his discussion of Augustine and troubadour lyric, the bodily voice is precognitive until it becomes silent as a mental image. In a celebrated passage of the Confessions (11.28–38), Augustine uses the example of the oral recitation of a psalm to show how as the mind turns inward and commits bodily expression to memory, the bodily voice becomes silent and points back to the image of the psalm. Nichols draws our attention to Augustine’s fundamental distrust of the “free play of vocal expression” and the conversion of oral performance to an anterior written text (referring to the model of Scripture) in Book 11. In establishing a “link between oral performance, the body and its passions” Nichols argues, Augustine shows how these things should be “perceived as transitive markers of material life” because they “give way once they have transmitted their content to memory.” 45 The conversion from “former” to “new” tongue and the voice of tears each represent priests’ eff orts to incorporate such sign theory into the practice of confession. How does the confessor collaborate with the penitent to invent a sincere repentance in language and external signs? How does the penitent recollect private memory toward the proper, silent textual object that signifi es reconciliation with God? These examples indicate rhetorical and metaphorical strategies to avoid imperfect (forced or mechanical) confession that lacks true sorrow. Moreover, the Ch â telain’s unrepentant avowal responds to what modern readers might recognize as the “literariness” of penitential self-representation invented in the sacramental encounter between priest and sinner. It is almost as if, in seeing the vagaries of the external expression of contrition or repentance that preachers try to explicate in the earlier examples, the trouv ère instead professes an authentic avowal that comes from the poetics of sincere intention valorized among his peers— fi n e 114 MARISA GALVEZ amour , in this context, a true, perfect love that balances chivalric-courtly ideals with spiritual ambitions. The awareness of this literariness is clear in Bishop Maurice of Sully’s sermon on penance (transmitted in the vernacular during the thirteenth century), where he explains how the sinner might shape the confessional narrative as a proper textual object of penitential self-representation. Sully’s detailed description of the formal structure of the sacrament demonstrates the practice of confession as producing a penitential “voice-text,” a representation of interior repentance that emerges in the dialogue between priest and sinner, the event of confession structured by the pastoral syllabus of interior contrition (la repentance del corage ), oral confession ( la confessions de la bouce ), and performance of penance ( la penitance ). 46 After describing how the sinner must refl ect inwardly and bitterly repent of his sin asprement( repentir), he stresses how oral confession must accord with interior repentance so that the penitent does not fall into the trap of an imperfect confession.

Apres la repentance del cuer, si est la confessions de la bouce par coi on se doit acorder a Deu; quar lues qu’il s’en repent en son cuer de son peci é: ne se doit il pas iluekes arester, anç ois doit tost venir a son provoire, e soi humilier e ageneillier devant lui, e crier li merci, e regeher li son peci é par sa bouce, e dire comment e quant il l’a fait. Il i a de tels qui vuelent metre essonie en lor peci é, e dire: “Sire, jo n’en puis mais, jo sui en tele compaignie que jo ne m’en puis garder ne tenir de cest mesfait faire,” e par ço veulent dauber e dorer lor peci é . Mais ce ne doit pas pro- dom faire qui se veult acorder a Deu; mais ausi com il vuelt parfi tement conquerre l’amor Deu, issi doit il parfi tement regeher son peci é. 47 [After the repentance of the heart, then it is confession by mouth by which one must reconcile himself with God; because as soon as he repents of his sin in his heart, he must not stop here, but right away he must soon go to his priest, and humble himself and kneel before him, and cry to him mercy, and confess to him his sin by his mouth and say how and when he did it. There are those who want to place an excuse on their sin, and say, “Lord, I can never stop this, I am in such company that I can not help myself nor hold back from committing this fault,” and by that they want to amend and adorn their sin. But this thing a good man must not do who wants to reconcile himself to God; but just as he wants to sincerely seek the love of God, in this way he must sincerely confess his sin.]

Inward refl ection and repentance should be quickly followed by “perfectly confessing one’s sin” ( parfitement regeher son pecié ) without “amending or adorning it” (dauber et dorer ). The sinner must relate the circumstances of his sin ( dire comment e quant il l’a fait ) and perform the ritual of acts of penance such as kneeling before the priest. In keeping with theological discussions over the sacrament, Sully concedes that to “parfi tement regeher son peci é ” presents a problem during the sacramental encounter: the external form of contrition that emerges from the dialogue between confessor and sinner is subject to interpretation by sinner and priest as a representational oral text, what Robert Grosseteste describes in a treatise dated around 1215 as a mediated “narratio” of intermediary status. 48 The priest not only possesses sacerdotal authority but interprets the outward sincerity of inward repentance—the extent to which the sin is confessed “perfectly” and the extent to which bitterness appears in the penitent’s self-presentation. THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 115

(Grosseteste describes a “suffi cient narration” as one that is “true, complete, full, plain, better and modest,” guided by appropriate questions from the priest. 49 ) Because they can help ensure that the oral confession signifi es sincere repentance, Sully stresses the performative qualities of confession concerning time and gestures. In quoting what the penitent might say when he or she misrepresents sins, and describing how the sinner might edit his sin—as a voice-text—in confession, he recognizes the problematic nature of penitential self-representation. Bishop Sully anticipates these later attitudes about personal confession as a narration of one’s sins and the inaccessibility of the penitent’s inward thoughts to the confessor and to the penitent himself. As Dallas Denery explains, “confessional self- examination removed the penitent outside of himself, the opacity of intention rendering true self-knowledge and one’s true self always just out of reach.” 50 As we saw in homiletic examples where tears are depicted as having a silent voice that reaches God, the expression of repentance should fall silent as a mental image reaching toward God and caritas (the conversion to the new tongue of reconciliation, the tears that have a voice that reaches God). Sully recognizes confession as producing a verbal text in a dialogic encounter between confessor and penitent; that is, he recognizes oral confession as a form of representation. By emphasizing the possibility of editing the voice-text (dauber et dorer ), he concedes that this literariness of confession might be in tension with Augustinian hermeneutics. In practice, one must develop techniques (e.g., the pastoral syllabus that presents a common framework for both priest and penitent) that recognize the arbitrary relation between the signifi er ( signifi ant ) and signifi ed ( signifi é ) that constitutes the confession as sign or narratio. 51 The representation and interpretation of self-disclosure between priest and penitent can be seen as an arbitrary relation between the signifi er and the signifi ed: that is, an arbitrary relation between the confession as text and inward repentance. The penitent and priest hope to discover the penitent’s inward vision through the process of recollection and refl ection according to the pastoral syllabus and prescribed interrogation. Over the course of the thirteenth century, the sincerity of the confessional voice-text as sign was qualifi ed within an increasingly prescribed system of other signifi ers of the sacrament such as the circumstances of sin, the pastoral syllabus of interrogation, ritual performance, or the priest’s words of absolution. 52 Sully, Grosseteste, and others recognized the problematic “narratio” of penitential self- representation as a voice-text that may deviate from Augustine’s idea of a voice that falls silent into memory. The insistence on correct or perfect expression ( parfi tement regeher ) of sin and repentance refl ects the work involved to invent a confessional text in the performance of confession. More precisely, these descriptions of how confession should represent the “repentance de corage” reveal a pastoral concern about the severance of a natural connection between language and interiority. Sully’s eff orts to discern a sincere confession during the event of confession indicate the syntagmatic (articulation present in time) and associative (present in mind but absent in sequence) elements of confession as sign. Just as Bernard explained that the “former tongue” might excuse sins and prevent the emergence of the “new tongue,” Sully warns the penitent against embellishing his sins and describes the process of a literary activity. Sully’s use of “dauber” and “dorer” indicates a heightened awareness of a supplemental meaning and arbitrary nature 116 MARISA GALVEZ of the confessional voice-text beyond the repentance it should denote. Returning now to further analysis of “Aler m’estuet,” we see that the Ch â telain responds to this emergent awareness of the literariness of confession—especially the dialogic voice-text that emerges in the event of a performance with an interlocutor— using courtly tropes. He establishes a diff erent kind of penitential voice outside of an increasingly codifi ed framework of penance transmitted in pastoralia.

The Penitential Mode of “Aler m’estuet”: Memory, Voice, and Song Given this pastoral awareness of penitential self-representation as literary text and discursive sign, the Ch â telain d’Arras produces a diff erent kind of penitential text. By crafting a penitential self through multiple voices and an embodied memory, he refuses a confessional text that strives toward the Augustinian silent, disembodied voice when the memory turns toward the intellect. The act of remembering ( recorder l.21) the lady is an embodied performance of song (chant ). If the goal of confession is recognition and sorrow for one’s sins leading to reconciliation with God (and return to the Christian community) then the poet avoids this confession and establishes his penitential intention through the remembrance of the lady. His unrepentant, personalized avowal valorizes and authorizes his crusade intention. He embraces the literariness of a penitential mode seen in the autonomy of external signs. We have already seen how the Ch â telain remembers ( recorder ) his lady’s voice as a direct quotation (lines 22–24). As he departs for crusade, the voice of the lady’s request that he remain true to her replaces the repentant inner voice that should emerge in the confessional dialogue, following the pastoral syllabus and rhetorical formulas of interrogation that prompt the circumstances of sin to which Sully alludes (“e dire comment e quant il l’a fait,” and say how and when he did it). The Ch â telain d’Arras constructs a voice that orders him to be loyal as a true lover, “vrais” as a “fi ns amourex” through direct quotation. This kind of professional voice of erotic self-constraint, as opposed to the confessional voice, inspires him for crusade without having to repent the courtly code of fi ne amour . The imagined dialogue with the lady allows the Ch â telain to regulate his own intention and to replace penitential self-representation with courtly servitude, as he says in his closing envoi :

Li chastelains d’Arras dit en ses chans Ne doit avoir amour vraie enterine Ki a la fois n’en est li és et dolans: Par ce se met del tout en ses comans. [The ch âtelain says in his songs that / he must not have a true sincere heart / who at the same time is not joyful and sad: / this is why he places himself entirely under (Love’s) commands.]

The memory of the lady, as an external voice that calls for his obedience, allows the poet to create and morally justify a paradoxical crusade avowal that is both “li és et dolans.” By being a servant of Love and following her THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 117 commands (“par ce se met del tout en ses comans”), the courtly code constitutes an alternative discourse to the representational framework of penitential self-representation. The trouvè re embraces his chant as a discursive one, his voice becoming the voice of the beloved: the embodiment of another by ventriloquizing her voice. Embodying her voice as a sign of his fealty to the lady, courtly song proves his self-worth and authentic intention as lover. The trouvè re crafts another kind of syllabus toward “vraie amour”: he explicitly ventriloquizes another to form his intention, the external voice of the lady sets the conditions of the heart, and moreover calls for its separation from the lover. Following the courtly topos, the act of recorder that fi gures the desire for physical union occasions the separation of his heart from body. 53 This fragmentation of the body challenges the apparent transparency and unity that should occur between heart and voice ( langue , parole , narratio ) in confession.

Ha! Diex, dame, cist mos me rent la vie. Biaus sire Diex, com il est precieus! 26 Sans cuer m’en vois el regne de Surie: Od vos remaint, c’est ses plus dous osteus. Dame vaillans, conment vivra cors seus? 29 Se le vostre ai od moi en compaignie, Ad ès iere plus joians et plus preus. Del vostre cuer serai chevalereus. 32 [Ah! God, lady, these words give me life; / Good lord God, how they are precious! / Without a heart, I go away for the kingdom of Syria: / With you it remains, its sweetest refuge. / Worthy lady, how will a body live without a heart? / If I have your heart with me in company, / I will be the most joyful and brave. / By your heart, I will be valiant.]

The common courtly topos of the separated heart occasioned by the memory of his lady’s words externalizes his inner intention: her ventriloquized voice externalizes his crusade intention. But the departure of his heart and exchange of hearts also makes his crusade intention as a sign in the Saussurean sense: one that vacillates between his and her voice. The performed voice of intention shifts between his crusade obligation and his loyalty to the lady, between the voice in the body that must depart and her ventriloquized voice that sustains him abroad. The lady’s voice, transformed from the siren’s incomprehensible, dangerous song into a voice that calls for the Good of fi ne amour , locates his heart as both in- and out- of his professing subjectivity: an irreducible, dynamic ambivalence constituted through a chant or song—such a polyphonic voice follows the sense of “chant” that according to Godefroy can mean the elevation or infl ection of the voice in both humans and animals. This lyrical form negoti- ates the physical and psychological distance between here and there, Christian and profane values, social affi rmation as a “chevalreus” crusader and longed-for union with an idealized object of desire—the latter may be an actual lady but the memory of the lady may give voice to earthly values in tension with the crusader’s penitential code. 118 MARISA GALVEZ

Further, by bringing his loved one to heart (literally: recorder )54 through her envoicement, and then removing his heart in exchange for hers, the poet-narrator defers the need to turn within himself to cleanse and purge himself of sin. He practices a memorial bodily engagement with his lady through the voice, rather than a penitential distancing from her. The lady’s voice as sign of earthly desire should fall silent when the penitent bitterly repents of carnal attachments as he embarks for crusade. In contrast, he embodies her voice in order to cause a fragmentation of his body and consciously foregrounds his earthly self as a constructed sign: a self-representation embodied through the corporeal envoicement of will and ambivalence. Not a silent voice that returns to the anterior text of Logos, this double voice sings of hopeful return.

Courtly Recorder as Notation and Witness The Ch â telain must go there: he transforms the record of his leaving his lady from a penitent act of Christian love into a chivalric boast from a penitent. By portray- ing his psychological process of departure and attachment to the courtly codes, he affi rms an amorous sincerity higher—Lancelot’s double reward—than the self- disclosure that emerges and is authorized in the sacramental encounter. By the time such lyrics were transmitted in chansonniers and inserted in romances in the thirteenth century, recorder could mean alternatively to remember something by heart, like a song, or a text to be written down. 55 Although authentic confessions were not to be written down, in exempla from the thirteenth century, confession was frequently described in relation to written texts intended to instruct the laity about the effi cacy of confession; sins were “written in the Book of Damnation” and erased ( eff acié ) upon confession. 56 In comparison to this idea of confessional notation and erasure, lyrical remembering ( recorder ), whether in performance as song or through written transmission in chansonniers or lyric romances, produces a self-authorized penitential textuality. The trouv ère produces and memorializes an intermediary text—the voice of the lady, a lyrical record that guarantees the truth-value of his crusade intention apart from the confessional encounter. His record or remembrance of her exposes the extent to which crusade intentionality does not precede language but is constituted by it. In conclusion, the Ch â telain d’Arras creates a chant that situates the heart in the relational embodied voice. This song goes against the authorized confessional voice that should translate a contrite heart, or contritio cordis . Concerned about forced or mechanical confession and stressing the sincerity of external signs of contrition, theologians and parish priests alike betray an awareness of the literariness of the confessional voice-text when judging the translation of a “contrition vraie” or “vraie amors.” 57 Confessing “parolles de malice” a sinner might amend and adorn (dauber et dorer ) sins in order to excuse them, might have a tongue in confl ict with his heart, or tears that fail to reach God. In reaction to the emergence of a confessional voice-text that emphasizes the ritual of the sacrament, and the proper qualities of Bernard’s vox confessionis that implies the sacerdotal authority of the priest who collaborates in the production of the confessional voice-text, the Ch â telain creates his own professional idiom of intentionality, his own voice as song. It is a voice fi lled with another’s voice whose embodiment and discursiveness articulates THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 119 an ambivalence about crusade. The poet inhabits the voice of his lady in order to justify his paradoxical position as a crusader-lover and to extol aristocratic values of courtliness and chivalry. Through the act of recorder and the exchange of hearts, he refuses the inner refl ection, remembrance, and distancing from earthly love necessary for the emergence of the confessional voice and a crusader’s right intention (intentio recta ). Because he remains apart from her and envoices her memory, the lady guarantees his crusading intention. The Ch â telain thus maintains the dis- sonance of an external voice even as he justifi es his right intention as an “amour vraie enterine.” Where the confessional voice’s sincerity relies on conversion, and the expunging of sin and silencing of earthly voices in order for the inner voice of repentance to emerge as a “new tongue,” the Ch â telain relies on an external voice to formulate his intention that is “li és et dolans,” a voice of contradictory intentions that nevertheless establishes his credibility as crusader.

Notes 1 . For a general overview of vernacular crusade lyric, see Michael Routledge, “Songs,” in The Oxford Illustrated History of the Crusades , ed. Jonathan Riley-Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 91–111. The Old French corpus is well represented in the anthology Les Chansons de croisade, ed. Joseph B é dier and Pierre Aubry (Paris: Champion, 1909). All translations my own unless otherwise noted. Citations are indicated by line numbers in cited editions. More specific analyses of the genre in French include D. A. Trotter, Medieval French Literature and the Crusades (1100–1300) (Geneva: Droz, 1987), which contains a useful review of the scholarship concerning non-narrative crusade poems, 172–227; and C. T. J. Dijkstra, La Chanson de croisade: Etude th é matique d’un genre hybride (Amsterdam: Schiphouwer en Brinkman, 1995). 2 . For a summary of themes, see Elizabeth Siberry, “Troubadours, Trouv è res, Minnesingers and the Crusades,” Studi medievali 29 (1988): 19–43. 3 . For “Aler m’estuet” I use the edition of Bé dier in Les Chansons de croisade, 137–39. The song is attested in five manuscripts and was most likely written before the poet’s participation in the Fifth Crusade around 1218 (see Dijkstra, La Chanson de croisade, 153–54). 4 . Bé dier, Les Chansons de croisade, 135–37. See also Jean-Charles Payen’s analysis of songs of departure in “‘Peregris’: De l’‘amor de lonh’ au congé courtois,” Cahiers de civilisation m é dié vale 17.67 (1974): 247–55; and Jean-Charles Payen, Le Motif du repentir dans la litt érature fran çaise m é dié vale des origines à 1230 (Geneva: Droz, 1967), 274–76. 5 . For an overview of crusade as a knighly enterprise imbued with secular ideals, see Jonathan Riley-Smith, “The State of Mind of Crusaders,” in The Oxford Illustrated History of the Crusades , ed. Riley-Smith, 84–90. 6 . See Caroline Smith’s discussion of the Old French corpus of crusade songs and of Bé dier’s editorial decision to cast a genre collection despite most chansonniers ’ organization by author or opening line, in Smith, Crusading in the Age of Joinville (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006), 18–22; Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades: A Short History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987), 135. 7 . For a review of the scholarship concerning non-narrative crusade poems, see Trotter, Medieval French Literature , 172–227; Dijkstra, La Chanson de croisade: Etude thé matique ; Suzanne Sch öber, Die altfranz ö sische Kreuzzugslyrik des 12. Jahrhunderts (Vienna: VWGÖ , 1976), 13–24; Dorothea Carolyn Martin, “The Crusade Lyrics: 120 MARISA GALVEZ

Old Provenç al, Old French and Middle High German, 1100–1280,” PhD dissertation, University of Michigan, 1984. 8 . Lisa Perfetti, “Crusader as Lover: The Eroticized Poetics of Crusading in Medieval France,” Speculum 88.4 (2013): 932–57. 9 . See Perfetti’s discussion of the different definitions of “crusade poem” in “Crusader as Lover,” 931–32. I tend to agree with Routledge (“Songs”) and Trotter ( Medieval French ) that there is limited usefulness in trying to establish a legitimate corpus. 10 . Perfetti, “Crusader as Lover,” 934. 11 . Riley-Smith, “State of Mind,” 84–87. 12 . Innocent III, Post miserabile , in Roger of Hoveden, Chronica magistri Rogeri de Houedene , ed. William Stubbs (London, 1868–1871), 4:70–75; translation from Jessalyn Bird, Edward Peters, and James M. Powell, eds., Crusade and Christendom: Annotated Documents in Translation from Innocent III to the Fall of Acre, 1187–1291 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 35. 13 . Innocent III, Quia Maior , in PL , 216, col. 817–21; citation from PL 216, col. 817B; translation from Bird, Crusade and Christendom , 107. 14 . Conon de B éthune, Les Chansons de Conon de Bé thune , ed. Axel Wallenskö ld (Paris: Champion, 1921), 8. 15 . Payen, Le Motif du repentir , 271. 16 . Henri de Valenciennes, Histoire de l’Empereur Henri de Constantinople , ed. Jean Longon (Paris: Geuthner, 1948), 37–44. For crusades and confession in the aristocratic context, see John W. Baldwin, Aristocratic Life in Medieval France: The Romances of Jean Renart and Gerbert de Montreuil, 1190–1230 (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), esp. 194–247; and for military religion among crusaders, see David S. Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, c. 300– 1215 (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2003). 17 . Bernard of Clairvaux, Sancti Bernardi Opera , ed. J. Leclercq, H. M. Rochais, and Ch. H. Talbot (Rome: Editiones Cistercienses, 1957–77), 3:215. 18 . See Routledge, “Songs,” 102. 19 . Elizabeth Siberry, Criticism of Crusading: 1095–1274 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), 96; E. O. Blake, “The Formation of the ‘Crusade Idea,’” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 21.1 (1970): 11–31, esp. 25–30; Ralph [Radulfus] Niger, De re militari et triplici via peregrinationis Ierosolimitane, 1187–88 , ed. Ludwig Schmugge (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1977), 92, lines 18–25. 20 . Bernard of Clairvaux, Opera 3:213–39; PL 182, col. 921–23. 21 . Translation from Louise and Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades: Idea and Reality, 1095–1274 (London: Edward Arnold, 1981), 97. Original text in Bernard of Clairvaux, “Epistolae,” PL 182, col. 652–54. Emphasis mine. 22 . Bernard of Clairvaux, Opera 3: 214–15, and PL 182, col. 922; Riley-Smith, The Crusades: Idea and Reality , 102. Emphasis mine. 23 . Perfetti, “Crusader as Lover,” 940. 24 . Bird, Crusade and Christendom , 108. 25 . Bé dier, Les Chansons de croisade, 20–22; trans. Riley-Smith, The Crusades: Idea and Reality , 89. 26 . See Jonathan Riley-Smith, “Crusading as an Act of Love,” History 65.214 (1980): 177–92. 27 . Richard W. Kaeuper, Holy Warriors: The Religious Ideology of Chivalry (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), 93. 28 . Kaeuper, Ho ly Warriors , 184. THE VOICE OF THE UNREPENTANT CRUSADER 121

29 . Baldwin discusses how the new sacrament of penance influenced courtly romance in the French context, Aristocratic Life , 223–34. The main study of penance in vernacular French is Payen, Le motif du repentir . Mary C. Mansfield discusses the practice of public penance vs. private penance in The Humiliation of Sinners: Public Penance in Thirteenth-Century France (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995). 30 . Abelard, Peter Abelard’s Ethics , ed. and trans. D. E. Luscombe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 76. For an overview of the “New Penitential Regime,” see Aden Kumler, Translating Truth: Ambitious Images and Religious Knowledge in Late Medieval France and England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2011), 46–50. Thomas N. Tentler, Sin and Confession on the Eve of the Reformation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1977), discusses confession as a form of social control. For the history of penance and confession, see Henry Charles Lea, A History of Auricular Confession and Indulgences in the Latin Church , 3 vols. (Philadelphia: Lea Bros., 1896); John T. McNeill and Helena M. Gamer, Medieval Handbooks of Penance: A Translation of the Principal “Libri Poenitentiales” and Related Documents (New York: Columbia University Press, 1938); Pierre Michaud-Quantin, Sommes de casuistique et manuels de confession au Moyen Age (XII-XVI si è cles) (Louvain: Nauwelaerts, 1962); Alexander Murray, “Confession Before 1215,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 3 (1993): 51–81; Sarah Hamilton, The Practice of Penance: 900–1050 (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2001). In this volume, the chapters by Bruno Lemesle and Babette Hellemans also offer complementary perspectives on the place of voice in the context evoked. 31 . Abelard, Peter Abelard’s Ethics , ed. Luscombe, 77. 32 . Payen, Le Motif du repentir , 10. 33 . Pierre le Chantre [Peter the Chanter], Summa de sacramentis et animae consiliis , ed. Jean-Albert Dugauquier (Louvain: Nauwealaerts, 1954–67), 2:3. See Michaud- Quantin, Sommes de casuistique et manuels de confession ; William of Waddington, Manuel des pechiez, in Le Manuel des p é ch é s: étude de litté rature religeuse anglo-normande (XIIIe si è cle ), ed. E. J. Arnould (Paris: Droz, 1940). 34 . For example, see confessional scenes with hermits in Chr étien de Troyes’s Le Conte du Graal and in La Queste del Saint Graal , moral tales such as Le Chevalier au barisel , and thirteenth-century exempla in Caesarius of Heisterbach’s Dialogus miraculorum. For the exemplum as genre, see Alexander Murray, “Confession as a Historical Source in the Thirteenth Century,” in The Writing of the Middle Ages: Essays Presented to Richard William Southern , ed. R. H. C. Davis and J. M. Wallace- Hadrill (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981), 275–322. 35 . Kumler, Translating Truth , 33; see Dallas G. Denery’s discussion of confession as a representation practice in Seeing and Being Seen in the Later Medieval World: Optics, Theology and Religious Life (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 39–74; on pastoral reform movement, 46–49. 36 . Kumler, Translating Truth , 45, takes into account the discussions within the monastic community, such Peter the Chanter and his “circle” and the inheritance of the system of tariffed penance codified by the libri paenitentiales since the sixth century. 37 . Leo Charles Yedlicka, Expressions of the Linguistic Area of Repentance and Remorse in Old French (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1945), 28–30. 38 . Alfred Schulze, ed., Predigten des H. Bernhard in Altfranzö sischer Ü bertragung aus einer Handschrift des K ö niglichen Bibliothek zu Berlin (T ü bingen, 1894), 158–59. 39 . Mansfield, The Humiliation of Sinners , 59. 122 MARISA GALVEZ

40 . Bernard of Clairvaux, Opera , 1:94. 41 . Paris, Bibliothè que nationale de France, ms. fr. 13316 (f. 1r). See Michel Zink, La Pr é dication en langue romane avant 1300 (Paris: Honor é Champion, 1976), 49–50, 445. 42 . Emmanuel Pasquet, ed., Sermons de Carê me en dialecte wallon : Texte in é dit du XIIIe si è cle. Mé moires couronné s et autres m émoires publié s par l’Acadé mie royale des sciences, des lettres et des beaux-arts de Belgique , collection in 8 ° , vol. 41 (Brussels, 1888), 30. 43 . See Mansfield’s discussion concerning public and private fora , private penance and offences against the church in The Humiliation of Sinners , 49–55. 44 . Augustine, On Christian Doctrine , trans. D. W. Robertson (Indianapolis, IN: Bobbs- Merrill, 1958), Book Two, Chapter 1, 34; Augustine, De doctrina Christiana libri quattuor , ed. William M. Green (Vienna: Hoelder-Pichler-Tempsky, 1963), 33. 45 . Stephen G. Nichols, “Voice and Writing in Augustine and in the Troubadour Lyric,” in Vox intexta: Orality and Textuality in the Middle Ages , ed. A. N. Doane and Carol Braun Pasternack (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991), 137–61 at 150. 46 . C. A. Robson, ed., Maurice of Sully and the Medieval Vernacular Homily: With the Text of Maurice’s French Homilies from a Sens Cathedral Chapter Ms . (Oxford: Blackwell, 1952), 98; French versions of Latin sermons transmitted during the thirteenth century. 47 . Robson, Maurice of Sully , 98; my emphasis. 48 . Robert Grosseteste, Deus est , edited in Siegfried Wenzel, “Robert Grosseteste’s Treatise on Confession, ‘Deus Est,’” Franciscan Studies 30 (1970): 218–93. Thomas Aquinas’s allusion to confession as narration and problems arising out of its intermediary role in Sent. , Book 4, distinctio 17, q. 3, a. 4, sol 1 in Opera omnia , 25 vols. (Parma: Petri Fiaccadori, 1852–73); see Denery’s discussion in Seeing and Being Seen , 50–51. 49 . “Sufficiens quidem erit narratio cum vera fuerit, integra, plana, nuda, amara, verecunda,” Grosseteste, Deus Est , ed. Wenzel, 247; see also Denery, Seeing and Being Seen , 66–67. 50 . Denery, Seeing and Being Seen , 65. 51 . Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics , ed. Charles Bally, Albert Sechehaye, and Albert Riedlinger, trans. Wade Baskin (New York: The Philosophical Library, 1959), 11–122; esp. 65–70. 52 . See Michel Foucault’s master narrative of the modern self emerging through the power structures of confessor and confessee (since critiqued), Histoire de la sexu- alité . I: La volont é du savoir (Paris: Gallimard, 1976), esp. 78–84; and Tentler, Sin and Confession . 53 . Simon Gaunt, Love and Death in Medieval French and Occitan Courtly Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); Helen Solterer, “Dismembering, Remembering the Ch âtelain de Coucy,” Romance Philology 46.2 (1992): 103–34. The poetic convention or topos of remembering the lady left behind is a common one in crusade love lyrics, most notably in the Ch âtelain de Couci’s “A vous, amant” ( ca. 1188), a song that, judging from its transmission in 11 chansonniers and its insertion in Jakemes’s late thirteenth-century romance, Le Castelain de Couci (ca. 1280), was very popular. 54 . Solterer, “Dismembering, Remembering the Châ telain de Coucy,” 107. 55 . See Gaunt, Love and Death , 104. 56 . Ci-nous-dit, ed. G é rard Blangez (Paris: Picard et Cie, 1979), 1:303. 57 . Yedlicka, Expressions of the Linguistic Area of Repentance and Remorse , 28.

CHAPTER 7

MARGERY’S “NOYSE” AND DISTRIBUTED EXPRESSIVITY

Julie Orlemanski

he fifteenth-century narrative chronicling the spiritual adventures of T Margery Kempe is full of the ruckus, commotion, and confusion that this laywoman’s piety generates. Whether among strangers or among friends, in English parishes or at pilgrimage sites across the sea, Margery’s devotions tend to disrupt the regular order of things. Perhaps the most dramatic of her public pieties are the fits of “plentyuows terys and boystows sobbyngys, wyth lowde cryingys and schille schrykyngys [plentiful tears and violent sobbings, with loud crying and shrill shriekings]” that seize hold of her at moments of passionate devotional intensity. 1 When Margery cries, God speaks not to her but through her, as God directly explains: “‘sumtyme I geve the gret cryis and roryngys for to makyn the pepil aferd wyth the grace that I putte in the [sometimes I give you great cries and roarings to make the people afraid at the grace that I put into you]” (I.77; 223). God compares her cries to violent storms, “‘gret reynys and scharp schowerys’” (I.77; 223). 2 These outbursts, then, are not quite Margery’s own speech acts. They are instead portrayed as something that happens to her, or comes upon her, as a “gyft of God [gift from God]” (I.61; 189). 3 In the following essay, I examine Margery’s cries under the rubric of what I call “distributed expressivity.” The portrayal of her crying shows Margery’s voice severed from deliberate action and its causes and meanings “distributed” to forces beyond her control. This dispersive structure of expression makes room for God inside Margery’s voice, but it also renders her utterances radically vulnerable to others’ interpretations. Some onlookers may feel “aferd,” as God suggests they should, but the Book of Margery Kempe describes many who react with skepticism and scorn. A friar who has come to preach in Margery’s hometown of King’s Lynn, for instance, refuses to believe that her cries come from God. Judging that his sermons have been interrupted once too often, the friar bans Margery from his preaching and calls her outbursts “noyse” (I.61). In the following pages, I trace precisely how 124 JULIE ORLEMANSKI the Book represents Margery’s “noyse”—by what process of scattering meaning and gathering it up again, by what interchange of spiritual and social energies. The Book of Margery Kempe is the only extant source for our knowledge about the activities of this extraordinary woman. 4 The Book ’s complex and collaborative process of composition (discussed later) was probably completed in 1438. It survives in a single manuscript, now British Library MS Additional 61823, which was owned and extensively annotated by the Carthusians at Mount Grace Priory in Yorkshire during the later fi fteenth and sixteenth centuries. The subject matter of the Book is the exceptional spiritual life of this middle-class laywoman, including her elaborate meditations and mystical visions, the evidence of her sanctity, and her feats and tribulations in England and abroad over a period of roughly twenty-fi ve years. The Book does not follow a single generic scheme but rather mixes elements of hagiography, devotional meditation, confession, and the visionary writings associated with medieval women like Mary of Oignies (d. 1213), Bridget of Sweden (d. 1373), and Catherine of Siena (d. 1380). This generic hybridity sometimes makes the text diffi cult to interpret. Since each of these genres bears its own conventions of style, structure, address, purpose, and authorial self-presentation, it is not always clear what norms the Book is following, nor when or why it deviates from them. In this essay I concentrate primarily on Margery’s “crying” and her conspicuous expressiveness, but this should not be understood to refl ect the text’s balance of contents. Many chapters of the Book detail contemplative visions imperceptible to others—or that would be imperceptible were they not textually described and recorded. The Book ’s numerous descriptions of Margery’s crying are among the basic building-blocks of its representation of her sanctity. The verb “cryen” is used relatively narrowly, to designate the unfailingly disruptive shouting, or “roryng,” that begins when Margery is on pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1414.5 According to the Book , the “fyrst cry that evyr sche cryed in any contemplacyon [fi rst crying that she ever cried in any contemplation]” strikes her on Mount Calvary, the site of Jesus’s crucifi xion (I.28; 104). There she falls to the ground, writhing, and she “cryed wyth a lowde voys as thow hir hert schulde a brostyn asundyr [cried with a loud voice as though her heart would have burst asunder]” (I.28; 104). Her cries cease ten years later, back in King’s Lynn, when God tells her, “I schal takyn awey fro the thy criyng that thu schalt no mor cryin so lowde ne on that maner wyse as thu hast don beforn thei thu woldist [I shall take away from you your crying, so that you will no longer cry so loudly, nor in that kind of way that you have done before, even if you wanted to]” (I.63; 194). “Crying,” then, is marked as a distinctive manifestation of her sanctity, one that depends completely on God’s will. Although Margery’s crying is often narrated alongside her weeping (“sche wept, sche sobbyd, sche cryed so lowde”; “sche wept wyth gret sobbyng and lowde crying,” etc. [I.29; 30])—and although in Modern English “weep” and “cry” are synonymous—the two actions should not be collapsed together in interpreting the Book . They are similar but distinguishable. When God withdraws Margery’s “crying” after ten years, her weeping does not cease. Moreover, “holy tears” have their own legacy in Christian tradition. 6 Margery’s vocalizations have relatively fewer precedents in hagiographical literature. 7 MARGERY’S “NOYSE” 125

Far from disputing the “boystows”—or loud and disorderly—quality of Margery’s vocalizations, the Book embraces it and in fact takes pains to distinguish her cries from normative models of communication. If medieval grammarians were to classify her cries, they would likely place them in the category of vox confusa or vox inarticulata illiterata .8 This is because the Book represents her crying as largely inrationalis and inscriptilis—spoken without reason and incapable of being written out in letters. Her cries are instances of sonus simplici vocis , the sounding of bare voice. 9 The taxonomy developed by the infl uential grammarian Priscian (fl . 500 CE) sorts utterances according to whether or not each is “copulata cum aliquo sensu mentis eius qui loquitur [joined with some meaning in the mind of the one speaking].” 10 The Book makes explicit that Margery’s cries do not denote mental ideas but are instead caused by forces that overwhelm conscious control (as I detail later). This causal, rather than intentional, structure is far from incidental; the Book shows it to be essential to the cries’ signifi cance. According to Priscian, her utterances would be inarticulata , comparable to “crepitus, mugitus et simila [rattling and moaning and sounds like these]” and therefore, “nec scribi possunt et intellegi [not able to be written or understood].” 11 Yet the Book of Margery of Kempe does indeed write Margery’s roaring into its narrative, and her cries do signify. As several essays in this volume demonstrate, the medieval utterances that stand closest to voicelessness—closest to “expressive defi ciency ” (Anna Zayaruznaya, chapter 9), to “language without voice” (Ghislain Casas, chapter 1), or to animality (Robert Stanton, chapter 2 ), for instance— such utterances generate especially sustained inquiry into processes of expression. At fi rst glance, Margery’s “noyse” seems to confi rm the simple opposition of signal and noise , basic to information theory: noise impedes the transmission of an intended message. The face-off between preaching friar and noisy mystic, mentioned earlier, looks like just such a clash: the cleric’s public intelligibility is drowned out by the cacophony of Margery’s obscure private devotion. Yet, this essay argues, privacy and solipsism are ultimately what Margery’s cries function to corrode, insofar as they invariably provoke more discourse and further explanation. In other words, the Book of Margery Kempe transforms the opposition between noise and intelligibility into a more complex dynamic, an ongoing interplay between vox confusa and vox articulata that helps to generate the Book itself. Through close literary analysis in the latter part of this essay, I show that Margery’s cries are the result of not one but two forces scattering and “distrib- uting” her expressive agency. Both a divine force and a social force are shown displacing her voice from any normative model of intentional expression. It is the interrelation of these two forces, divine and social, at the site of the speaking subject that is enacted through her cries’ literary representation. Two further aspects of the Book stand out as especially pertinent to the analysis of voice. The fi rst concerns the authorship of the Book . By its own account, the text is the result of a collaborative process of composition undertaken by Margery, who could neither read nor write, and two scribes. The “proem,” or introductory section of the Book , details the long and convoluted process that ultimately produces the written version of Margery’s story. Weird orthography, failing eye-sight, tricks of memory, public opinion, death, and inscrutable divine will all contribute to the 126 JULIE ORLEMANSKI palpable viscousness, the stickiness and slowness and messiness, of transforming Margery’s spoken account into the form of a book. As David Lawton claims, “[T]here is simply no account of textual mediation as complex and as circumstantial, almost wantonly obscure, as that provided by The Book of Margery Kempe .” 12 In medieval texts, the prefatory materials tend to act as privileged sites for defi ning the interactions of audience and text. In this case, readers who have in mind the conventional fi gure of authorship—that is, the metonymic equivalence of text and person—fi nd their assumptions disrupted. The account of the Book ’s entextualiza- tion dissolves any ready identifi cation of the authorial activity with a single individual. As much as do the accounts of Margery’s crying, the Book ’s “proem” eff ects a distribution of expressive power, shared out among (at minimum) Margery, the two scribes, God, and the contingency of circumstance. 13 A second important aspect of the Book follows closely on its portrayal of authorship—the matter of narratorial voice. Events are related in the third person. Margery is generally referred to as “this creatur,” a designation that emphasizes both her humbleness and her creation by God. Yet even as this third-person narration establishes distance between the narrative voice and its protagonist, the Book simultaneously creates the impression of fi rst-person intimacy. It narrates thoughts and feelings and experiences to which Margery alone would have access. This felt intimacy perhaps explains the persistence of “autobiography” in discussions of the Book .14 Immediacy is also attested by readers’ sense of access to Margery’s voice: “Margery’s voice rings clearly from the text”; “in her Book we hear recorded, however tidied, much of the accent of an authentic voice, the voice of a medieval English woman”; “the Book ’s overwhelming eff ect is one of immediacy, ‘as if’ a voice is talking, rather than a pen writing.” 15 Yet the use of the third person would seem to qualify the statements of this “authentic voice” as paradoxical, or as uttering a series of “unspeakable sentences.” 16 The entanglement of fi rst- and third-persons is central to the Book ’s literary distinctiveness. Even as pronominal reference separates the narrator, and therefore the reader, from Margery, the text gives rise to a remarkable sense of immediacy. In this way, the dispersal of expressivity is confronted over and over in the very grammatical tissue of the Book ’s narration. Given these two overarching features of the Book— that is, the dispersal of authorial agency and the dispersal of narratorial perspective—it is understand- able that Margery’s cries have often taken on a paradigmatic status for modern readers. When Margery is depicted in the throes of divinely inspired crying, her voice is not properly her own—and neither is it straightforwardly her own in the Book ’s writing or its narration. In its delamination of speech from the agential subject, Margery’s vocal “noyse” can be seen to fi gure, or emblema- tize, the general conditions of communication that produced the text. Moreover, because the scenes of Margery’s crying depict utterance and interpretation, they can be plausibly supposed to have a “metapragmatic” role, that is, to represent the general conditions of language use assumed by the Book . Given the scope of this essay, however, I leave aside the diffi cult questions of Margery’s cries’ total signifi cance—that is, how strongly the analogy should be drawn between Margery’s “noyse” and the Book ’s narration and authorship. Instead, I seek here to interpret the precise manner in which her cries are represented. MARGERY’S “NOYSE” 127

Accordingly I turn now to one of the many depictions of her crying. These portrayals tend to assume one of two forms in the Book . The fi rst might be called iterative , or frequentative, and it describes what is common to the numerous instances of Margery’s crying (which could occur as often as fourteen times in a single day; see I.28). Iterative accounts defi ne her crying generally and have an explanatory function. The singulative narration of her crying, by contrast, takes the shape of a scene set in a specifi c time and place. 17 It provides circumstantial details and plays an evidentiary role. In the latter part of this essay I examine a specifi c, “singulative” scene; now I address one of the more general descriptions. This passage appears in the section of the Book recounting Margery’s stay in Rome. The Book reports that other English pilgrims are refusing to tolerate Margery’s company unless she stops weeping and “spekyng of holynes [talking of holiness]” (I.40; 135). An account of her crying follows, implying that her coun- trymen’s demands are mistaken since her expressions are not under her control:

And yet sche myth not wepyn but whan God gaf it hir. And oftyntymes he gaf it so plentyuowsly that sche cowde not wythstonde it. But the mor that sche wolde a wythstonde it er put it awey, the mor strongly it wrowt in hir sowle wyth so holy thowtys that sche schulde not sesyn. Sche schulde sobbyn and cryen ful lowde al ageyn hir wyl that many man and woman also wondryd on hir therfore. [And yet she could not weep except when God gave it to her, and often he gave it so abundantly that she could not withstand it. But the more she tried to withstand it or put it aside, the more strongly it worked in her soul with such holy thoughts that she could not stop. She had to sob and cry very loudly, all against her will, so that many men, and women too, were amazed at her because of it.] (I.40; 135)

Inasmuch as the Book here and elsewhere describes Margery’s cries as coming from outside her, beyond the scope of her volition and often contrary to it, they are instances of what I am calling “distributed expressivity.” That is, they manifest forces and signify meanings beyond the control of the speaking subject. As this passage suggests, the Book is at pains to elaborate the rift that opens between Margery’s “wyl” and her voice. The auxiliary verbs modulate through a lexis of disempowerment, from incapacity (“sche cowde not”) to thwarted intention (“sche wolde a wythstonde”) to compulsion (“sche shulde [had to] sobbyn and cryen”). Even here, at the point of her voice’s interior origin, Margery’s utterance does not coincide with her self. “It” intervenes. In contrast to the passage’s verbal nuance in describing Margery’s constricting agency, the direct cause of her crying is simply “it”: “God gaf it hir,” “sche cowde not wythstonde it,” “it wrowt in hir sowle,” and so on. “Its” precise referent remains indistinct as it circulates through the clauses, decoupling the subject from her speech acts. This “distributed” quality of Margery’s speech peels apart the seemingly inevitable metonymy of speech and self. “It,” I would suggest, here becomes part of the Book ’s “topography of personal pronouns.” The phrase comes from Michel de Certeau’s infl uential essay “Mystic Speech.”18 Certeau sees in each mystical text’s “distribution of positions” a crucial aspect of its modus loquendi , or manner of speaking. Because mystical writing seeks 128 JULIE ORLEMANSKI to represent a miraculous dialogue—that is, a discourse unfolding between the incommensurate poles of divine transcendence and human particularity—it must fi nd devices and fi gures to communicate its distinctiveness. Its authority depends on conveying rhetorically its extraordinary conditions. What play of “positions,” of speakers and listeners and voices, can accommodate, or rather construct, so remarkable a colloquy? In this passage, “it” acts as a grammatical free radical, an atom of language reacting with the standard syntax of agency and expression. “It” becomes one of the numerous stylistic means by which the Book “distributes” Margery’s expressivity and produces something new. To some degree of course such dispersals of signifi cation are characteristic of all utterance: no one speaks ex nihilo, and there is always a certain waywardness in the signifi er. Discourse is dialogic. However, the Book does not simply dissolve individuality into undiff erentiated fl ows of force and signifi cance. It rather emphasizes Margery’s “wyl,” her eff orts to “withstand,” “put away,” and “cease” this vocalization. In the Book of Margery Kempe the contours of the subject appear most sharply just when they are being punctured by “noyse.” “What is renewed,” Certeau comments expansively, “is the relation between the signifi er and the constitution of the subject: do we exist to speak to the other, or be spoken by him?” 19 The Book maintains an ongoing negotiation between Margery’s speech and her being spoken , her expressivity and the sharing out that this expressivity undergoes. Were The Book of Margery Kempe exclusively concerned with the divine admixture in Margery’s “noyse,” then the discourse of mysticism might be a suffi cient analytical vocabulary. According to the mystical paradigm, the visionary is imbued with sanctity as her self-mastery drains away, and her loss of expressive agency transforms her into a mouthpiece for God. As Christ tells Margery, “‘I am in the, and thow in me. And thei that heryn the thei heryn the voys of God [I am in you, and you in me. And they that hear you, they hear the voice of God]’” (I.10; 57). Within the terms of such a framework, Margery’s “noyse” can be understood to function as a trope of apophatic rhetoric: vox inarticulata illiterata absents itself from written discourse and thereby mimes the radical exteriority of a divine signifying order. This is how Diana Uhlman understands Margery’s cries to work, as both “the purest, unmediated oral expression and proof of Kempe’s contact with divinity.” 20 Indeed, this is the eff ect that Andrew Albin discovers in Richard Rolle’s alliterative prose, as it “signals the incommensurability of language and music as a powerful token of grace.” 21 Yet the Book ’s sharing out of voice does not take place solely along a vertical axis, between the personal and the divine. It also happens horizontally, spangled and scattered among the “pepil.” The strongest evidence of other people’s constitutive roles in Margery’s “noyse” is the persistent and rather odd attention that the narrative gives to them. Mention of onlookers’ responses occurs alongside nearly every mention of her cries. For example, in the “iterative” description cited earlier, the fi nal clause before the chapter concludes directs attention to those who hear her: “Sche schulde sobbyn and cryen ful lowde al ageyn hir wyl that many man and woman also wondryd on hir therfore . [She had to sob and cry very loudly, all against her will, so that many men, and women too, were amazed at her because of it .]” 22 Even her clerical supporters, like her confessor in Rome, are said to “mystrosten MARGERY’S “NOYSE” 129

[mistrust]” her cries (I.33). In one of her visions, the twelve Apostles actually tell her to stop crying: “The apostelys comawndyd hir to cesyn and be stille [The apostles commanded her to stop, and be quiet]” (I.73; 215). Allusions to auditors’ shock, wonder, and hostility appear again and again. As Sarah Salih observes, “The Book devotes much attention to the reactions to the cryings, exaggerating rather than trying to obscure how controversial they were.” 23 It is not clear what rhetorical role these reactions are meant to play. Allowing so much “air-time” to oppositional opinions is unconventional in medieval women’s visionary literature, probably because feminine claims to authority were so tenuous. The negative responses to Margery’s behavior are not overcome in the course of her narrative: while Margery intermittently secures the support of certain individuals and communities, she faces as much scorn on pilgrimage to Danzig as she did years earlier when she traveled to Jerusalem. Late in her life, her scribe ceases to work because there is “so evel spekyng of this creatur and of hir wepyng [such evil talk about this creature and her weeping]” (I, Proem; 36). Rosalynn Voaden goes as far as to claim that all this hostile misunderstanding ultimately causes the Book ’s project to fail: Margery’s “successful construction as a visionary is fatally compromised by her simultaneous construction as an object of abuse.” 24 Voaden recognizes archetypes for Margery’s “revilement” in the Gospels, but she nonetheless thinks that the Book ’s use, or overuse, of these models undermines Margery’s status. Even Steven Justice’s important recent reappraisal of doubt in medieval Christianity cannot explain the Book ’s peculiar eff ect. Justice demonstrates the ubiquity of “skeptical self-affl iction” in medieval miracle stories, showing that such “naturalizing and demystifying accounts of belief” are actually “internal” to faith. 25 Justice’s analysis, then, points to what the Book of Margery Kempe has in common with other saints’ lives and miracula —namely, acknowledgment of rational doubt. These skeptical statements escaped previous scholarly attention in part because they were so unobtrusive, so tidily contained in the texts’ generic frames. Why does skepticism feel diff erent in the Book of Margery Kempe ? One reason has to do with point of view. The mindsets that Justice describes belong to the third- person observers of miracles, who are “conscious not only that there exists a possible defl ating explanation” but also that “they themselves tacitly depend on such defl ations to avoid the cognitive strain of trying to really believe.” 26 As for those who work miracles, Justice quotes Isaiah 24:16— secretum meum mihi , “my secret to myself”—and remarks of these holy men and women, “They may speak little or much, may disclose many things or few, but they do not disclose themselves: their antagonists and disciples are always more vividly realized characters than they are.” 27 The Book , by contrast, does not fi t this model: Margery does disclose herself, ceaselessly, and she is the Book ’s most vividly drawn fi gure. It is diffi cult to imagine how Justice’s “idler” sense of belief could provoke her cries or sustain the identity built around them. 28 The matter remains unsettled: why does the Book keep doubt alive, even as it narrates the intimate certainty with which Margery experiences the divine? At the least, one can observe that the relentless inclusion of these reactions of incomprehension, amazement, irritation, and scorn helps to generate the Book ’s 130 JULIE ORLEMANSKI irreducibly public focus, or what Sarah Beckwith calls “the social dimension which makes [Margery’s] mysticism distinctive.” 29 Indeed, it is the will to communicate that renders Margery unique: not that she has a passionate devotional life, but that she makes it so audaciously and insistently public, through tears, gesture, dress, prophecy, conversation, argument, and other technics of self- broadcast—including both “noyse” and the Book ’s writing. Even the mystical “dalyawns [dalliance]” shared between Margery and Christ, by virtue of appearing in the Book , is always posited for others . In Christ’s assurance of the pair’s mystical mutuality—“I am in the, and thow in me”—other people also appear: “And thei that heryn the thei heryn the voys of God [And they that hear you, they hear the voice of God].” 30 “They who hear you” turn out to be essential to the Book ’s “topography of personal pronouns.” In a sense, this is unsurprising: breaking open mysticism’s dyadic colloquy and making it communicable to others are the very tasks of textualization and narration. Why doesn’t Margery just, well, speak? Why the trauma of vox confusa? In many instances, of course, she does speak, articulately and with rhetorical sophistication. Margery’s visionary conversations with Christ, for instance, unfold a warm and confi dent exchange of I and thou . Rebecca Krug has shown how these dialogues draw on literary tradition but also turn tradition to the Book ’s own ends, through unique “insistence on the veracity of the conversations recorded.”31 More daringly, Margery reprimands clerics and supports her criticisms with Scripture and exempla (I.13). She fends off accusations of heresy and proves her orthodoxy (I.48). She prophesies (I.25, I.26). Yet such bold speech acts are made against enormous pressures. People, institutions, practices, and texts proscribing female public authority appear prominently in the Book and have been amply documented by historians of women in the Middle Ages. In addition to such patriarchal controls, lay spirituality was under heightened scrutiny in the early fi fteenth century. The violent suppression of Lollard unorthodoxy was ongoing during Margery’s lifetime, a fact dramatized by claims that she is “fals lollare [false Lollard]” and should be burnt (I.13). Claims to lay spiritual authority may have never before been so dangerous in England. The discharge of listeners’ aff ects in the portrayal of Margery’s crying—bursts of shock, marvel, and anger—serves to index the social force-fi eld her “noyse” crosses. The voice’s sonic vector does not pass from this laywoman’s subjective interiority to public expression without boisterous friction. Faced, then, with these coercive pressures not to speak, not to rock the boat of Christian community, one is left with the question of how the Book , and the life it describes, came to exist at all. Why write? Why make noise? I do not have a precise answer to “why,” and I am not sure the Book has one either—or at least not one that would fully ground the text’s existence, or exhaust the factors and motivations that produced it. One of the lessons implicit in the Book , however, is that expression does not depend on possessing such a comprehensive and self- authorizing answer. “Noyse” breaks out anyway, without authorization, against social expectation and against conscious motives. Crying is zero-degree voice, a minimal unit of utterance indicating only that expression must happen . It is in this sense that I said earlier that solipsism is precisely what Margery’s cries corrode. MARGERY’S “NOYSE” 131

Crying indicates that Margery cannot not speak; the cry is the factum , the deed, that is this truth’s mode of existence. Margery’s paramystical crying participates in a semiotic system in which the link between signifi er and signifi ed is causal rather than conventional. Over the course of the Book , this causal, involuntary structure of meaning is shown to have at least four consequences. First, because Margery is not responsible for her crying, her “noyse” cannot be controlled by controlling her . As the Book is at pains to show, crying operates according to a distinct causational logic, independent of her volition. Second, utterance’s detachment from Margery’s will allows for its reattachment to God’s. Together, these two consequences give her cries license and authority. Yet coincident with these eff ects, the causal structure of meaning opens up a gap between causes and reasons (when reasons are defi ned as the post hoc explanations of how something has acted as a cause). This is the third consequence: Margery’s cries demonstrate the vulnerability of utterance when it comes unstuck from its presumptively intentional origin in private experience. While Margery and her supporters claim her cries spring from God—and the entire Book can be understood as an elaborate defense of this etiology—skeptics locate the origins of her cries elsewhere. For instance, “summe seyd it was a wik- kyd spiryt vexid hir; sum seyd it was a sekenes; sum seyd sche had dronkyn to mech wyn [some said it was a wicked spirit tormented her; some said it was an illness; some said she had drunk too much wine]” (I.28; 105). The preaching friar who bans Margery from his sermons tries to makes her agree that a “cardiakyl,” or heart condition, is at the root of her cries (I.61). Margery refuses to agree to such an explanation because “hirself knew wel be revelacyon and be experiens of werkyng it was no sekenes [she herself well knew by revelation and by experience that is was no sickness]” (I.61; 190). The friar, of course, does not have direct access to Margery’s mystical “revelacyon” or “experiens,” and this points toward the fourth consequence of a causational structure of meaning. The gap between “reasons” and “causes” creates a need for more speaking . As Sarah Salih observes of the Book , “The language of the body always requires glossing.” 32 The occasion for many of Margery’s articulate and rhetorically sophisticated speech acts is the explanation of what causes her crying and other paramystical behaviors. She confesses, she defends, she submits to empirical tests, she recounts the feelings and visions to which “tokens” correspond.33 In these explanations, Margery gives access to what she knows “be revelacyon and be experiens [by revelation and by experience]”—just as does the Book as a whole. The text’s unfi nished, open-ended quality derives in part from the fact that the gap between “reasons” and “causes” is never closed in the story of Margery’s life. Public skepticism and counterinterpretation continue. It is into this gap, this space of interpretive contention, that the Book delivers itself. If there is “proof” for this general account of Margery’s crying, that proof would lie in systematic analysis of how the Book narrates her crying—in its vocabulary and syntax across numerous episodes, in the movements of perspective and attention, modulations of voice and imagery. For instance, almost all the “singulative” scenes of Margery’s crying share a common structure, or a three-part “plot,” that begins with an initial process of spiritualized perception , leading to involuntary vocalization , 132 JULIE ORLEMANSKI which in turn incites the reactions of others . This common narrative sequence traces a path from subjective interiority out into the social world. However, since a systematic survey is beyond the scope of this essay, the remainder of my analysis concentrates on just one extended scene of Margery’s crying, reading it closely and refl ecting on the meaning of its form. The scene takes place on Palm Sunday in Margery’s hometown of King’s Lynn. The Book recounts:

And it was custom in the place ther sche was dwellyng to have a sermown on that day, and than, as a worschepful doctowr of divinité was in the pulpit and seyd the sermown, he rehersyd oftyntyme thes wordys, “Owr Lord Jhesu langurith for lofe.” Tho wordys wrowt so in hir mende whan sche herd spekyn of the parfyte lof that owr Lord Jhesu Crist had to mankynde and how der he bowt us wyth hys bittyr Passyon, schedyng hys hert blood for owr redempcyon, and suff yrd so schamful a deth for owr salvacyon, than sche myth no lengar kepyn the fi r of lofe clos wythinne hir brest, but, whethyr sche wolde er not, it wolde aperyn wythowteforth swech as was closyd wythinneforth. And so sche cryed ful lowde and wept and sobbyd ful sor as thow sche schulde a brostyn for pit é and compassyon that sche had of owr Lordys passyon. And sumtyme sche was al on a watyr wyth the labowr of the crying, it was so lowde and so boistows, and mech pepil wondryd on hir and bannyd hir ful fast, supposyng that sche had feynyd hirself for to cryin. [And it was the custom in the place where she was dwelling to have a sermon on that day, and then, as a worthy doctor of divinity was in the pulpit and preached the sermon, he often repeated these words: “Our Lord Jesus languishes for love.” Those words so worked in her mind, when she heard speak of the perfect love that our Lord Jesus Christ had for mankind, and how dearly he bought us with his bitter Passion, shedding his heart’s blood for our redemption, and suffered such shameful a death for our salvation, that she could no longer keep the fire of love enclosed within her breast, but, whether she would or no, what was enclosed within would insist upon appearing outwardly. And so she cried very loudly and wept and sobbed very bitterly, as though she would have burst for pity and compassion that she had for our Lord’s Passion. And sometimes she was all of a sweat with the effort of the crying, it was so loud and violent, and many people wondered at her and cursed her roundly, supposing that she had pretended to cry.] (I.78; 225)

The fi rst part of the “crying plot,” as I suggested earlier, might be called “perception.” It describes how Margery takes in the sights and sounds of her devotional environment, imaginatively transforming them and being transformed by them in turn. Since the Book ’s “crying plot” always culminates in expression , it is striking that the episodes begin with interiorization . Margery might be looking at an artifact, like the “crucyfyx” she spots in the church in Leicester (I.46), or might come across a reminder of Christ in her everyday life, like an infant boy or a wounded animal (I.28); she might be at a pilgrimage site or watching a liturgical celebration (I.28, I.57). Typically the start of the scene is narrated from a relatively objective point of view. In this case, it recounts what Margery and other parishioners alike would see and hear, that is, a learned clergyman delivering the customary Palm Sunday sermon. The words of his theme are quoted directly: “Owr Lord Ihesu langurith for lofe,” from Song of Songs 5:8. These words not only invoke the book of the Bible so central to the “aff ective turn” in Christian MARGERY’S “NOYSE” 133 devotion. Their citation alongside mention of the “fi r of lofe [fi re of love]” refers as well to Richard Rolle’s Incendium amoris , which is elsewhere described as having been read aloud to Margery over a period of seven or eight years (I.58). This Palm Sunday scene, then, opens with Margery harmoniously embedded in both a tradition of personal aff ective devotion and a tableau of institutionally sanc- tioned worship. All of this is conventional enough. Yet the imaginative and aff ective work of Margery’s devotional perception does not remain private. The initial acts of looking and listening are part of a sequence that will propel Margery out of her own “mende” and into the public soundscape. The next sentence (the second in the passage) is the one that eff ects the transition from the priest’s authorized “wordys” to Margery’s cries, the transmutation of her experience into expression. The sentence’s main clause is clear: the words of the sermon’s biblical theme “wrowt” in Margery’s consciousness. “Wrowt,” the past tense of “werken [work],” also appears in the fi rst passage discussed earlier (“it wrowt in hir sowle”). The verb is used consistently in the Book ’s narration of Margery’s crying and always with something else (not Margery) as the verb’s grammatical subject. Its appearance indicates that the evacuation of her agency is under way; she is becoming medium and material. If the sentence’s main clause is straightforward, its two adverbial clauses open it to more intricate modulations: the words work upon her mind when she hears discussion of Christ’s Passion, and so that she might no longer keep the “fi r of lofe [fi re of love]” closed inside herself. The “whan” clause dilates the occasion for her cries. The clause’s contents are a condensed paraphrase of the priest’s sermon, which is not directly quoted as the biblical verse is. It is instead focalized, or perceived, through Margery’s experience. 34 The prose narration “overhears” through Margery’s ears (“whan sche herd spekyn of”), and the blending of the priest’s voice, Margery’s consciousness, and narratorial prose is indicated by the local use of fi rst-person plural pronouns: “ owr Lord Jhesu Crist . . . bowt us . . . owr redempcyon . . . owr salvacyon.” This instantiates a version of devotional voice with which the Book is never quite satisfi ed—an offi cial voice that speaks from the pulpit about shared salvation and, in its inclusive “we,” insinuates that the diff erence between speaking and listening is not all that important. The prose annexes the priest’s voice in a subordinate clause, conscripting it in its own syntactic movement toward “noyse.” The sentence has already established a sense of suspense by means of the open “so” clause: so in what manner, to what result, do these words work in her mind? When the “whan” clause closes, the pronouns shift from the inclusive “we” of Christian salvation to the particularized “she.” Margery is the focus of attention insofar as the scope of her eff ective power is shrinking: she “myth no lengar kepyn (could no longer keep)” the fi re of love within herself. The double use of “wolde” likewise emphasizes her loss of agency: “whethyr sche wolde er not [whether she intended/consented or not],” the fi re of love “wolde [would]” appear. At the same time that it shows her agency constricting, this second adverbial clause heightens the tension between interiority and exteriority. The energy that is keeping her shut and closed—which is identifi ed with her own will—gives way against the drive to “aperyn wythowteforth [appear 134 JULIE ORLEMANSKI outwardly],” juxtaposed an additional time with the otiose clarifi cation, “swech as was closyd wythinneforth [such as had been enclosed within].” The description fl irts with imagining this process as a thoroughly corporeal one, happening right in her chest. The phrase “fi r of lofe” gives physical specifi c- ity to the featureless “it” that decouples Margery’s “wyl (will)” from her speech acts in the passage discussed earlier. The “fi r” has already been described in tangible detail earlier in the Book , in terms derived from Richard Rolle’s Incendium amoris , as “a fl awme of fyer wondir hoot [a fl ame of fire marvelously hot]” (I.35; 125). When on Palm Sunday this fi re escapes from inside her, it changes into tears (she “wept and sobbyd”) and sweat (“sche was al on a watyr”), in a process that Jeff rey J. Cohen calls the “becoming-liquid of Margery Kempe.” 35 The somatization of emotion is a consistent feature of the scenes of Margery’s crying and one that fi ts the paradigm of preferring objective causes to subjective motives. Yet felt somatic signs like the “fi r of lofe” are insuffi cient to the expressive imperative that marks out Margery’s piety. The Palm Sunday scene takes what was an interioceptive phenomenon, drawn directly from Rolle, and shows the impossibility of keeping this sensation “wythinneforth”: “it wolde aperyn wythowteforth [it would appear outwardly].” It is not just converted into other substances, tears and sweat, but into voice , a medium that hovers between materiality and immateriality, and travels outward to draw other people into sensory participation in this “lofe [love].” The second part of the “plot” of these episodes is vocalization itself. When the opposition between “wythinneforth” and “wythowteforth” is brought to a point of maximum tension, it explodes into sound. Not only does Margery alter devotional materials psychologically, in apprehending them with exceptional imaginative liveliness, but in crying she objectively changes the situation of devotion and discourse. She shatters the organization of collective attention with her cries and in eff ect realigns the congregation’s concentration around her own voice. What is perhaps most fascinating to observe across the diff erent scenes of Margery’s crying is the relationship between this event of externalization and the narrative voice that describes it. By this point in the “plot,” narrative focalization has already been on the move. It shifts from a straightforward dramatic, or objective, perspective (when the priest’s words are directly quoted) to a point of view focalized through Margery’s perception (when she “herd spekyn”). The transformative eff ects of her consciousness increasingly come to the fore: what the reader apprehends is determined by Margery’s “gostly,” or spiritual, impressions, as well as her “bodily syght [bodily sight].” 36 Finally, the narration is right inside her, “wythinneforth,” as the pressure builds against the membrane of her self-enclosure. Her ability to exert self-control diminishes and fi nally disappears. There is something paradoxical in this moment: it is enormously intimate, but Margery’s interiority is being evacuated. For the purposes of the narrative, for the purposes of abdicating all responsibility for the cries that burst out of her, Margery becomes all exteriority, all signifi er, all sound and gesture: “And so sche cryed ful lowde and wept and sobbyd ful sor as thow sche schulde a brostyn for pit é [And so she cried very loudly and wept and sobbed very bitterly as though she would have burst for pity].” Focalization bursts out along the same trajectory as her voice. MARGERY’S “NOYSE” 135

It lands among the “pepil.” The emphasis on loudness (“it was so lowde and so boistows”) and observable phenomena like crying, sobbing, and sweat- ing suggest that the fi nal part of scene is seen, as it were, from the outside. The reader does not perceive through Margery’s experiential lens, but rather witnesses the “creatur” from the point of view of others, as spectacle. The slight degree of distance created by “as thow [as though]” is a case in point: Margery sobs as though she should burst from pity, the qualifi er implying that the narration now has access only to the impression her outbursts make and inferences based on that. It no longer knows, phenomenologically, how these gestures happen to and through her. Amy Hollywood provides a genealogy for this perspectival shifting in her account of thirteenth-century women mystics, where she shows “the tendency of the [male, clerical] hagiographer to translate mystical into paramystical phenomena, or internally apprehended into externally perceptible experiences.” 37 Over the course of the fourteenth century, Hollywood explains, demands for the concrete physical authorization of female sanctity were internalized to women’s visionary writings and became constitutive of the genre. In this way, the manipulation of point of view has signifi cance not only for the rhetoric of the Book but also for the development of genres of women’s writing. The third “plot point” in the narration of Kempe’s crying, then, is the report of others’ reactions. Margery’s cries are shown to enter a zone of interpretive volatility and erring. The trajectory of narrative focalization encourages the reader to identify with this skepticism: the point of view rushes from Margery’s “mende” to the eyes of onlookers, who “wondryd on hir and bannyd hir ful fast, supposyng that sche had feynyd hirself for to cryin [wondered at her and cursed her roundly, supposing that she had pretended to cry].” The accusation of Margery’s hypocritical feigning is especially notable. Suspicion of deception depends on the separation of fi rst-person and third-person knowledge; it posits a radical diff erence between the two. In the case of this scene, the narration has just recounted Margery’s experience so intimately that it would seem to eliminate, for the reader, all possibility of her hypocrisy or pretending. And yet the reader fi nds herself suddenly sharing a decidedly third-person point of view with “mech pepil [many people]” and perhaps questioning the relationship between the Book ’s explanation and the “real” origin of Margery’s crying. The standard conclusion to the “crying plot” opens anew the gap between explanations and causes. Nicholas Watson sees in this disjunction a special means of implicating the audience by “continually tempt[ing] readers into refusing [Margery], should their faith and trust not be supple enough.” 38 “At least in this respect,” Watson continues, “the Book is more like Piers Plowman , in its attempt to absorb the reader into its inner processes by breaking down the distinction between reading and living, than any other Middle English religious work I know.” 39 This is one of the means by which the text generates the urgency of its own interpretation. This gap, between causes and meanings, and between fi rst- and third-person experience, is where the Book itself occurs. My understanding of Margery’s cries is that their depiction rehearses in miniature one of the central rhetorical problems 136 JULIE ORLEMANSKI facing the Book : how can the vividness of a laywoman’s inner devotion, the qualities of her singular sanctity, fi nd expression? How does what is “wythinneforth” travel “wythowteforth”? The Book ’s recounting of Margery’s cries does not merely fi gure limitation and constraint. The act of recounting is also of itself an enactment of the authority to speak. Narration is here the reclamation of the subject’s aporias; it draws voicelessness back into the ambit of self-articulation. In the interaction of, on the one hand, visitations and signs from God, and, on the other hand, Margery’s recounting them for others, the Book shows Margery’s subjectivity being constituted over a range of discursive occasions, and the “creatur” herself as an agent of this process. Crying represents the Book ’s minimal necessary condition: the fact of utterance. By yoking “roryn” to explanation and “noyse” to meaning, the repeated narration of Margery’s cries makes these vocalizations into the irritating grain of sand around which the Book forms its pearl, its own text. Once voice leaps into the public sphere as a bolt of “noyse,” there is always more rhetorical work to be done.

Notes I would like to thank the following individuals for their thoughtful comments on earlier versions of this essay: Andrew Albin, Ben Ambler, Jennifer N. Brown, Holly Crocker, Lara Farina, Kevin Hall, Bruce Holsinger, Irit Kleiman, Virginia Langum, Robert Stanton, Karl Steel, and Nicholas Watson. 1 . Margery Kempe, The Book of Margery Kempe , ed. Lynn Staley, TEAMS Middle English Text Series (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute, 1996), Book I, Chapter 44: http://d.lib.rochester.edu/teams/publication/staley-the-book-of-margery- kempe. Translation cited from Barry Windeatt, The Book of Margery Kempe (London: Penguin, 1985), 144. At some points I have silently emended Windeatt’s translation. Henceforth, I cite Staley’s edition in the body of the text by book and chapter number, followed by page number(s) of Windeatt’s translation (as relevant). Thus, the in-text reference of this quotation would be (I.28; 144). 2 . For a suggestive discussion of the imagery of storms in the Book of Margery Kempe , see Jeffrey J. Cohen, Medieval Identity Machines (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003), 179–85. 3 . In light of the uncertain status of the Book ’s factual accuracy, I couch all my references to its plot in the “literary present tense.” This is appropriate insofar as I treat the Book primarily as a rhetorical text, not as a record of historical events. However, it is not without awkwardness since the Book itself is narrated in the past tense. I have elected to refer to Margery Kempe for the most part by her first name, in agreement with the rationale articulated by Sarah Salih, Versions of Virginity in Late Medieval England (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2001), 173: “The advantages of using the name ‘Kempe’ are that it avoids the risk of patronizing familiarity . . . . It is, however, Margery’s married name, and the Book makes very clear that she is something other than John Kempe’s wife. When the character is addressed by name in the book, it is usually as ‘Margery’ . . . . Referring to women writers by their Christian names is anyway more usual, and so less patronizing, in a medieval context.” 4 . Excepting, possibly, a single line recording admittance of one “Margeria Kempe” to the Trinity Guild of Lynn. See Felicity Riddy, “Kempe, Margery ( b. c. 1373, MARGERY’S “NOYSE” 137

d. in or after 1438),” in Oxford Dictionary of National Biography , online edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009): http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/ article/15337 . 5 . Windeatt observes the specificity of the term’s usage; see Windeatt, The Book , 313, note 8. I have relied on Windeatt’s chronology in giving the year of Margery’s trip to Jerusalem; see Windeatt, The Book , 29. 6 . For a useful discussion, see Rosalynn Voaden, God’s Words, Women’s Voices: The Discernment of Spirits in the Writing of Late-Medieval Women Visionaries (York: York Medieval Press, 1999), 127, note 61. 7 . However, in Chapter 62, the Book does cite several authorizing antecedents for her cries. For further discussion, see Roger Ellis, “Margery Kempe’s Scribe and the Miraculous Books,” in Langland, the Mystics, and the Medieval English Religious Tradition: Essays in Honour of S.S. Hussey , ed. Helen Phillips (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1990), 161–75. Angela of Foligno would be another possible model for Margery’s crying, though there is no evidence that Angela or her Liber de vere fidelium experientia were familiar to Margery. 8 . As discussed by Bruno Lemesle in chapter 4 of this collection. 9 . However, occasionally Margery’s cries do take the form of words, as when she cries “I dey, I dey [I die, I die]” during the Good Friday liturgy (I.57; 179). My account of grammatical vox in this paragraph is based on Martin Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture: “Grammatica” and Literary Theory, 350–1100 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 91–97. 10 . Latin and translation cited from Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture , 93–94. 11 . Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture , 93–94. 12 . David Lawton, “Voice, Authority, and Blasphemy in The Book of Margery Kempe ,” in Margery Kempe: A Book of Essays , ed. Sandra McEntire (New York: Garland, 1992), 101. 13 . For important accounts of the proem and the Book ’s authorship, see especially John C. Hirsh, “Author and Scribe in The Book of Margery Kempe ,” Medium Aevum 44 (1975): 145–50; Lynn Staley Johnson, “The Trope of the Scribe and the Question of Literary Authority in the Works of Julian of Norwich and Margery Kempe,” Speculum 66.4 (1991): 820–38; Nicholas Watson, “The Making of The Book of Margery Kempe ,” in Voices in Dialogue: Reading Women in the Middle Ages , ed. Linda Olson and Kathryn Kerby-Fulton (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005), 395–434; and Felicity Riddy, “Text and Self in The Book of Margery Kempe ,” in Voices in Dialogue , eds. Olson and Kerby-Fulton, 435–53. 14 . For discussion of autobiography, see, for instance, Janel M. Mueller, “Autobiography of a New ‘Creatur’: Female Spirituality, Selfhood, and Authorship in The Book of Margery Kempe ,” in The Female Autograph: Theory and Practice of Autobiography from the 10th to the 20th Century , ed. Domna C. Stanton (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 63–75, and Riddy, “Text and Self,” 442–47. 15 . Quotes from, respectively, Samuel Fanous, “Measuring the Pilgrim’s Progress: Internal Emphases in The Book of Margery Kempe ,” in Writing Religious Women: Female Spiritual and Textual Practices in Late Medieval England, ed. Denis Renevey and Christiania Whitehead (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000), 171; Windeatt, The Book, 10; and Watson, “The Making of The Book ,” 425. 16 . As Ann Banfield famously terms the articulations of free indirect discourse. See Ann Banfield, Unspeakable Sentences: Narration and Representation in the Language of Fiction (Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1982). 138 JULIE ORLEMANSKI

17 . For “iterative” and “singulative,” see Gé rard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method , trans. Jane E. Lewin (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), 114–17. 18 . Michel de Certeau, “Mystic Speech,” in Heterologies: Discourse on the Other , trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 93. De Certeau’s analysis treats postmedieval texts, which were written after the term “mysticism” came to name and organize a specific field of discourse in the sixteenth century. Nonetheless, de Certeau’s concepts provide useful heuristics for understanding late-medieval visionary writings. 19 . de Certeau, “Mystic Speech,” 90–91. 20 . Diana R. Uhlman, “The Comfort of Voice, the Solace of Script: Orality and Literacy in The Book of Margery Kempe ,” Studies in Philology 91.1 (1994): 63. 21 . Andrew Albin, “Listening for Canor in Richard Rolle’s Melos amoris ,” chapter 10, 179. 22 . Emphasis added. 23 . Sarah Salih, “Margery’s Bodies: Piety, Work and Penance,” in A Companion to The Book of Margery Kempe , ed. John H. Arnold and Katherine J. Lewis (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2004), 174. 24 . Voaden, God’s Words, Women’s Voices , 119. 25 . Steven Justice, “Did the Middle Ages Believe in Their Miracles?” Representations 103 (2008): 18. 26 . Justice, “Did the Middle Ages Believe in Their Miracles?” 17. 27 . Justice, “Did the Middle Ages Believe in Their Miracles?” 20. 28 . Justice, “Did the Middle Ages Believe in Their Miracles?” 17. 29 . Sarah Beckwith, “A Very Material Mysticism: The Medieval Mysticism of Margery Kempe,” in Medieval Literature: Criticism, Ideology and History , ed. David Aers (Brighton: Harvester Press, 1986), 37. 30. Emphasis added. 31 . Rebecca Krug, “Jesus’ Voice: Dialogue and Late-Medieval Readers,” in Form and Reform: Reading Across the Fifteenth Century , ed. Shannon Gayk and Kathleen Tonry (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2011), 128. 32 . Salih, “Margery’s Bodies,” 173. 33 . See, for instance, I.24, I.33, I.61, and I.83. 34 . For the narratological concept of “focalization,” see Mieke Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 2nd ed. (Toronto: Univeristy of Toronto Press, 1997), 142–61. Bal defines “focalization” as “the relations between the elements presented [in a narrative] and the vision through which they are presented” (142). 35 . Cohen, Medieval Identity Machines , 154. 36 . While the categories “bodily” and “gostly” vision do not appear in this Palm Sunday scene, they feature in many other accounts of Margery’s crying. See, for instance, I.57. 37 . Amy Hollywood, The Soul as Virgin Wife: Mechthild of Magdeburg, Marguerite Porete, and Meister Eckhart (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press: 1995), 31. 38 . Watson, “The Making of The Book ,” 424. 39 . Watson, “The Making of The Book ,” 424.

CHAPTER 8

THE VOICE OF THE POSSESSED IN LATE MEDIEVAL FRENCH THEATER

Andreea Marculescu

uring the Easter ceremony of the year 1491, a strange event took place in D a reformed Augustinian convent situated near the small town of Cambrai in northern France. Several of the nuns residing in the convent, recounts the Burgundian chronicler Jean Molinet (1435–1507), displayed extremely bizarre behavior. They rolled their eyes, jumped in the air, and spoke in tongues; one sang a song in a hideous voice. Together with the ecclesiastical authorities called upon to interpret the case, Molinet considers that such behavior is the direct result of the fact that the women were possessed by devils.

Aulcuns espritz ou ennemys diabolicques se logerent en ung monesteres de religieuses refourmee de l’ordre de Sainct Augustin. Il y avoit illec environ cent femmes bien renommees de tres devote et honeste conversation; mais plusseurs d’icelles furent successivement traveillies et vexes tant horriblement ( . . . ) [une] disoit des choses merveilleuses, incredibles et espovantable a ceulx qui l’interroguoient, detordoit les membres de son corps, sautoit en l’air, contournoit ses yeulx fort estrangement et espouvantoit ung chanson de sa tres hideuse voix. 1 [Some spirits or diabolical enemies found shelter in a reformed convent of the order of Saint Augustine. There were there about one hundred women known for their very pious and honest behavior; but several of them were then thoroughly possessed and vexed so horribly ( . . . ) [one of them] uttered fantastical, incred- ible, and horrifying things to those who interrogated her, writhing in every limb, jumping in the air, rolling her eyes very strangely and howling a song in her very hideous voice.]

From Molinet’s account we notice that the voice of the possessed, both as signifi ed (what is said ) and as signifi er (how it is said ), troubles the ordinary. It provokes a derangement of the expected order. The same voice does not resemble anything recognizable; it cannot be captured within linguistic, semantic, and 140 ANDREEA MARCULESCU gestural patterns. That is why external authorities, including Molinet himself, intervene to diagnose this type of speech. They know what provokes it: demonic presence. However, they do not understand the algorithm of this speech. They can perceive only the plethora of eff ects—ranging from bewilderment to horror—the nuns’ voices have on them. Their attitude is not unique. From Saint Augustine to twentieth-century philosophers, the very disharmonious dimension of the possessed voice blocks any interpretative eff ort to access the content of what the possessed actually utters. 2 For this reason, Michel de Certeau considered that the speech of the possessed enters a reversed hermeneutical framework.3 In an ordinary speech act, argued de Certeau, the person who speaks has a stable identity, hence, articulate, inter- pretable speech. In the case of the possessed, however, this identity is confi scated, either by demons who speak through the mouth of the possessed, or by subjects like Molinet and his companions, who “interrogate” the possessed, suspending her persona in order to have access to what the demons say. In other words, the possessed person does not have the propriety of her identity and, therefore, of her speech. She is possessed by the Other, but dispossessed of what makes her a human being: articulated speech. And yet, as we have seen in Molinet’s account, the voice of the possessed itself, in its utterance, functions on its own and produces negative aesthetic consequences, to say the least. Continuing the interpretative eff orts of other contributors to this volume to assign meaning to nonhuman voices, the main questions I ask then are: how do simple tonality, sound, loose verbal outbursts dissociated from “coherent” linguistic articulation, make meaning? Continuing explora- tions of the interdependence between rhetoric and subjectivity, I ask how we can attach meaning to what somebody utters when the split of identity defi nes, precisely, the nature of that subject, as is the case for Molinet’s possessed nuns? In sum, this chapter seeks to recuperate the hermeneutics of the speech of the possessed and to place it within a larger interpretation of the notion of “voice,” understood as something distinct from articulated, verbal speech, logos .4 I will instead analyze the voice of the possessed through the theoretical lenses off ered by what Paul Zumthor called “vocality,” that is, “the whole of the activities and values that belong to the voice as such, independently of language.”5 Viewed this way, as Adriana Cavarero points out, thanks to “vocality,” voice can no longer be considered within the realm of logocentrism, that is, as simply a sounded vehicle that translates a mental articulated discourse.6 In exchange, “vocality” allows us to interpret voice as an autographic sign, that is, a sonorous and acoustic modulation, translating a lived, preverbal experience of a particular subject—the possessed, in our case. To observe and understand how the voice of the possessed enters the realm of representation within this domain of vocality, I will focus my attention on a category of texts, French Mystery plays, that in many ways portray a scenario similar to the one that Molinet presents. In these Mystery plays, a possessed person performs her condition in front of an audience that experiences emotionally the eff ects of what the possessed utters and that recognizes certain vocabu- laries and features of demonic possession. In addition, through Mystery plays THE VOICE OF THE POSSESSED 141 we have access to a zone in which the possessed speak directly. In these plays, possessed characters narrate their own condition; we will fi nd that what they say stands in counterpoint to the rather standardized discourse on possession to which Molinet alludes, according to which the physical presence of demons in the human body provokes uncontrolled bodily and linguistic gestures. My hypothesis is that we can recognize at least two valences for this type of voice, opposing logocentrism and understood through the prism of vocality: voice as verbal outbursts that express the emotional and physical pain of the possessed, and voice that translates the stream of consciousness experienced by the possessed. Such a trajectory will allow us to approach the fi gure of the possessed as having something other than an already-given identity as a possessed subject, in the way that both medieval authors and, to a large extent, contemporary medi- evalists have argued.7 On the contrary, the in-depth study of the voice of the possessed has ethical eff ects. Indeed, it mirrors how the Other who is always spoken for—that is, the possessed—speaks to us and narrates her condition.

The Possessed in the French Mystery Plays Composed and staged throughout the fi fteenth century and the fi rst decades of the sixteenth century, Mystery plays, consisting of Passion plays (centered around the public life of Christ) and hagiographic plays (dedicated to the miraculous deeds of a particular saint), are meant to strengthen and perform a set of Christian pietistic values and practices within a collective urban environment. Their dramatic scenario is galvanized by the eff orts of sacred fi gures to defend Christian subjects whose spiritual universe is constantly threatened by non-Christian fi g- ures such as Jews or pagans, or other fi gures whose menace is harder to defi ne, such as public executioners. In comparison to the other characters that animate the Mystery plays—such as devils, saints, apostles, Jews, angels, or Jesus Christ himself—possessed characters are relatively less numerous. In Passion plays such as Eustache Mercad é ’s Passion d’Arras (ca. 1437),8 Arnoul Gr éban’s Myst è re de la Passion (1452), 9 and Jean Michel’s Myst è re de la Passion (1486)10 the model for the possessed character is based on a scene taken from the New Testament, namely, Matthew 15:21–28. In that biblical episode, Jesus, as one of the miracles that he performs before reaching Jerusalem, chases demons out of a possessed girl at the insistence of her mother, “the Canaanite woman.” Mercad é, Gr éban, and Jean Michel all develop this episode in a way that focuses on the speech the Canaanite woman’s daughter—called la fi lle desmoniacle , “the demoniac girl”— utters while being vexed by demons. The hagiographical plays are dominated by a similar category of demoniacs who, like the Canaanite woman’s daughter, are then exorcised by saintly fi gures inspired by Christ’s miracles and persona. In the Myst è re de Saint Remi , the demoniacs are Floquart and Fleurie, two young members of the royal entourage who can be truly healed only by Saint Remi. 11 In both the hagiographic plays and the Passion plays, the exorcism and implicit healing of the possessed are preceded by a fully developed, on-stage presentation of the somatic sensations and psychological traces that demons produce while vexing the possessed. By voicing what they feel, possessed characters in 142 ANDREEA MARCULESCU the Mystery plays enact a larger theological discourse on demonic possession. It is within this reproduction that their voice inserts and yields to a nonlogocentric register of vocality. At the heart of the medieval discourse on possession is the idea that demons can inhabit humans. This concept fl ows consequentially from the elaboration of a theological model in which the soul, the spirit, and the body exist in a hierarchical relation. Demons, since they are aerial creatures, cannot reside in the soul but must rather reside in the body. One of the fi rst theological authorities to provide an explanation is John Cassian (ca. 360–435), one of the Desert Fathers. In his series of dialogues between masters and their disciples, titled Conferences , 12 Cassian states that demonic spirits and the soul are constituted of the same substance, that is, of subtle air. They cannot be united because that is the attribute of God alone.13 Therefore demons, who are essentially spirits, cannot reside in the soul of the possessed, but only in the fl esh, which is made of a diff erent material, namely, dense and solid matter (VII, 13.1).14 Later theologians elaborated on Cassian’s idea about the localization of demons in the human body. The Benedictine Rupert of Deutz (d. 1129) pointed out in his treatise De Trinitate et operibus eius (On the Trinity and its Works ) that unclean spirits can in fact be physically present inside human beings, even if they cannot technically enter the soul substantially the way that the Holy Ghost does.15 Thomas Aquinas maintained a similar opinion as far as the corporeal presence of demons was concerned: “As for the soul, the devil cannot inhabit a human being substantially . . . The Holy Spirit, indeed, can act from inside, but the devil suggests from outside, either to the senses or to the imagination . . . As for the body, the devil can inhabit a human being substantially, as in possessed people.” 16 Demons, unlike the Holy Spirit, do not have the power to reside in the soul in a material way. The body, however, is under demons’ siege. Toward the end of the Middle Ages, the witch becomes the agent who allegedly orchestrates possession. The Hammer of Witches , the witchcraft treatise composed in 1486 by the Dominican Heinrich Kramer (b. 1430), holds witches responsible for the fact that demons inhabit humans substantially. “It is nonetheless set down to ensure that no one will think it impossible that with God’s permission humans are in fact inhabited by demons in substance at the insistence of sorceresses.” 17 Witches are also involved when demons attack the soul. Infl uenced by Aquinas, Kramer underscores that demons cannot enter the soul per se but instead act upon it from the exterior and exert their infl uence on the internal faculties attached to various bodily organs. To explain the mechanics of demonic possession with witches as main agents, Kramer appeals to a Galenic vocabulary. In Galen’s understanding, the brain has a tripartite structure: the back part shelters memory, the middle part is the seat of reason, and the front is where imagination lives. In The Hammer of Witches , Kramer modifi es this schema slightly. Thus we learn that demons can bring pictures formed in the memory section at the back of the brain, forward to the middle area that in The Hammer of Witches is the abode of imagination, and then fi nally, move them to the front of the head, which for Kramer is the seat of perception. 18 Just as is the case for bodily possession, that is, when demons inhabit the human body in substance, witches are to be blamed as well when demons act upon the internal faculties. THE VOICE OF THE POSSESSED 143

From this brief outline of medieval theologians’ opinions on possession we fi nd out that the human body is ontologically the only place that can sustain demonic presence. Yet medieval thinkers are even more specifi c when it comes to localizing demons within the human body. As Nancy Caciola points out in Discerning Spirits , most theologians considered that demons entered and exited humans either through open sensory organs or through the body’s extremi- ties. The possessed in the Mystery plays perform and narrate similar symptoms. The fi l l e d e s m o n i a c l e in Gr é ban’s Mystè re de la Passion confesses that devils have invaded her brain: “Plus de cent deables sont fl ouris // au sanglant fons de ma cervelle” (More than one hundred devils are blooming at the bloody bottom of my brain [vv. 12231–32]). In Jean Michel’s Passion , the same character states that the devil is in her throat, hence, the bitterness that she feels in that part of herself: “J’en ay la gorge toute amere” (My throat is all bitter from it [v. 8170]). Fleurie, in the Mystè re de Saint Remi , feels the diabolic presence in various parts of her body such as the on top of her head (“il est sur ma teste” [v. 6574]) and in her entrails: “J’ay ung asne cornu ou ventre, // Le diable y soit quant il entre” (I have a horned donkey inside my belly, The devil be there when he comes [vv. 5035–36]). Demons, although invisible, can nevertheless be felt by the possessed. In the Mystè re de Saint Remi , Fleurie expressly describes seeing the demon: “Veez le ci, je y vois, il m’emporte” (Look at him here, I see him there, he transports me [v. 5105]). The devil also acts at a somatic level aff ecting humans’ physical and locomotive capacities. The same Fleurie proclaims her incapacity to move, saying, “Hahay! Que j’ay est é en cage!” (‘Hahay! I was in a cage!’ [v. 5010]), explaining that the devil is the agent that provokes this state of aff airs: “Le deable me tient par la gorge” (The devil grabs me by the throat [v. 5015]). The fi l l e d e s m o n i a c l e of Michel’s Passion speaks entirely similar words: “Le dyable me tient a la gorge” (The devil holds me by the throat [v. 8235]). Moreover, the possessed in Mystery plays witness witchcraft scenes, as Heinrich Kramer would have suspected.19 Jean Michel’s fi l l e d e s m o n i a c l e declares that she sees devils and witches interacting together: “Je voy tous les dyables en l’air, // Plus espé s que troupeau de mouches, // Qui vont faire leurs escarmouches // Avecques ung tas de sorcieres” (I see all the devils in the air, thicker than a herd of fl ies, they [the devils] go to do their squabbles with a bunch of witches [vv. 8043–46]). In the Myst è re de Saint Remi , Floquart plainly states that “Ainsi je chevauche le ramon” (So I ride a broomstick [v. 1789]), which is another way of saying that he took part in sorcery.20 The representation of the possessed in Mystery plays does not diff er conceptu- ally from that of theology. Demons can enter the humans through open orifi ces such as the ear and can reside only in the body mass. Hence the language of the possessed has a citational character consisting of dialogical overtones: the demons are in these characters’ bodies exactly where theologians prescribed them to be. At the same time, the consequences of this heteroglossic endeavor lead to the production of an “excess-speech” on the part of the possessed. In the remaining part of my chapter, I will analyze the vocal overtones of this “other” speech through which we have direct access to a deeper dimension of the identity of the possessed. 144 ANDREEA MARCULESCU

Verbal Outbursts In the Life of Christina the Astonishing , Thomas of Cantimpré (1201–1272) notes that during her trances the divinely possessed woman produces a song characterized by a “wondrous harmony that no mortal man could understand, nor could it be imitated by any artifi cial instrument.”21 If Christina’s voice produces an uncanny speech subsumed to the regime of sheer harmony, the possessed characters of Mystery plays act in opposition to such endeavor. In the Myst è re de Saint Remi, Fleurie’s father refers to his daughter’s singing as a “piteuse estampie” (a pitiful ruckus [v. 5438]). He points out that his daughter is no longer able to sing songs that once had angelic attributes and now, under the demonic infl uence, her songs are the equivalent of the devil’s signature: “le chant que tant souloie amer, // Qui tant me sambloit angelicque // Et or m’est diabolicque“ (the song which I used to love, which seemed to me so angelic, seems to me now demonic [vv. 5440–42]). This production of unarticulated speech becomes a means of undoing the human subject, of taking her outside the sphere of the “civilizing process,” to quote Norbert Elias.22 Along these lines, in Jean Michel’s version of the Myst è re de la Passion , the mother of the “Fille de la Chananee” underlines this very precultural dimension of possession: “Ma fi lle que j’ay veu tant gente, // tant cour- toyse, tant bien apprise //et maintenant elle est surprise // de la demonyaclerie” (My daughter whom I saw be so nice, so well-mannered, so well-behaved, and now she is seized by demonic possession [vv. 8187–90]). Language is the very fi rst stage in which the emergence into a precultural state is visible. Learned linguistic patterns are replaced by a dialect that fragments and mimics linguistic norms. This half language can be interpreted as having an aphasic character in which the possessed utter a type a speech that uses individually recognizable linguistic units, but these units fail to belong to a combinatory mechanism that can be decoded. 23 For instance, Gr é ban’s fi l l e starts her discourse with an assertion that lacks a concrete referent or a context through which it can be interpreted, shouting: “Haro! Les pastes sont en l’aistre . . . // Gardez le chat pour les souris” (Help! The pies are in the oven . . . Keep the cat for the mice [vv. 12229–30]). This refusal to provide a clear-cut referent voids the discourse of the possessed of “meaning” in the logocentric sense. Instead, those who witness the behavior of the possessed, such as the members of their entourage, understand the voice of the possessed only as empty verbal occurrence, as “estampie” (ruckus), as verbal outbursts. As Alfons, Floquart’s cousin in the Myst è re de Saint Remi , puts it, the possessed articulates nothing except a series of cries: “Il brait, il hue et il se tempeste” (He brays, he howls, he storms [v. 1750]). As Julie Orlemanski discusses in the preceding chapter of this collection, we sense a communicative impulse in this inarticulate network of utterances both in the case of a female mystic like Margery and in the possessed. A close look at their formal aspect shows that the “noise” these possessed characters produce contains several recurring linguistic patterns, such as interjections, or repetitions of same word or cluster of words. “Haro,” with the version “hara,” is one of these markers that acquires several valances and help the possessed express her condition overtly. For instance, Fleurie uses the interjection “haro” to communicate THE VOICE OF THE POSSESSED 145 the painful sensations she experiences because the devil is present within her body. “Laissiez moy coucher, haro! // Le cuer me part, le col me quasse!” (Leave me lay down, help! My heart splits, my neck breaks [vv. 6326–27]). Additionally, the possessed makes use of linguistic patterns that consist of repetition of a word that, in isolation, has a clear meaning. Through repetition, however, the word losses its initial signifi ed and enters into another regime of signifi cation. Fleurie conveys her feelings of acute fear in connection to the presence of the demon through this very type of semantic repetition. “Regardez, il est sur ma teste. // Fuiez, trestous fuiez, fuiez, // La, la, la, la, huiez, huiez” (Look, he is on my head. Go away, all of you go away, go away, There, there, there, there, yell, yell [vv. 6574–76]). I would suggest that this seemingly precultural language of the possessed consisting of interjections, repetitions, deictics—“la,” “ci”—produces at least three eff ects that situate the possessed within a regime of interpretability. These sounds therefore signal how the possessed enunciates her painful encounter with demons at a sensory level. Indeed, the possessed uses these markers to fl esh out the emergence of demons and to show the extreme degree of visibility and immediacy that the latter produce. For instance, Floquart in the Myst è re de Saint Remi employs a series of repetitions to convey the sensorial perception of demons: “Je sens le deable atout ses cornes, //Il vient, il vient, il vient, il vient!” (I feel the devil with all its horns, He comes, he comes, he comes, he comes! [vv. 2157–58]). In the same play Fleurie uses deictics to acknowledge the imminent bodily proximity of the devil: “Hola, v é le ci” (Hey, here he is [v. 5430]). The fi l l e d e s m o n i a c l e in Jean Michel’s Passion uses the interjection “haro!” to invoke demons directly and, additionally, to name the parts of her body where she feels their presence: “Le dyable me tient par le coul. // Haro, Satan et Lucifer, haro, tous les dyables d’enfer” (The devil grabs me by the neck, Haro, Satan and Lucifer, haro, all the devils of hell [vv. 8069–71]). For the possessed, demons come into being for a reason other than because theologians envisioned their existence. In his Phenomenology of Perception , French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty notes that objects do not have autonomy as such; they exist in the world only so long as they overcome themselves and trigger in the human subject certain thoughts or particular wills. 24 Similarly, demons are precisely this sort of object contingent upon human perception. They are ontologically possible provided that humans like Fleurie or la fi lle desmoniacle can feel them somatically, at the level of their senses. Once demons short-circuit the human body they produce intense physical and emotional traces. And here we notice the second eff ect produced by the nonlogocentric language the possessed employ. Vocal markers such as “Haro!” or repetitions of adverbs such as “tot” that make the language of the possessed “unintelligible” can be understood as a barometer to express physical pain and emotional distress. From Elaine Scarry’s seminal study The Body in Pain , we know that pain belongs to the realm of language’s destruction, of the unrepresentable: “eventually the pain so deepens that the coherence of complaint is displaced by the sounds anterior to learned language.”25 In case of the possessed, prelinguistic vocal outbursts map out the mechanics of the pain the possessed person experiences during her vexation by demons. Indeed, interjections and repetitions allow 146 ANDREEA MARCULESCU these possessed characters to localize pain in various portions of their body—the head, the throat, the mouth, the heart. Fleurie uses the interjection “haro” to express how the devil’s presence within her digestive tract provokes so much pain that she cannot carry out basic physiological functions like eating and drinking: “Le deable y soit quant il entre // Je ne puis boire ne mengier. // Haro! Haro!” (The devil be there when he enters, I can neither drink or eat. Help! Help! [vv. 5036–38]). Elsewhere in the play, she acknowledges that the devil has overtaken her body entirely. As expected, prelinguistic markers convey the sense of convulsive pain: “Haro, haro, las a la mort // Deable m’assault, deable me mort” (Help, help, I’m deathly tired, the devil assails me, the devil kills me [v. 6708–09]). Paradoxically, this exacerbated sensation of pain, which can be envisaged as an act of torture from the part of demons, does not block self-awareness. Elaine Scarry notes that during traumatic events such as torture, the human subject loses the grip of her consciousness and of her sensations: “a (sixth) element of physical pain is its obliterations of the contents of consciousness. Pain annihilates not only the objects of complex thought and emotion but also the objects of the most elemental acts of perception.” 26 Yet these possessed stage characters are capable of narrativizing their traumatic experiences. Linguistic markers outline clearly this hypersensitivity toward pain. From the aforementioned example, we notice that the markers preface a detailed understanding of the physical pain mapping both the agent of pain, that is, the devil, and the symptoms that he leaves on the body of the possessed. In other words, in the act of demonic torture, the enunci- ating “I” of the possessed becomes a transmitter for the sensorial and disruptive motions that the devil’s activity triggers inside the body of the demoniac. We thus notice a doubling of the persona of the possessed into an “I” that suff ers intensely from the pain of possession, and another refl exive “I” that, through enunciation, narrativizes and diagnoses that pain. The same Fleurie, during possession, captures how her body detaches from the speaking “I” and transforms itself into an object, that is, a whistle, that the demon will eventually destroy:

Le grant deable me voeult mengier, Vez le ci, je y vois, il m’emporte Helas, helas, clo és la porte! Il fait deux sifflez de ma gorge Estaingnez le feu de la forge, Le deable y soit, je seray arse, Passe, garç on, fui de ci, garsse! Le cuer me fault, vez me la morte! [The great devil wants to eat me; look at him here, I see it there, he transports me. Alas, alas, nail the door shut! He makes two whistles from my throat. Put out the fire in the forge; the devil be there, I will be burned. Go on, boy, flee from her, wench! My heart fails me, you see me, Death!] (vv. 5104–11)

The same “I” that narrates the physical eff ects produced by demons can equally convey the psychological distress resulting from a demon’s presence. In this sense, a possessed character like Fleurie employs a plethora of words designating negative THE VOICE OF THE POSSESSED 147 emotional states such as distress, sadness, anxiety, and pain: “Car destresse // Et tristesse // Sont en moy et telle angoisse” (Because distress and sadness are in me and such suff ering [vv. 6312–14]); or elsewhere, “Je voy douleur la plus piteuse” (I feel the most piteous pain [v. 6333]). This amalgamation of quasi-conscious refl ection and aggravated sensation has been defi ned by contemporary theorists such as Brian Massumi as the fi eld of aff ect. 27 Aff ect is categorized as an impingement on the human body by something exterior—either an object or a particular state of aff airs. Massumi points out that we cannot label this as emotion, which is a “qualifi ed intensity, consensual point of insertion of intensity into semantically and semiotically formed progressions, into narrativizable action-reaction circuits.” 28 Instead, aff ect is precisely a suspension of “action-reaction” circuits that escapes narration but, in exchange, produce something caught between passivity and activity, between body and mind, between action and reaction, between body depth and epidermis.29 Even if aff ect is beyond narration it does not mean that it cannot be captured and analyzed. The territory where aff ect becomes perceivable is within one’s own constant, yet nonconscious capacity for self-perception. Or, as Massumi puts it, “it is the perception of this self-perception , its naming and making conscious, that allows aff ect to be eff ectively analyzed.”30 Possessed characters like Fleurie exhibit precisely this self-perceptive dimension in which the experience of possession becomes a suspended and extremely intense moment that can enter a regime of both extreme sensitivity and agonistic pain in which the self is almost eff aced. The nonlinguistic contours of the language that the possessed uses (characterized by repetitions, interjections, words without referent) preface this aff ective state, in Massumi’s understanding. It is in this intensity of the now that the possessed aff ectively , that is, self-perceptively , convey what is happening within the depth of their bodies when they are assailed by demons. In the theatrical monologues that the possessed deliver, it is as if a hidden camera displays the interior of a possessed body and the possessed, while embodying the whole event, captures the climax and the whole array of sensations provoked by the demoniac presence.

Solipsistic Tones Another facet of the nonlogocentric yet signifying voice of the possessed consists in the production of scenarios in which the possessed subject engages with an absent audience. In Jean Michel’s Myst è re , la fi lle desmoniacle directly addresses an imaginary “you” (“vous”): “Je vous diray bien autre chose” (I am going to tell you yet another thing [v. 8155; emphasis added]). Elsewhere in the text, the same imagined audience is called upon to witness rhetorical questions infused with allusions to scholastic philosophy: “Mais je demande ung quolibet // que tout le monde ne scet pas” (But I am asking a quodlibet that everyone does not know [vv. 8052–53]). It is precisely this constant eff ort by the possessed to engage with a projected alterity that makes his or her discourse into unrecognizable speech for those around them. The speech of the possessed person contains a signifi er, a signifi ed, and an addressee—all elements that make a linguistic act possible. Yet all these structures of address are perceived by the others who surround the speaker 148 ANDREEA MARCULESCU as babbling, as nonsensical nonspeech, and, consequently, as indecipherable. The reaction of Fleurie’s father to his daughter’s “babbling” is signifi cant: “Belle fi lle, parlez a moy” (Sweet girl, talk to me [v. 5157]). Although vocal sounds are present, the possessed fails to enter a mode of discernable signifi cation; he or she is an in-fans , one who cannot speak, as alluded to by Fleurie’s father. The possessed approaches a recognizable structure of address asymptotically, but his/ her linguistic eff orts are never understood as such. Indeed, the modes of address the possessed employ all fall outside the fl ux of an expected linguistic schema consisting of enunciations that elicit a type of answer. That is why the discourse of the possessed has the appearance of a suspended dialogue with an imaginary audience and gives the impression of babbling, and of being a solipsistic intervention that alters the fl ux of “normal” conversation. Mladen Dolar points out that babbling is, indeed, a type of communication encompassing a presymbolic, linguistically in-articulated use of the voice; this unconventional linguistic mode, however, calls for attention. 31 According to Dolar, the fi gure that embodies this linguistic mechanism best is the baby. Thus, through its voice, the baby wants to lure the interlocutor into its web of desires. 32 Similarly, the possessed, also, aims to capture an absent interlocutor within her inner universe dominated by fear, pain, and suff ering. Indeed, a closer look at the modes of address that the possessed employs shows that her “babbling” has a strong communicative impetus. By invoking the addressee, “vous” or “tu,” the possessed wants to incorporate this “you” into her inner life. Additionally, the possessed manifests the desire to act upon the volition of this “you” that constitutes his or her audience. Hence the constant use of the imperative mood that the possessed employs. For instance, Fleurie invites her imaginary audience to take part in a dance “Venez dancer, venez” (Come dance, come [v. 5150]). Sometimes the possessed employs the imperative register to signal the presence of the devil and ask for help from the same absent and abstract interlocutor. Such is the case with Floquart in the Myst è re de Saint Remi , where the character, suffering from the demonic invasion within his body, implores a nonexistent vous to kill the demon: “Diable me tient, diable m’ara. // Tuez, tuez!” (The devil has me, the devil will have me. Kill, kill! [vv. 2165–66]). Sometimes the implied “you” (“vous” or “tu”) has a more specifi c referent, that is, the devil. Indeed, a possessed character like Fleurie interacts directly with the devil, responding with signs of disgust: “Taisiez vous, faulse villenaille” (Be silent, you two-faced bunch of scoundrels [v. 5564]). Elsewhere, Floquart feels the devil’s presence but is unable to localize it. His interrogation is followed by a direct address using the pronoun you (tu), as a direct sign of recognition: “Qui est la? Qui c’est? Ha, tu sornes!” (Who is there? Who is it? Hah! You are making fun! [v. 2156]). Once the possessed has addressed his/her projected audience, they commence mapping out narratives that encompass disconnected events, notions, and persons with no real referents. Such narratives are devoid of a clear sense of temporality and allude to snapshots of lived reality. This aspect is probably most evident in those scenes where possession and witchcraft are closely connected to each other. Earlier in this chapter, I alluded to how witchcraft treatises such as The Hammer of Witches linked possession and witchcraft and explained how the demon’s physical THE VOICE OF THE POSSESSED 149 presence inside humans alters the faculties. The fi lle chananee (the fi lle desmoniacle ) of Gré ban’s Passion declares that during her possession by the devil Fergalus she could see distinctly how the Vaudois (a common fi fteenth-century denomination for witches) 33 lured her into their activities: “J’os bien les Vaudois qui me huchent // pour chevaucher ung vieil ballet” (I clearly hear the Vaudois who are calling me to ride an old broomstick [vv. 12243–44]). The declarations of the possessed people of witnessing, passively or actively, witchcraft scenarios are an integral part of a series of speeches consisting of prov- erbs intermingled with sentences that seem to be disconnected from the play’s narrative text, but whose referents are in quotidian existence. For instance, in Gré ban’s text, before pointing out her possible links to the world of witchcraft, the possessed launches into an enumeration of potential scenarios, some of which belong to daily life events, activities, scenes: “Ha! larron, garde la cordelle, // Ta gorge sent tout le happart . . . // Ce sont fl orins: a part, a part: // J’ay veu musser le pot en terre” (Hey! Scoundrel, keep the rope, your neck fi ts the hook . . . The coins: hide them, hide them: I saw the pot buried in the ground [vv. 12233–36; ellipses in published edition]). La Fille in Jean Michel’s Passion displays a similar tendency during her possession to register the fl ow of everyday events drawn from a social context. She mentions a case of justice consisting of criminals whose bodies are hanging in the air. “Je voy tous les dyables en l’air; . . . et ont pleines leurs gybecieres // de gros tysons et de charbons // pour faire rostir les jambons // a ung tas de larrons pendus” (I see all the devils in the air . . . and they have their hunting satchels, fi lled up with embers and coals, to cook the legs of a bunch of hanged thieves [vv. 8043; 8047–50]). Scenes such the one evoked here must have been quite common for the type of punishments infl icted by the trial courts at the end of the fi fteenth century in France. 34 In these scenes we notice that the possessed produces a counterdiscourse consisting of a patchwork of scenes and languages, apparently disconnected, that go back to a common referent, namely, ordinary practices. If we adopt the argument developed in Malleus malefi carum , the lack of rationality that characterizes the speech of the possessed is the direct result of devils’ and witches’ intervention. In other words, through witchcraft techniques, everyday reality is perturbed and the possessed cannot make a clear distinction between things that happen as such and those that take place only in imagination. Nevertheless, the possessed fi gure’s apparently nonsensical, linguistic delirium refers to a rou- tinized series of actions, relations, and contingencies that give structure to the quotidian. Thus, during the process of possession, the structures of quotidian existence are surreptitiously broken and, at the same time, reconveyed by the possessed into snapshots of reality and fragmented visions such as the hanged thieves, the pot with the coins, and so on. These sorts of impressions, sensations, and daydreams have been labeled “ordinary aff ects” by anthropologists such as Kathleen Stewart. 35 For Stewart, ordinary aff ects are the equivalent of an erratic circuit that fl ows and animates the body. Despite their lack of material contour, they acquire texture once they move through bodies and the daily life and social experiences surrounding a particular subject. Through the prism of the notion of ordinary aff ects, the seemingly solipsistic voice of the possessed 150 ANDREEA MARCULESCU displays a form of coherence that surely refuses any criteria of “logocentric” rationality to be analyzed. Such discourse develops its own internal logic nour- ished from scenes of ordinary experiences and events whose structure is layered down in an erratic enumeration and description. The demonic presence is precisely this circuit that coagulates the interior life of the possessed consisting of various emotional trajectories, fragments of thought, and snapshots of visions. This way possession enters the regime of the banal, of the ordinary. Demons cease being impalpable, foreign creatures that intermingle and aff ect the human fl ux of thought formation negatively. Instead, they galvanize and bring to the surface certain residual images and feelings buried within the unconscious of the possessed.

Conclusions I began this chapter by pointing out that the voice of the possessed has traditionally been circumscribed within the realm of a discourse that refuses interpretation. Thus the content of the speech that these subjects produce, including the possessed, is qualifi ed from the very beginning as an ontological impossibility. In this logic, the possessed does not have the propriety of his or her identity. Consequently, his or her speech is a linguistic monstrosity; it can be heard but not understood. In the Western imaginary, this eff acement of voice rendered the late-medieval fi gure of the possessed a marginal and, in the longue dur ée , a pathological, subject. To grasp this longue dur ée it is suffi cient to think of the medicalization of possession in the work of the nineteenth-century Jean-Martin Charcot, who associated demonic possession with hysteria. In this chapter, I have attempted to think of a more ethical and inclusive way of interpreting what possessed characters utter. In doing so, I reconsider the notion of voice in opposition to that of speech. The former is not subordinated to the latter. Instead of being a simple vocal accessory through which what is said becomes articulated, I have considered the saying, the “vocality” of the voice, to quote Paul Zumthor again, as producing a meaningful excess. Indeed, the nonlogocentric trajectory that the discourse of the possessed follows consists of series of interjections, words without referent, consistent repetition and deictics, and complex solipsistic scenarios. All these nonconventional linguistic items and structures allow us to conceptualize the fi gure of the possessed in its ontological and phenomenological complexities. Mystery plays are representational sites that encompass and render normative a hegemonic discourse of demonic possession that circulated within theological circles at the end of the Middle Ages. They off er conceptual models through which to understand how the possessed subject was produced and understood by a broader public. At the same time, Mystery plays allow room for the insertion of the persona of the possessed within other modes of production that do not follow articulated linguistic conventions. Through “voice,” understood as a prelinguistic, “vocal” use of language, we have access to a depathologized image of the possessed, one drawn from unconscious images based on daily life reality, modes of expressing sensation of pain, desires, anxieties, and fear. THE VOICE OF THE POSSESSED 151

Notes This chapter was assisted by a New Faculty Fellowship award from the American Council of Learned Societies, funded by the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. 1 . Jean Molinet, “La tresdure et doloreuse oppression que firent aulcuns mauvais espritz aux religieuses du Quesnoy le Conte,” in Corpus documentorum inquisitionis haereticae pravitatis Neerlandicae , ed. Paul Fr é dé ricq (Ghent, 1889), 1:483. All translations are my own unless otherwise indicated. 2 . Augustine, On Genesis , trans. Edmund Hill, ed. John E. Rotelle, Augustinian Heritage Institute (Brooklyn, NY: New City Press, 2002). 3 . Michel de Certeau, L’Ecriture de l’histoire (Paris: Gallimard, 1975), 284–315. 4 . Adriana Cavarero, For More than One Voice: Toward a Philosophy of Vocal Expression , trans. Paul A. Kottan (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005), 9; Mladen Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006). 5 . Paul Zumthor, Oral Poetry: An Introduction , trans. Kathryn Murphy-Judy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990), 44. 6 . Cavarero, For More than One Voice , 13. 7 . Barbara Newman, “What Did It Mean To Say ‘I Saw’? The Clash between Theory and Practice in Medieval Visionary Culture,” Speculum 80.1 (2005): 1–43; Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski, “The Strange Case of Ermine de Reims (c. 1347–1396): A Medieval Woman between Demons and Saints,” Speculum 85.2 (2010): 321–56; Nancy Caciola, Discerning Spirits: Divine and Demonic Possession in the Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003); Moshe Sluhovsky, Believe Not Every Spirit: Possession, Mysticism and Discernment in Early Modern Catholicism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). 8 . Eustache Mercadé , Le Myst ère de la Passion d’Arras, texte du MS 697 de la bibliothè que d’Arras , ed. Jules-Marie Richard (Arras: Imprimerie de la Soci ét é du Pas-de- Calais, 1893). 9 . Arnoul Gr é ban, Le Mystè re de la Passion d’Arnoul Gré ban , ed. Gaston Paris and Gaston Raynaud (Paris: F. Vieweg, 1878). 10 . Jean Michel, Le Mystè re de la Passion (Angers 1486) , ed. Omer Jodogne (Gembloux, Belgium: J. Duculot, 1959). 11 . Le Mystè re de Saint Remi , ed. Jelle Koopmans (Geneva: Droz, 1997). 12 . John Cassian, The Conferences , trans. Boniface Ramsey (New York: Paulist Press, 1997). 13 . Cassian, Conferences (VII, X), 255: “It is not surprising that a spirit can be imper- ceptibly joined to a spirit and that it can exercise a hidden persuasive influence where it has been permitted to. For among them, as among human beings, there is a certain substantial similarity and relationship, since the understanding of the nature of the soul may likewise be applied to their substance. But, on the other hand, it is completely impossible for them to enter into and be united to one another in such a way that one can contain the other. This is rightly attributed only to the Godhead, which alone is an incorporeal and simple nature.” 14 . Cassian, Conferences (VII, XIII.1), 256: “Nor even if a spirit is mingled with this dense and solid matter (that is, with flesh), which can very easily be done, it is therefore to be believed that it can be so united to a soul, which is also a spirit, that it can also make it the bearer of its own nature. This is possible to the Trinity alone, which so penetrates every intellectual nature that it is able not only to embrace and encompass it but even to flow into it and, being itself incorporeal, to be poured into a body.” 152 ANDREEA MARCULESCU

15 . Rupert of Deutz, Les Oeuvres du Saint-Esprit , trans. and ed. Elisabeth de Solms (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1967), Book 1, 26, 1598 A: “Nam spiritus malignus non ipsi humani spiritus substantiae substantialiter infunditur, sed per occultos irrepens meatus, perque cavernas corporis receptus, animam in suis obsidet sedi- bus, eamque tartareis discruciat flagris, in quantum fuerit permissus” (As the evil spirit does not penetrate substantially in the substance of the human spirit, but being gradually introduced through hidden routes, and lodged in the hollows of the body, it [the evil spirit] attacks the soul in its seat, and tortures it [the soul] with infernal scourges, as much as it is allowed). 16 . Thomas Aquinas, Quodlibeta, q. II, art. 8; cited in Caciola, Discerning Spirits , 197. 17 . [Heinrich Kramer], The Hammer of Witches , trans. and ed. Christopher S. Mackay (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), Part II, 126 B, 344. 18 . Kramer, The Hammer of Witches , Part II, 121 D, 335–36: “From the memory, which is in the back part of the head, a demon brings forth a picture of a horse by moving in location an image of the fantasy up to the middle part of the head, where the compartment for the force of imagination is, and then in sequence up to the common sense of perception, whose seat is in the front part of the head.” 19 . For the connection between Mystery plays and witchcraft, see Andreea Marculescu, “Playing with Witches: Theology, History, and Performance in Jean Michel’s Myst ère de la Passion, ” in The Devil in Society in Pre-Modern Europe , ed. Richard Raiswell and Peter Dendle (Toronto: Centre for Renaissance and Reformation Studies, 2012), 27–47. 20 . See the note offered by Jelle Koopmans in his edition of the Myst ère de Saint Remi , 165. “Chevaucher le ramon” means riding to the Witches’ Sabbath on a broomstick. 21 . Thomas of Cantimpr é , The Collected Saints’ Lives (Abbot John of Cantimpr é , Christina the Astonishing, Margret of Ypres, and Lutgard of Aywi ères) , ed. Barbara Newman, trans. Margot H. King and Barbara Newman (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008), 145. 22 . Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process , trans. Edmund Jephcott (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000). 23 . For the mechanics of aphasia, see Roman Jakobson, Studies on Child Language and Aphasia (The Hague: Mouton, 1971). 24 . Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception , trans. Colin Smith (London and New York: Routledge, 2002). 25. Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 54. 26 . Scarry, The Body in Pain , 54. 27 . Brian Massumi, Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002). 28 . Massumi, Parables for the Virtual , 28. 29 . Massumi, Parables for the Virtual , 32–33. 30 . Massumi, Parables for the Virtual , 36. 31 . Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More , 27–29. 32 . Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More , 28. 33 . Richard Kieckhefer, “Mythologies of Witchcraft in the Fifteenth Century,” Magic, Ritual, and Witchcraft 1 (2006): 79–108. 34 . Claude Gauvard, “De Grace especial”: Crime, é tat et soci é t é en France à la fin du Moyen Age (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1991). 35 . Kathleen Stewart, Ordinary Affects (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007).

PART IV

AESTHETIC EXPERIENCES: REPRESENTATIONS OF HUMAN AND DIVINE VOICES CHAPTER 9

“SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE”: TOWARD A PREMODERN AESTHETICS OF THE DIRGE

Anna Zayaruznaya

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy; I were but little happy, if I could say how much.

—Shakespeare, Much Ado about Nothing

Alas, that sweet and noble lady could not compose the third stanza, so wearied and afflicted, sad, wretched, and full of tears was she.

—Machaut, Le Livre du Voir dit1

t is easy to think that something has gone wrong in the middle column of I folio 5v of Paris, Biblioth è que Nationale de France ms. fr. 146 (see figure 9.1). At this early point in the famously lavish copy of the Roman de Fauvel made in ca. 1317, the copying of the motet Ex corruptis /In principibus seems to have been suddenly interrupted. Three voices are present: the first, beginning “Ex corruptis arboribus,” is at the top of the column and starts with a decorated initial. The second, “In principibus perpera,” starts midway through the ninth staff, but its capital letter is missing, as is that of the third, tenor voice, labeled “Neuma d’alleluia” (“melody from a [chant] alleluia”) at the bottom of the page. But it is not the missing capitals that draw the eye’s attention, since a much more vital aspect of the motet is conspicuous by its absence: there are no notes here, only empty staves. Because medieval scribes normally copied words before notes, scholars have assumed that the makers of Fauvel intended to add notation and then did not—perhaps they forgot to, or perhaps the music never arrived. As an early commentator put it, “dieser motetus fehlt” (this motet is missing). 2 But this is not a straightforward case of incomplete transmission. Rather, the motet’s blank staves are juxtaposed on the folio with a description of song that is barely audible because its singers are miserable. This essay reads Fauvel’s strikingly 156 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA

Figure 9.1 Paris, Biblioth èque Nationale de France, ms. fr. 146, fol. 5v. illustrated lament alongside passages from the works of Guillaume de Machaut and Christine de Pizan which also situate sad song on the boundary between voice and voicelessness. What emerges is an outline of a late-medieval aesthetics of the dirge as a song that is formally or sonically imperfect or defi cient. The fi nal part of this “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 157 study turns to Binchois’s setting of Christine de Pizan’s Dueil angoisseus, exploring the implications of such an aesthetic for the analysis of musical settings of doleful texts. To return to Fauvel : a close look at folio 5v dispels the impression that the motet is simply “missing.” As I argue elsewhere, not enough space has been left for the motet’s tenor, and the upper-voice texts are copied with such a rate of scribal abbreviation that the necessary number of notes would not have fi t above them.3 Only the most inexperienced of scribes would copy the text of a motet in such a way as to preclude musical notation, and the Fauvel scribes are among the best of the fourteenth century. Finally, Ex corruptis / In principibus is included in the index to the manuscript, under the category “motez à trebles et à teneures” (three-voice motets), even though the index was made retrospectively. 4 So is it possible that this motet is not missing? A verse couplet on the same folio off ers a neat explanation for the work’s unusual transmission. At this point in the satirical Fauvel , Gerv ès du Bus is engaged in casting aspersions. Ostensibly his focus is the memorable horse Fauvel, whose fi lthy muddy brown color attests to his decay. But the fault is not really with him, but with society, which is so rotten that rich men and poor, lay and clergy groom and pet the fi lthy beast. Folio 5v focuses on the sins of the pope and his cardinals. The pope’s concerns are all secular: he “n’i met pas sa chape” (does not wear his cape) but acts as a mere executor for the king, helping Fauvel to collect taxes. 5 As for the cardinals, they are negligent and greedy. To make this point, du Bus turns to the obvious pun on pasteur /pastor and the fi gurative meanings of terms associated with sheep-shearing ( tondre is “shear” but also “plunder” or “strip”). He paints a vivid and violent picture of shepherds literally “fl eecing” their fl ock, shearing their coats during the cold winter months, cutting so close to the skin that they bleed. In response to such indignities, the poor, shivering sheep perform two selections from the Offi ce of the Dead: Placebo Domino , the fi rst antiphon of Vespers, and Dirige, Domine , the fi rst antiphon of Matins:

Placebo chantent hautement Mais Dirige dient sanz note. [They sing Placebo loudly, but Dirige they say sanz note .] (ll. 616–17) 6

Why these particular chants? In the case of Placebo the choice likely has less to do with the antiphon than with its incipit “placebo” (“I will please”), the cry of fl atterers everywhere. 7 “Dirige” is an even more charged word. As the incipit of matins, it stands metonymically for the entire offi ce, just as the fi rst word of the introit Requiem aeternam stands for the mass; so their choice of song could mean that the fl eeced congregants are mourning their departed or their own imminent demise. But the word can also stand more broadly for a song of grief or lament— this is the “dirige,” which is the source of “dirge.” In this regard it becomes signifi cant that the sheep say Dirige “sanz note”— “without note,” which is to say, without singing. There is nothing unusual per se about the idea of a liturgical item performed “sanz note,” since this is the technical term for a liturgical service that is said rather than sung. For example, Edmund de Mortimer, the Fifth Earl of March (1391–1425), specifi ed in his will that certain Welsh and English priories and convents should appoint a chaplain “qi dirra chescun jour en lour esglise placebo & dirige sanz note” (who could say 158 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA the Placebo and Dirige in their church every day sanz note ).8 What is interesting about the Fauvel couplet is the sonic contrast it evokes between “chantent” and “dient,” a timbral distinction bolstered by a likely change of volume: the singing of Placebo is executed “hautement” (loudly), and the Dirige ’s volume, though not specifi ed, is clearly quieter by contrast. Furthermore, in the less technical, poetic context of the Fauvel narrative, “sanz note” might better be translated as “without a peep.” Hence Armand Strubel’s modern French rendering of the lines as “Ils chantent Placebo à haute voix / Mais murmurent Dirige sans faire entendre de note.” 9 During the couplet, the congregants move from song to murmur, from loud fl attery to whispered plea. And in the adjacent empty motet the relative voicelessness of the victimized and dispossessed is rendered as absolute. Ex corruptis /In principibus is perhaps a too-literal illustration of voice at its limits, but it is not the less useful for that. I suggest the murmured Dirige can serve as a pointer toward one late-medieval way of understanding the expressive connotations of excessive emotion: namely, that emotional excess can result in expressive defi ciency. The broad applicability of this topos is apparent when we compare the plight of the sheep in the Roman de Fauvel with a passage from a late-fi fteenth-century moralized Roman de la Rose by rh é toriqueur Jean Molinet (1435–1507). In the course of a long digression from a passage about optics, Molinet describes the rise and fall of a courtier as an allegorical note sitting— and singing—on Fortune’s wheel. 10 At fi rst, the note, which is a “minim” (modern-day half-note), “se treuve au plus hault de la game, tant augment é e de si grant value que . . . illec chante a haulte voix Le serviteur hault guerdonn é ” (“fi nds itself at the very top of the scale, so augmented and of such great value . . . [that] it sings in a loud voice [Guillaume Du Fay’s song] Le serviteur hault guerdonn é” ). But when the wheel turns, Fortune “l’apprent deschanter tant legierement et si bas que sa voix n’est plus ouÿ e . . . et en faisant gros souspirs se lamente avecques Iheremie, si dit a voix cass ée comme fort estonn ée, Terriblement suis fortun ée ” (teaches it to sing so feebly low that its voice is no longer heard . . . and making great sighs, it laments with Jeremiah and says, in a hoarse voice and very astonished, [the anonymous song] Terriblement suis fortun ée ”). 11 Thus the ability to be heard is contingent on the happiness of the singer. Because this is a musical allegory, the minim’s two modes of expression are further distinguished through the dimension of pitch: it is high and loud in its happy state; low and hoarse—barely singing—when it’s down and out. Molinet and Gerv ès du Bus, writing almost 200 years apart, would seem to agree about a basic aspect of human expressivity: there is such a thing as being too depressed to sing—being too put down to complain about it. This relates to what Sarah Kay has called the “paradox of suff ering”—that the true expression of suff ering is that which cannot be expressed. 12 Intuitively, it makes sense that any emotion, if extreme enough, can cause the voice to waver or die out. The voices of the distressed fi rst become inarticulate—when words change to groans and sobs with extreme sadness; squeals or laughter with sudden intense joy—and then disappear entirely. It seems probable that there is nothing historically specifi c about such fail- ures of voice. But if we attempt to map them on to the artistic—poetic and “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 159 musical—expressions of those moments of emotion, we do indeed fi nd a discon- nect between the medieval and modern approaches. That such expressions cannot be handled mimetically is obvious. As Cé dric Giraud reminds us in his study of Marian meditations in chapter 11 of this volume, true expressions of suff ering, which elicit real emotional responses from the hearer, are untranscribable, and in turn linguistic (and artistic) evocations of emotion stand at a remove from those emotions themselves: the child must stop crying to say “I am crying.” 13 And it is in the act of transcription that cultural and temporal diff erences become salient. We in 2015 are the inheritors of a Romantic sensibility in which emotional excess is paired with expressive superabundance and privileged access to creative production. The emotive creator (van Gogh, Beethoven, Kurt Cobain) is insepa- rable from his art, which would presumably be less expressive, remarkable, and authentic if it were not for his loneliness and depression. Kay suggests that medieval poets too wanted—needed—to feel distress, and that “maintaining just enough distress to enable the production of poetry” was “the condition of virtuosity.” 14 The role of consolation, in her analysis, is to keep poets away from the point of negative returns. And Elizabeth Eva Leach argues that music goes even further than poetry in “[relieving] the silence that inexpressible woe threatens”: “the silence to which knowledge based on language is reduced . . . and evaded as ‘unspeakable woe’ [via the inexpressibility topos] . . . is made to sound through singing itself.” 15 Both Kay’s idea of suff ering as a necessity for expression and Leach’s notion of music’s power of expressing sorrow that words cannot articulate could be seen as broadly in line with Romantic aesthetics. This is not necessarily a problem: there may indeed be something universally human about it all. But the examples from Fauvel and Molinet’s Rose discussed here hint at a model in which emotional excess leads to expressive defi ciency .16 In so doing they off er a glimpse into what happens to music beyond the point of “just enough distress.” In the next section of this essay I turn to passages from the writings of Guillaume de Machaut and Christine de Pizan which allude to songs that are the worse for being written or performed on the brink of emotional rupture. These cases imply that certain aspects of creative expression were seen to degrade as sadness mounted.

* * *

The most detailed medieval discussion of the relationship between musical production and emotion survives in the Prologue Guillaume de Machaut (ca. 1300–1377) wrote for his collected works sometime in the early 1370s. In the course of describing Music’s power (Music being one of Nature’s gifts to Guillaume, along with Sens and Rhetoric), Machaut identifi es an emotional register for music that is surprising in its seemingly limited range:

Et Musique est une science Qui vuet qu’on rie et chante et dance. Cure n’a de merencolie, Ne d’homme qui merencolie A chose qui ne puet valoir, 160 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA

Eins met tels gens en nonchaloir. Partout ou elle est joie y porte; Les desconfortez reconforte, Et nès seulement de l’o ïr Fait elle les gens resjo ïr. [And Music is an art which likes people to laugh and sing and dance. It cares nothing for melancholy, nor for a man who sorrows over what is of no importance, but ignores, instead, such folk. It brings joy everywhere it’s present; it comforts the disconsolate, and just hearing it makes people rejoice.] 17

If music is always joyful, where does that put the dirge? Machaut specifi es that even when he is treating a sad subject, the poet should be joyful, as should his mode of expression: “Et s’on fait de triste matiere, / Si est joieuse la maniere / Dou fait” (ll. 157–59). An unhappy author can neither write well nor sing joyfully (“bien ne fera / Ne gaiement ne chantera,” ll. 159–60) because his heart fl ees from happiness, whereas poetic creation is a joyful act. The happy lover has the advantage of Sweet Thought and Imagination, which improve his poem a hundredfold, while miserable poets are distracted by their rage, suicidal thoughts, and the threat of insanity. When a wretch thinks upon the perfections of a woman who cares nothing for him,

[Il] a tant de dueil et de rage Que c’est merveilles qu’il n’enrage, Ou qu’il ne se tue ou se pent, Ou que d’amer ne se repent; Si qu’il ne porroit nullement Riens faire si joliement De sa matiere dolereuse Com li joieus de sa joieuse, Pour ce qu’il n’a riens qui l’esgaie, Ne matiere lie ne gaie, Et s’a desir, et povre espoir Qui sa doleur empire espoir. [He has such sorrow and rage that it’s a wonder he doesn’t go mad, doesn’t kill or hang himself, or repent of loving. Thus he can in no way compose anything as pleasing from his mournful material as the happy man can from his happiness.] (ll. 187–98)

This rather unambiguous statement, which has been called Machaut’s “poetics of joy,” not only marginalizes the sad song but even seems to make it an impossibility with its emphasis on music’s inherently joyous nature. Are we, then, to assume that all of Machaut’s sad songs are actually joyous meditations on sad themes? Further complicating matters is the fact that in several of his other dits Machaut contradicts his Prologue , making instead a claim for poetic authenticity encapsulated by the oft-quoted couplet “car qui de sentement ne fait / son chant et son oeuvre contrefait” (“for he who doesn’t write about his [true] feelings counterfeits [or “writes against”] his song and his work”). 18 According to this dictum, the poet “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 161 should write sad poetry if he is sad, or risk being untrue to himself. How can this view be squared with the Prologue , according to which sad people make bad poets? In a recent analysis of Machaut’s poetics, Leach has called this a “seeming doctrinal contradiction.” The contradiction is only seeming, she argues, because the Prologue ’s poetics of joy trumps the Remede ’s poetics of authenticity due to the former’s place in the authoritative Prologue , while expressions of the latter (i.e., the poetics of authenticity) originate with narrators rendered “unreliable” by youth, old age, or suff ering itself. 19 Machaut’s real poetics is that outlined in the Prologue , where “joy both creates music and is its result,” and where “music’s proper function is to provide joy to its audience.” 20 But there is something unsatisfying about the notion of music as a joyful “veneer” that can be applied to even blatantly sad themes. This is where the murmuring sheep and the hoarse minim may be of some use. The fl ock’s spoken Dirige— and the note-less motet that amplifi es it (by failing to amplify it)—remind us not that sad songs are inauthentic per se, but that sometimes the emotionally authentic thing would be to not sing. As Machaut explains, beyond a certain point, the poet shuts up, goes mad, or commits suicide. From this conclusion one could proceed straight to the “paradox of suff ering,” and with it to the politically dangerous idea that true despair has no melody, and that anyone who still has voice to sing (or write songs) about their troubles is not truly miserable. But there is another path available. It may be that, as Machaut’s Prologue insists, “music brings joy and cares nothing for melancholy,” but that is what ideal music does in an ideal world. In this one, miserable people often have cause to sing and compose. The possibility of a spectrum between voicelessness and fully articulate song is hinted at in the polytextual virelai De triste cuer / Quant vrais amans / Certes, je di, whose statements on poetry, joy, and emotional authenticity have been so elegantly analyzed by Leach. 21 Here the cantus (top voice) explains that “cilz qui fait de joieus sentement . . . doit plus joieusement faire / Et pour ce sont mi chant de rude aff air” (“he who composes from joyous feelings . . . must compose more joyously . Because of this all my songs are a crude aff air”).22 The virelai’s tenor voice notes that when Desire murders the lover’s sad heart in sorrow and hatred (“Ardans Desirs mourdrist secretement / Son triste cuer en douleur et en haire”) the lover “ne fait pas si joliement / Com cilz qui joit et ou joie repaire”—“does not compose as merrily as he who rejoices where joy resides.” These excerpts invite us to imagine a series of gradations from fully joyous song and composition to a point where the singing voice fails and artistic expression is no longer possible. Such a spectrum in turn makes it possible to integrate Machaut’s poetics of authenticity with his poetics of joy without needing either to trump the other: happy people write better songs and sing them better, so it’s best to be happy. (This is hardly a contentious claim.) But emotional honesty is an imperative too. Songs written or performed from a sad heart (“de triste cuer”) are necessarily fl awed by some metric, whatever their subject. And if the heart becomes too sad, song becomes impossible. We may glimpse that edge of the spectrum at work near the end of Machaut’s prosimetric Livre du Voir dit . When the heroine Toute Belle hears in a letter from Guillaume, her amant , that she is rumored to indiscreetly share their private 162 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA correspondence with others, she grows pale, lets the letter fall from her hands, and collapses onto a bed (ll. 8518–20). 23 There, through deep sighs and tears and in a piteous frame of mind, she composes a virelai (“en sa dolente pensee / Fist ceste chanson baladee,” ll. 8524–25). With a refrain that begins “Cent mille fois esbahie / Plus dolente et courrecie / Sui, que nulle vraiement” (“Dismayed a hundred thousand times, more sorrowful and angry I truly am than any woman,” ll. 8526–28), the poet is clearly as far as she can be from the joyful disposition Machuat recommends in the Prologue . In fact, Toute Belle is the epitome of the Prologue ’s wretched poet, who “has such sorrow and rage / That it’s a wonder [s]he doesn’t go mad, / Doesn’t kill or hang [her]self, Or doesn’t repent of loving.” In the virelai’s second verse she wishes for death:

Meschief langour, et martire De tous lieus a moy venir Mon povre cuer fondre et frire Dont la mort me sera mire Ad ce ne puis ie faillir Ma leesse est amortie Et ma vertu afeblie Est si dolereusement Que sans faire cessement Tourmentee et apalie Maudi mes iours et ma vie Sans avoir confortement

[Misery and suffering make their way relentlessly toward me from every corner to break my heart, set it ablaze; Death would thus be my healer. This I cannot avoid: My happiness has been murdered, and my virtue weakened, by so much pain that, without ceasing, tormented and made pale, I curse my days and life, finding no consolation.] (ll. 8554–65)

This is heavy, but not more so than scores of equally dark thoughts considered to fall within the realm of appropriate fi n ’ a m o rs expression. What is remarkable is what happens next. “Cent mille fois esbahie, etc” signals the return of the refrain, and should thus lead into the virelai’s third and fi nal verse—but that verse never comes (see fi gure 9.2 ). Instead, the lover-narrator’s voice interrupts to explain that Toute Belle could not fi nish her virelai:

Helas la douce debonnaire Le tiers ver ne pot onques faire Tant estoit lasse et adolee Triste, dolente, et esplouree Mais les .ij. vers quavez oy Dedens ceste lettre encloy

[Alas, that sweet and noble lady could not compose the third stanza, so wearied and afflicted, sad, wretched, and full of tears was she. But she enclosed the two stanzas you’ve heard in this letter.] (ll. 8573–78) “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 163

Figure 9.2 Paris, Biblioth èque Nationale de France, ms. fr. 1584, fol. 299v (detail).

At this point in the virelai, then, we witness the sad poet at her breaking point: Toute Belle has moved from fury and hurt to a state in which she can say nothing more: to expression sanz note—and sanz mots . A letter—presumably written after Toute Belle had had a chance to calm down—follows. It is equal parts reproachful and aff ectionate and includes an apology for the tone of her words:

Et se ie vous ay escript un po rudement et mal sagement, par mame ie ne lay peu amender, Car iestoie si troublee, et avoie le cuer si marry et si courrecie car a peinne peusse ie dire chose ne faire, qui peust plaire a personne. [And if I wrote you a bit crudely and with little wisdom, by my soul, I couldn’t help it, for I was so troubled, and my heart was so afflicted and worried I could scarcely do or say anything that might please someone.] (Letter 43)

Again, there is a distinct echo of the Prologue ’s description: Toute Belle “can in no way compose anything as pleasing from [her] mournful material as the happy 164 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA man can.” And this is precisely because she writes according to her mood: as she specifi es in her letter, “ie vous envoie ce virelay qui est fais de mon sentement ” (I send you this virelai composed from my feelings). Unfortunately Cent mille fois esbahie was never set to music. Though this is by no means rare for the lyrics contained in the Voir dit , it is also possible that a setting appropriate to this emotionally overcharged text would have been in violation of good taste. What I wish to suggest is that such a setting might have been not excessive, but defi cient—actually lacking something. A hint as to the kind of sound involved comes from the slightly later voice of Christine de Pizan (1364–ca. 1430), who followed Machaut in dealing frequently with the issue of the poet’s emotional authenticity. 24 Christine’s fi rst virelai is a succinct statement on the relationship between the joyful aspect that singing demands (the loud Placebo ) and its confl ict with real unhappiness. Her situation is analogous to that of Fauvel ’s sheep; singing par couverture (as a disguise), she makes “neither moan nor whisper” of her real sorrow:

Je chante par couverture, Mais mieulx plourassent mi oeil, Ne nul ne scet le traveil Que mon pouvre cuer endure. Pour ce muce ma doulour Qu’en nul je ne voy piti é, Plus a l’en cause de plour Mains treuve l’en d’amistié . Pour ce plainte ne murmure Ne fais de mon piteux dueil; Ain çois ris quant plourer vueil, Et sanz rime et sanz mesure Je chante par couverture.

[I sing as a disguise (but it were better that my eyes should weep) and no one knows the travail that my poor heart endures. I hide my sorrow, for I see pity in no one; the more you have cause to weep, the less you find friendship. That’s why I make neither moan nor whisper about my pitiable sorrow; rather do I laugh when I want to cry, and without rhyme and without measure I sing as a disguise .] (ll. 1–13) 25

This singing disguise is clearly unsuccessful. Not only does the virelai’s text “out” Christine as miserable (in the longstanding tradition of public texts about secret private states), 26 but it suggests that her performance is itself marked as inauthen- tically joyful, since she sings “sanz rime et sanz mesure”—without rhyme or meter. 27 Here, then, is a hint about what the less-than-joyful song might sound like: unconfi dent, halting, arrhythmic. This could be a matter of delivery, and thus lost to us. Indeed, insofar as the unmeasured aspects of the performance Christine’s virelai evokes are linked to the body’s sounds of sorrow, they are untranscribable. According to medieval grammarians, sobs and wails belong to the category of vox confusa (inarticulate sound). This is contrasted with vox articulata —the category of utterances that “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 165 can be transcribed. For example, Thomas of Cantimpré (thirteenth century) contrasted transcribable words with the moaning of the sick: “Articulata est, que scribi potest ut a, e ; confusa, que scribi non potest ut gemitus infi rmorum et voces volucrum aut bestiarum” ([vox] articulata is that which can be written, such as “a” or “e”; [vox] confusa is that which cannot be written, such as the moans of the sick and the cries of birds and beasts). 28 Such distinctions have their origin in the work of late-classical grammarians such as Donatus and Diomedes, 29 and they continued to be relevant in the early Renaissance. Thus Christine’s contemporary, music theorist and composer Johannes Ciconia, explains that while vox articulata can be expressed by letters of the alphabet, “ vox confusa is that which can neither be written nor understood.” 30 Returning to our idea of an expressive spectrum, we can understand Christine’s emotionally inauthentic singing as an intrusion of the inarticulate upon the articulate. Her feelings cause her song to lose its meter, moving it in the direction of moaning. If that moan cannot be notated, perhaps it can still be hinted at by poetic and musical means. Leach has shown how another kind of vox confusa—the singing of birds—is staged in late-medieval polyphonic songs through the use of fast (sub- minim) note values and textual patter. 31 The eff ect there is one of musical excess. Emma Dillon has suggested that such sonic and verbal excess can itself be meaningful, evoking an eff ect she dubs “supermusical.”32 Several contributors to this volume address sonic excesses of other kinds: Julie Orlemanski shows how Margery Kempe’s cries and “roars” come to express divine utterances, while Andrew Albin explores the relationship between canor (angelic song) and Rolle’s excessive alliteration. I posit that a kindred eff ect of defi ciency—expressive, rhythmic, melodic, structural—might equally approach that which cannot be articulated, but from the opposite direction, at whose extreme is not noise but silence, the negation of song. To test the analytical implications of such expressive defi ciency, I turn, in conclusion, to what may be the most desperately sad song of the later Middle Ages. This is quite a title to bestow in a repertory full of sorrowing lovers and songs that being with “Hélas,” but it can hardly be denied that Binchois’s Dueil angoisseus (written in the 1430s) is extraordinarily heavy. And—not coincidentally—it sets to music a poem by Christine de Pizan. One of the poemes de veuvage in her Cent ballades , the text reacts not to the loss of love, but to the loss of life, and does so in six lines of asyndeton (or dissolutio )—stacked-up direct objects that wait for their verb until the beginning of line 7. Though the ballade is not lacking in rhyme or meter, it might be called sparse, even defi cient, in syntax. Here I focus on the fi rst stanza:

Dueil angoisseus, rage desmesur é e, Grief desespoir, plein de forsennement, Langour sansz fin et vie male ür é e Pleine de plour, d’angoisse et de tourment, Cuer doloreux qui vit obscurement, Tenebreux corps sur le point de partir Ay, sanz cesser, continuellement; Et si ne puis ne garir ne morir. 166 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA

[Anguished grief, immoderate fury, grievous despair, full of madness, endless lan- guor and unfortunate life, full of tears, anguish and torment, doleful heart, living in darkness, wraithlike body on the point of death, are mine continually without cease; and thus I can neither be healed nor die .] 33

Imagining an appropriate setting of such a text from a baroque, classical, or Romantic perspective evokes, perhaps, a dramatic and pathos-laden operatic scene (a Purcell mad song, maybe, or some cross between the Queen of the Night and Donna Anna). Binchois’s setting is as far from these as it can be while still sitting on the audible side of the sanz note divide. Figure 9.3 gives the fi rst section of the ballade; several recordings are available. 34 Given the anguish and fury in its texts, Binchois’s setting of Dueil angoisseus comes as something of a surprise to most modern listeners. Entirely aside from its opening sonority, which sounds like an F-major triad (major triads being, from our perspective but not from Binchois’s, a happy sound), the song is surprising in the stillness with which it begins. The bottom two voices start with maximae — the longest notes of the notational system then in use. 35 Both hold their fi rst pitch for eleven beats. Such stasis might intuitively seem peaceful, and it was perhaps this sound that led Liane Curtis to remark that “the mood of Dueil angoisseus could never be described as morbid, sentimental, or gloomy. It is transcendent, ethereal, perhaps resigned.” 36 Curtis’s evaluation arguably rests on an entirely modern notion of what sentimental songs sound like. In light of Christine’s description of singing “sanz rime et sanz mesure,” it is surely signifi cant that pulse is precisely what is lacking at the beginning of Binchois’s Dueil angoisseus . Nor is this lack solely the result of the maximae in the lower voices: the upper voices contribute to a sense of suspended time by simultaneously presenting contrasting divisions of the beat. The tenor splits each six-beat measure into 3+3, while the cantus divides the same six beats into three groups of two using the notational device of coloration. 37 A confl ict in pulse—three-against-two cross-rhythms—in the upper voices combines with a lack of pulse in the lower two voices to produce an opening that is, indeed, sans mesure . The ambiguity persists beyond the fi rst few measures. When contratenor I starts moving in measure 3, it does so in a pattern that also resists metrical analysis, this time with notes that are too fast. By moving in a combination of minims and semibreves (shown by half and whole notes in the transcription) it avoids articulating any broader sense of pulse. This eff ect is heightened by occasional syncopated semibreves (whole notes that start on a weak beat in the transcription).38 The constant motion, supplemented in several passages by even smaller notes (semiminims; quarter notes in transcription), also serves to control the song’s tempo, since if the fast notes are to be executed correctly, everything else must be kept relatively slow. Occasional fast notes thus paradoxically add to the ballade’s prevailing feeling of stillness. The cantus voice, which carries the melody of the song, is also notable for its metrical ambiguity. Though by combining larger and smaller note values the cantus has the power to clarify the prevailing pulse, it pointedly declines to settle Figure 9.3 Binchois/Pizan, Dueil angoisseus , mm. 1–8, first ending (ed. Metcalfe). 168 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA into a meter.39 Like all medieval songs, Dueil angoisseus was notated without barlines, so that downbeats and other signifi cant rhythmic events were not signaled visually by a note’s position in a measure, but rather projected aurally through rhythmic and melodic details of lines. Figure 9.4 shows the layout and notation for the beginning of the cantus voice of Dueil angoisseus in one of its manuscript sources, and fi gure 9.5 off ers a transcription of this excerpt without bar lines.40 Looking at the melody this way, it is not at all clear what its prevailing meter might be. A duple division, suggested by the fi rst three notes and the phrase that follows them, eventually loses explanatory power. In fi gure 9.6, the melody is parsed by barlines into binary units under the editorially supplied time signature 2/1—that is, two whole notes per measure. 41 Time signatures as such were not used in Binchois’s time, but the circle with a line through it that opens fi gure 9.4 does provide information similar to that supplied by modern time signatures. It hints at a ternary meter, where each measure (representing the so-called breve) is divisible into three “semibreves” (whole notes in the fi gure). But this metric interpretation does not sit comfortably either. Not only does the second note end up crossing the downbeat (opening beat of a measure) in this case, but other aspects of the melody are short-changed: the melodic high-points and low- points, the starts of longer notes, and the placement of accented syllables in the text are not served by this scheme (see fi gure 9.7 ). 42 Perception of pulse is of course partly subjective. To this analyst, it seems that opening of the cantus of Dueil angoisseus does not fi t easily into a duple or triple scheme, but rather projects a seemingly random alternation between groups of two and three beats (see fi gure 9.8 ). The unsettled eff ect this creates is bolstered by the

Figure 9.4 Dueil angoisseus , diplomatic facsimile of the first line of the cantus voice as transmitted in El Escorial, Palacio Real, Monasterio de San Lorenzo MS V.III.24, fol. 36v (text ed. Johnson).

Figure 9.5 Dueil angoisseus , beginning of cantus voice transcribed without bar lines. “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 169 vertical relationship between the discantus and tenor. While we would expect these voices to be in counterpoint with each other, moving mostly in contrary motion and occasionally arriving on metrical strong-points through so-called “directed progressions,” here they move mostly in parallel. 43 The two points of harmonic arrival are marked with arrows in fi gure 9.8 . Such cadence-like events tend to be salient for listeners, and may strengthen a feeling of “downbeat”; accordingly they usually occur on strong beats. It is telling, then, that each falls on a weak beat according to one of the barring schemes in fi gures 9.6 and 9.7 , while in fi gure 9.3

Figure 9.6 Dueil angoisseus , beginning of cantus barred as for a prevailing duple meter.

Figure 9.7 Dueil angoisseus , beginning of cantus barred as for a prevailing triple meter.

Figure 9.8 Dueil angoisseus , beginning of cantus with bar groupings indicating a variable meter; arrows mark points strengthened by contrapuntal means. 170 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA they occur on beats fi ve and four, respectively, of six-beat measures. None of these are particularly apt positions for harmonic arrival. In short, harmonic, melodic, and rhythmic motion combine in the opening of Dueil angoisseus to project a shifting sense of meter that is tantamount to none at all. The second half of the ballade contributes one more passage where the musical setting reacts directly to the text. In measures 20–22, another maxima, this time of 12 beats’ duration, sounds in the tenor voice. It coincides with the end of the word “continuellement” of the cantus’s phrase “sanz cesser continuellement” (continually without cease), an adverbial modifi er for the verb “ay” (I have), whose objects are all of the negative emotions listed in lines 1–6. The text’s emphasis on continuity as projected by the cantus is reinforced by tonal stasis in the other voices, where the notes C and E sustain for 12 beats (see fi gure 9.9 ). It is as though the melodies have frozen in place. To sum up: the music set to “rage desmesuree” in the cantus’s fi rst line is indeed itself desmesuree , and later there is a very long tenor note following “continuellement.” These may seem like rather obvious reactions to the text, but they are only so in retrospect. In Christine’s poem, the talk is of emotional eternities

Figure 9.9 Dueil angoisseus , mm. 18–23 (ed. Metcalfe). “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 171 and excesses, not temporal ones. Nor is this a simple matter of word painting. Later, so-called madrigalistic techniques such as the upward scales on “ascendit in caelum” (ascended into heaven) in Renaissance masses, where musical ascent mimes the scriptural ascension, would probably have seemed trivializing to listeners in the 1430s. And it is unlikely that Binchois would do anything showy in a poem this serious. Furthermore, his approach here is unique within his own oeuvre: The stillness prompted by the word “continuellement” and the metri- cally ambiguous opening of the two lower voices are the only occurrences of maximas in all of his 60-plus songs. From a performer’s perspective, these long- lasting notes are hard to sing; they threaten to use up all the breath we have and to leave us gasping. And it is easy to get lost while counting them, to succumb to the eerie stillness that threatens to render our own performance sans mesure . Probably for this reason, all the available commercial recordings of Dueil angoisseus break up Binchois’s maximas into shorter notes, reinstating a sense of pulse and arguably undermining what is probably one of the ballade’s most powerful effects. In a technical sense, we might describe Binchois’s setting of Christine’s ballade as musically defi cient: halting and heavy, it denies listeners the pleasure of a steady beat—something that can usually be counted on in both folk and “art” music until the twentieth century. This is not, of course, to imply that Dueil angoisseus is a worse song for it. In my opinion, it is one of the most beautiful works of the fi fteenth century. But its beauty is irregular. The diff erence between it and the joyful music Machaut idealizes in his Prologue can perhaps be perceived if we compare Dueil angoisseus with Binchois’s Amoreux suy , whose text begins “I am in love, and all joy comes my way.” Even though this rondeau is set in what we would call a “minor” mode, its unabating triple pulse amounts to a confi dent projection of mesure that, applied to a melody that has been called “guileless,” results in an energetic and joyful sound.44 Figure 9.10 reproduces the opening of this song. Especially useful in creating energy—“joy,” we might say—is the contratenor voice, whose alternating trochaic and iambic patterns both mark the beat and maintain forward momentum. Perhaps these jaunty rhythms were what encouraged René Clemencic to add a loud drum to his recording of the rondeau with the Clemencic Consort. 45 You can’t do that with Dueil Angoisseus .

* * *

It is rather a long way from a dirige without notes amplifi ed by a noteless motet in a source from ca. 1317 to a 1430s setting of a late-fourteenth-century ballade. And it may actually be that the sheep and their murmurs have nothing to do with the sounds of anguish and grief evoked by Christine and interpreted by Binchois. But if there is something more than a fortuitous echo between sanz note and sanz mesure , it is the linking idea of music sanz —music without . These examples, however disparate, present an alternative to the surplus that would eventually become linked by convention with artistic renditions of extreme emotion. A convention by which emotional excess causes music that is less 172 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA

Figure 9.10 Binchois, Amoreux suy , mm. 1–10 (ed. Metcalfe). regular, less smooth, less “perfect,” the greater the writer’s emotional turmoil, and that tends ultimately toward silence—a rupture caused by illness, death, or the renunciation of love—is certainly no less arbitrary than the Romantic model, and may indeed be more realistic. While immoderate grief, fury and dejection are by defi nition excessive, grammarians and poets alike remind us that there is a gulf between outcries and their expression in writing, whether poetic or documentary. And, at least in the long fourteenth century, that gulf contains some telling absences, irregularities, and omissions. There, the dirge may be most audible when we listen for voices that are broken, interrupted, or just barely singing. “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 173

Notes 1 . “Helas la douce debonnaire / Le tiers ver ne pot onques faire / Tant estoit lasse et adolee / Triste, dolente, et esplouree” (ll. 8573–76), Guillaume de Machaut, Le livre dou voir dit (The Book of the True Poem) , ed. Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, trans. R. Barton Palmer (New York: Garland, 1998), 583. 2 . Johannes Wolf, Geschichte der Mensuralnotation von 1250–1460 , 3 vols. (Leipzig: Breitkopf & H ärtel, 1904), 1:41, note 3. 3 . Anna Zayaruznaya, “The Silence of the Sheep,” working paper. 4 . See folio B; on the copying of the index, see Edward H. Roesner, Fran ç ois Avril, and Nancy Regalado, eds., Le Roman de Fauvel in the Edition of Mesire Chaillou de Pesstain: A Reproduction in Facsimile of the Complete Manuscript, Paris, Biblioth è que nationale, fonds francais 146 (New York: Broude Brothers, 1990), Introduction, 6–7. 5 . Armand Strubel, ed., Le roman de Fauvel (Paris: Librarie Gé n é rale Fran çaise, 2012), line 580. All further citations of Fauvel are by line numbers to Strubel’s edition, and translations are by Eliza Zingesser, used with kind permission. 6 . Strubel, Le roman de Fauvel , 192. 7 . The full text of the antiphon is “Placebo Domino in regione vivorum” (I will please the Lord in the land of the living). For editions see the Liber usualis , with introduction and rubrics in English, ed. Benedictines of Solesmes (Tournai and New York: Descl é e, 1961), pages 1772 (Placebo ) and 1782 ( Dirige ). 8 . A Collection of All the Wills, Now Known to be Extant, of the Kings and Queens of England, Princes and Princesses of Wales, and Every Branch of the Blood Royal: From the Reign of William the Conqueror to that of Henry the Seventh, Exclusive (London: J. Nichols, 1780), 110. 9 . Strubel, Le roman de Fauvel , 193. 10 . Anna Zayaruznaya, “What Fortune Can Do to a Minim,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 65.2 (2012): 313–81. 11 . Zayaruznaya, “What Fortune Can Do to a Minim,” ed. 374, trans. 314. 12 . Sarah Kay, “Touching Singularity: Consolation, Philosophy, and Poetry in the French Dit ,” in Catherine E. Lé glu and Stephen J. Milner, eds., The Erotics of Consolation: Desire and Distance in the Late Middle Ages (Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan, 2008), 35. 13 . Trans. Cé dric Giraud, to whom I am grateful for the reference: “Puer enim potest dicere ‘ploro,’ licet non ploret actu. Potest etiam proferre vocem plorantis, que est illiterata per Priscianum. Scilicet cum dicit ‘ploro,’ non attendimus quod vere ploret ver doleat, nec per hoc acquirit nobis dolorem vel pietatem, sed per secundum, scilicet per vocem illiteratam plorantis, acquirit nobis dolorem sive pietatem.” Cited in Ir ène Rosier-Catach, “Discussions m é dié vales sur l’expression des affects,” in Le Sujet des é motions au Moyen Age , ed. Piroska Nagy and Damien Boquet (Paris: Beauchesne, 2008), 208. See also Giraud’s discussion of this passage in chapter 11 of this book. 14 . Kay, “Touching Singularity,” 34, 37. 15 . Elizabeth Eva Leach, “Poet as Musician,” in A Companion to Guillaume de Machaut , ed. Deborah McGrady and Jennifer Bain (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 57, 59. 16 . See also Matthew Shoaf’s contribution to this volume ( chapter 12 ), where vocality and eloquence are shown to be separable—even opposed—for some late-medieval artists. 17 . Guillaume de Machaut, The Fountain of Love (La fonteinne amoureuse) and Two Other Love Vision Poems , ed. and trans. R. Barton Palmer (New York: Garland, 174 ANNA ZAYARUZNAYA

1993), ll. 199–208 (pp. 12–13). Translations have been modified and line breaks removed; further references are by line number in the main text. 18 . Guillaume de Machaut, Le livre dou voir dit , 110, letter 8. The same couplet appears in the Rem è de de Fortune : Guillaume de Machaut, Le Jugement du roy de Behaigne and Remede de Fortune , ed. and trans. James I. Wimsatt and William W. Kibler (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1988), ll. 407–408. 19 . Elizabeth Eva Leach, Guillaume de Machaut: Secretary, Poet, Musician (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011), 101–102; see also Leach, “Poet as Musician,” 60–61, 101–102. 20 . Leach, Guillaume de Machaut: Secretary, Poet, Musician , 115. 21 . This song’s statements about poetic doctrine have been sensitively analyzed by Elizabeth Eva Leach in “Music and Verbal Meaning: Machaut’s Polytextual Songs,” Speculum 85.3 (2010): 573–89, and Leach, Guillaume de Machaut : Secretary, Poet, Musician , 103–19. 22 . Emphasis mine. This and the following citation are edited and translated in Leach, Guillaume de Machaut: Secretary, Poet, Musician , 111. 23 . Machaut, Le livre dou voir dit , page 583. Further, parenthetical citations of the Voir dit are by line number, with translations modified and line breaks removed. 24 . Leonard W. Johnson, Poets as Players: Theme and Variation in Late Medieval French Poetry (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990), 62–71. See also Benjamin Semple, “Christine de Pizan’s Phenomenology of Beauty in the Lyric and the Dream Vision,” in Christine de Pizan and Medieval French Lyric , ed. Earl Jeffrey Richards (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1998), 190. 25 . Text and translation modified from Johnson, Poets as Players , 62–63. 26 . As Christine herself points out in her Ballade I, “du grant dueil qui me tient morne et coye / Puis bien parler assez et a plent é ” (of the great mourning that keeps me sad and quiet I can speak a lot, and in abundance) (ll. 13–14), cit. and trans. in Semple, “Christine de Pizan’s Phenomenology of Beauty,” 190. On a musical manifestation of this topos, see Elizabeth Eva Leach, “Singing More about Singing Less: Machaut’s Pour ce que tous (B12),” in Machaut’s Music: New Interpretations , ed. Elizabeth Eva Leach (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2003), 111–24. 27. Mesure , in a musical realm, can refer to pitch by way of Pythagorean ratios, but here, paired with rhyme, it is surely temporal. 28 . Thomas of Cantimpré, Liber de natura rerum, I : Text , ed. Helmut Boese (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 1973), 26. 29 . See Martin Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture: “Grammatica” and Literary Theory, 350–1100 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 91–97. 30 . Ciconia, Nova musica , cited in Elizabeth Eva Leach, Sung Birds: Music, Poetry, and Nature in the Later Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2007), 33. 31 . Leach, Sung Birds , 108–74 (Chapter 3). 32 . Emma Dillon, The Sense of Sound: Musical Meaning in France, 1260–1330 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012). 33 . Cited and translated in Liane Curtis, “Christine de Pizan and ‘Dueil Angoisseux,’” in Gender, Sexuality, and Early Music , ed. Todd M. Borgerding (New York: Routledge, 2002), 276–77. I have modified Curtis’s translation. 34 . Figures 9.3 and 9.9 are edited by Scott Metcalfe from the version preserved in Spain, El Escorial, Palacio Real, Monasterio de S Lorenze MS V.III.24, fols. 36v–37, where the parts called Contratenor I and Contrator II are labeled “contratenor concordans sequenti” and “contratenor concordans,” respectively. Figure 9.10 is edited by Metcalfe from Oxford, Bodleian library MS Canonici “SANZ NOTE” & “SANZ MESURE” 175

Misc. 213, fol. 82. They are reproduced with kind permission. The available recordings vary in instrumentation: all parts are sung by voices by the ensemble Gothic Voices (dir. Christopher Page), The Castle of Fair Welcome (Hyperion, 1993), track 6, while Dominique Vellard opts for a combination of soprano on cantus and instruments on the other voices in Ensemble Gilles Binchois, Binchois: Mon souverain desir—Chansons (Angel Records, 2000), track 15. 35 . Maximae are also longer than any note values in the modern notational system and are thus rendered as several notes tied together by slurs in figures 9.3 and 9.9. For a useful introduction to the history of musical notation, see Thomas Forrest Kelly, Capturing Music: The Story of Notation (New York: W. W. Norton, 2014). Online tutorials for fourteenth-century French (ars nova ) notation created by Elizabeth Eva Leach can be accessed at http://diamm.nsms.ox.ac.uk/moodle/login/index.php . 36 . Curtis, “Christine de Pizan and ‘Dueil angoisseux,’” 272. 37 . The discantus’s first three notes are colored red in the manuscript, while other beats are black. Red ink here indicates a shift from a triple to a duple subdivi- sion of the breve. In the edition in figure 9.3, red coloration is indicated by black filled-in notes, and elsewhere by open brackets or with gray ink. 38 . By “weak beat” I here mean second and third beats in ternary meters and even notes in duple meters. 39 . Curtis has commented upon the rhythmic ambiguity at the start of the superius line: “as this is the opening gesture of the ballade, we do not yet have any sense of what the meter is. The long flowing note values are combined in conflicting rhythms, and a spacious ambiguity results, conveying something of the mood.” Though noting that “this calm, ineffable, floating effect is a rare beginning for a chanson superius line,” she draws an intriguing connection with “similar gestures employing this same rhythm of four imperfect breves . . . in [Du Fay’s] Helas mon dueil , and in Mercy mon dueil , by Gilles Joye.” Both passages in “Christine de Pizan and ‘Dueil Angoisseux,’” 272. 40 . Figures 9.4–9.8 underlay text as edited in Johnson, Poets as Players , 62–63. 41 . But then, those initial notes would not be red if the default meter were duple, since coloration is used to highlight changes from triple to duple and vice versa. My comments refer to the discantus melody as heard rather than as written. 42 . On the relationship between text-setting and musical meter in the work of Binchois’s contemporary Du Fay, see Graeme Boone, Patterns in Play: A Model for Text Setting in the Early French Songs of Guillaume Dufay (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1999). 43 . See Sarah Fuller, “Tendencies and Resolutions: The Directed Progression in Ars Nova Music,” Journal of Music Theory 36.2 (1992): 229–58. 44 . Timothy Dickey, “Gilles Binchois,” in All Music Guide to Classical Music: The Definitive Guide to Classical Music , ed. Chris Woodstra, Gerald Brennan, and Allen Schrott (San Francisco: Back Beat, 2005), 160. 45 . Compare this to the more lyrical and sedate rendition by Gothic Voices, which nevertheless projects a clear and steady pulse: The Spirits of England and France, 3: Binchois and His Contemporaries (Hyperion, 1995).

CHAPTER 10

LISTENING FOR CANOR IN RICHARD ROLLE’S MELOS AMORIS

Andrew Albin

he Melos amoris stands as a singularly virtuosic mystical text by one of the T most widely read authors of late medieval England, the so-called father of English mysticism, Richard Rolle of Hampole ( ca. 1300–1349). Though the abundant archival witness to Rolle’s more popular Latin works like the Incendium amoris and Emendatio vitae dwarfs the Melos ’s ten surviving manuscript copies by comparison, this exuberant treatise appears to have attracted a devoted readership of its own right: in the later fourteenth century when the hermit’s cult was blos- soming in England’s north, the Melos amoris could be found in English libraries as far south as London and in continental libraries as far flung as Vadstena. A prized autograph copy, now lost, resided in the brothers’ library at Syon Abbey until at least 1526. The fragmentary remains of a glossary in Cambridge University Library MS Dd.5.64, fols. 84r–84v attests to readers’ keen interest in and efforts to read the difficult work; we catch glimpses of those efforts in the margins of the surviving manuscripts, some of them filled with scribal glosses and annotations. 1 The appeals of the Melos amoris that invited such engaged readership are multiple. Composed in the most extreme version of Rolle’s characteristic rhythmic and alliterative Latin prose style, the Melos explores the rigors, outrages, and rewards Rolle experienced in pursuit of his idiosyncratic brand of contemplative eremit- ism and off ers the most exuberant descriptions of his well-known triad of spiritual sensations: inner heat, divine sweetness, and angelic song. The Melos amoris passionately describes the singular love shared between the elect contemplative and his God, and, as the book’s title clearly announces, it understands and expresses that love as an irresistible outpouring of melodious sound. 2 The title’s “melos” refers to multiple musics: it cites the biblical Song of Songs, whose language and imagery the text frequently borrows; it signals the text’s distinctively sonorous stylistics; and most crucially, it crowns angelic song as the highest of Rolle’s spiritual sensations. The Melos amoris lavishes great energies on describing the mystical audition of this angelic song, frequently termed canor in Rolle’s Latin, over the course of the text. 178 ANDREW ALBIN

Canor emerges as constant sonorous coparticipation with the angelic choirs, a state of transcendent musical being unique to Rolle’s mystical discipline that receives greater sustained attention here than in any of his other writings. Reading Rolle’s “Melody of Love” thus requires not only that we dwell upon the love it expounds and by which it is inspired, but also that we reside in its melody, a critical exigency that the text’s scant scholarship has so far failed to meet. We might attribute this oversight to practical matters of accessibility, given the diffi culty of Rolle’s Latin and the absence of an English translation, 3 or to the neglect that the Melos amoris has long endured compared to Rolle’s other writings, thanks to the dismissive appraisals of its fi rst twentieth-century readers. 4 I believe this scholarly silence is also in large part due to the diffi culties literary and historical criticism encounter when attempting to analyze sound and its experience, the traces of which respond poorly to the analytical tools and methodologies these disciplines traditionally employ. Consequently, those scholars who have considered canor in relation to Rolle’s texts argue that, for example, the text transcribes canor , that the text is itself canor , or that canor amounts to a speech act.5 Such eff orts to shoehorn mystical song into a more critically comfortable textual or linguistic ambit strip away that aspect of canor that Rolle himself most prized: its music. By contrast, in this chapter, I draw attention to the dialogue between the Melos amoris ’s verbal and mystical musics, in an eff ort to “re-sound” analytically the text’s sonorous dimension, to recuperate the sound of the text in vocal performance as a powerful fulcrum for textual interpretation and spiritual experience. I begin by elaborating a thick description of the experience of mystical canor , drawing on Rolle’s famous narration of his fi rst audition of angelic song in Chapter 15 of the Incendium amoris . I then turn my attention to the Melos to reveal how it deliberately plays with the phenomenality of the heard voice, with the voice’s mediation by the material book, and with the perception and cognition of human and angelic sounds to generate meaning and desire. Attentiveness to how the Melos simultaneously summons and refuses voice, to how the text fl oods with and defaults of sound, reveals a sophisticated textual mode I term “canoric aesthetics,” which contemporary readers appear to have recognized and responded to. Perhaps optimistically, I would like to suggest that we can still hear traces of the sounds of Rolle’s Melos amoris , faint and distorted though they may be at almost 700 years’ remove, once we allow the text to teach us how to listen, according to the text’s own aural design.

Characterizing Canor In order to amplify the Melos amoris ’s sounded dimension, we fi rst must approach, as closely as possible, the sonorous phenomenon that resides at the text’s heart: mystical canor . Rolle warns us of the diffi culty of this task in the Incendium amoris , where he repeatedly affi rms the conventional ineff ability of angelic song that overwhelms bodily hearing and thus escapes the descriptive capacities of language:

Non suffi cio hunc clamorem describere, nec eciam quantus sit uel quasi iocundus cogitare, sentire, et eff erre promodulo meo potui. Sed uobis enarrare nec potui nec potero, quia ipsum sensum meum superare non ignoro. 6 LISTENING FOR CANOR 179

[I have not the wit to describe this shout, nor could I in my meager way describe how great it might be or how joyful to think, feel, and experience it. So I was not able and will not be able to tell you this, because I do not know how to surpass my senses.]

Beyond its nod to the familiar trope of mystical ineff ability, such a declaration emphasizes precisely what modern critics have tended to elide: canor ’s essential music, which exceeds the capacities of Rolle’s language not solely due to supra- sensory canor ’s divine origin but also due to the inability of language’s signifying and graphic systems to represent musical sound. Words do not record pitches, a failure that Rolle is keen to note. In Incendium amoris Chapter 34, he longs for the companionship of an author of melodies who might notate the musical pitches that Rolle’s verbal text systematically cannot represent and that Rolle apparently lacks the skill to notate himself. 7 Music stands out as the thing that most essentially characterizes canor , a quality that receives greatest emphasis as the Incendium comes to a close. In an impassioned prayer addressed to Jesus, Rolle boasts,

Mundi quippe amatores scire possunt uerba uel carmina nostrarum cancionum, non autem cantica nostrorum carminum; quia uerba legunt, sed notam et tonum ac suauitatem odarum addiscere non possunt. 8 [Lovers of the world can indeed know the words or verses of our songs, but not the singing of our verses; for they read the words but they cannot supply the note or the tone or the sweetness of these odes.]

Rolle draws a clear dividing line between the “uerba” that all men, worldly and elect, can read on the written folia of texts like the Incendium and Melos amoris , and the contrastively pitched music, the “notam et tonum,” that his text can never capture and that only the elect can hear layered atop his text’s words. In the closing moments of the Incendium amoris , one of his most widely read texts, Rolle expressly signals the incommensurability of language and music as a powerful token of grace, valorizing musical sonority as the privileged sensory domain of the elect. For Rolle, then, the essential quality of canor resides in the irreducible experience of its divine sonority, which is to say, in its specifi c, apperceptive aurality. Rather than probe mystical song for its verbal and textual qualities, then, a more appropriate method for getting closer to the lived experience of Rolle’s canor might be simply to ask, “What did it sound like?” 9 The obvious starting place for such an inquiry is Rolle’s detailed description of his own fi rst experience of canor in Incendium amoris Chapter 15:

Dum enim in eadem capella sederem, et in nocte ante cenam psalmos prout potui decantarem, quasi tinnitum psallencium uel pocius canencium supra me ascultaui. Cumque celestibus eciam orando toto desiderio intendem, nescio quomodo mox in me concentum canorum sensi, et delectabilissimam armoniam celicus excepi, mecum manentem in mente. Nam cogitacio mea continuo in carmen canorum commutabatur, et quasi odas habui meditando, et eciam oracionibus ipsis et 180 ANDREW ALBIN

psalmodia eundem sonum edidi. Deinceps usque ad canendum que prius dixeram, pre affl uencia suauitatis interne prorupi, occulte quidem, quia tantummodo coram Conditore meo. 10 [While I was sitting in that same chapel, and singing the psalms the best I could in the night before supper, I heard above me the ringing of psalm-chanters, or rather, of singers. And while I was occupied with heavenly matters in praying with all my desire, I cannot explain how, I next felt in me a choiring of song, and received a most delectable, heavenly harmony which dwelt with me in my mind. For my thought was transformed continually into canorous song, and I had odes as it were by meditation, and in those same prayers and in psalm-chanting I uttered the same sound. Thenceforth, continuously singing what before I had spoken, I burst out overflowing from inward sweetness, but privately, and only before my Maker.]

One notable feature of the passage is the way it emphasizes the present space and time of sonorous performance in which Rolle’s inaugural audition of angelic song occurs. Katherine Zieman points out how the narration juxtaposes two choral communities, one earthly, the other heavenly, and argues that the angelic choir’s divine authority supersedes the institutional authority of its monastic counterpart precisely “because of, rather than in spite of, the constraints of time, voice, and language.” 11 Where Zieman is interested in how the narrative reveals “the social and institutional dynamics of canor ,”12 I wish to reexamine the passage for what it can tell us about some more basic considerations—the acoustic, the aural, the aesthetic—upon which those social and institutional dynamics are built. Rereading the passage attentive to the experience of hearing it reports, we can notice that the text carefully constructs Rolle’s audition of canor upon the ground of an experience of hearing more readily identifi able to his readers, presumably educated, religious men13 : that of chanting night psalms in the company of other monastic worshipers in chapel. Indeed, the medieval reader of Chapter 15 of the Incendium amoris would have been cued to pay close attention to these competing acoustic profi les given the episode’s timing during vespers, a familiar evening service in a darkened space whose “sensory dimensions must have been blurred visually and perhaps sharpened aurally.” 14 The passage ostensibly draws attention to and juxtaposes two distinct acoustics produced by the two singing communities Rolle perceives as auditor, judging one of those acoustics superior in every respect. Comparing these acoustics can thus off er a diff erential glimpse of canor ’s characteristic qualities as sound experience. Seated in community, most likely in facing rows on either side of the architectural choir space, a celebrant of the night psalms would hear voices coming from around him, organized on a roughly fl at and horizontal aural plane. Depending on the seating arrangement, he would hear the distinct voices of individual singers on either side of and possibly behind him, and, somewhat less individuated but still fi xed in space, he would also hear projected toward him the voices of those seated across from him. The more typically blended sound we associate with choral singing would register only marginally for a monastic celebrant seated in this way; it would recede to the horizon of the sonorous fi eld in which the fl atter focal plane of voices was the most prominent feature. LISTENING FOR CANOR 181

In contrast to this, Rolle carefully locates the canor that he suddenly perceives “supra me,” above me. Canor unexpectedly descends from above, interrupting the familiar acoustic of individuated male vocal sound approaching from all sides with a heaven-sent choral clarion streaming from overhead. The special quality of this unanticipated, intrusive sound becomes clearer through the vocabulary Rolle uses to distinguish the two modes of vocal performance, one earthly, uninspired, and spoken, the other heavenly, transcendent, and profoundly musical. He disdains the night psalms he formerly chanted with his fellow religious when he uses the word “decantarem” to describe their continued activity, a verb indicating chant as a kind of habitual or rote recitation, a reeling off . 15 Their psalmody is “de-cantus,” a vocal performance that departs and detaches from the defi ning qualities of song and whose unmusical form Rolle later emphasizes when he compares the “canendum” (singing) of canor with the spokenness of psalmody “que prius dixeram” (that before I had spoken). By distinction, canor is “concentum canorum” (a choir ing of song), “delectabilissimam ar moniam” (most delectable harmony), “carmen canorum . . . quasi odas” (canorous song . . . odes, as it were)—the musicality of canor emerges as the ground of its diff erence from mundane psalm-singing, which seems mere speech by comparison. Indeed, Rolle goes so far as to dramatize his own process of coming-to-awareness of acoustic diff erence when he writes that he heard “quasi tinnitum psallencium uel pocius canencium” (the ringing of psalm-chanters, or rather, of singers). At fi rst, he takes the heavenly “tinnitum” to be like the vocalizations of monks chanting psalms, but upon refl ection he recognizes canor ’s absolute musical diff erence from worldly sound and promptly corrects himself, redescribing the “tinnitum” as the vocal production of singers as distinct from psalm-chanters, a revision that eff ectively removes human psalmody from the realm of the songful. 16

The Effects of Canor Another notable feature of Chapter 15 of the Incendium amoris is how it draws careful distinctions between canor ’s heard and uttered aspects in a way that can off er insight into how the one gives rise to the other. After realizing that he is, in fact, listening to a kind of heaven-sent sound that he has never heard before, Rolle feels his being begin to respond and transform: the harmony permanently fi xes in his mind, the psalms he performs take on a new character, and he com- mences a performance of spiritual song that will endure for the rest of his life. A fuller description of this interior transformation, what amounts to a permanent, almost involuntary musical responsiveness to canor , appears in Chapters 44–46 of the Melos amoris . Rolle launches these chapters with a vociferous quotation from Apocalypse 14: “Et vocem quam audivi sicut citharedorum citharizancium in citharis suis” (And the voice I heard was like the voice of harpers, harping on their harps), possibly marking off a new postillatory unit in his notoriously formless text. 17 He goes on to review the characteristic qualities of canor : it is inexpressible in words; it delights the soul through the senses while the soul is still in the fl esh; it is heaven-sent and felt directly by the soul, not mediated through external sense organs. 18 Rolle then extends canor ’s perceptual impact in 182 ANDREW ALBIN a surprising direction. Urging his audience to unplug their inner ears and open their inner eyes, he explains that canor has the power to screen off the fi ve corporeal senses from the world so that they turn inward to heed interior things: “in cantico intus et extra vitaliter inclusus. Sensus sic subsistent in intimis intenti et unum tam arte et avide astringunt, universis iam aliis penitus exclusis” ([the soul] is wrapped with life-giving song, both within and without. The senses thus recede, intent on what’s inward, and are tied tightly and avidly to a single object, because every other thing has now been thoroughly excluded from within). 19 Canor becomes an enclosure insulating the mystic from exterior infl uence; the soul is said to be “inclusus” like an anchorite in her cell. Divine song erects the walls of an inner architecture, blocking out the world not by denying sense perception but rather by fl ooding it with so much heavenly stimulus that no room is left for the world’s carnal lures. Rolle extends this architectural metaphor by drawing on widespread medieval iconography representing the fi ve corporeal senses as the windows and doors of a castle, such that those gifted with mystical sensation are “ostium anime undique oppilantes” (everywhere blocking the gates into the soul). 20 Across Rolle’s mystical writings, we readily see how metaphors actively structure the hermit’s lived, mystical experiences; this metaphor remakes his human form into a tightly sealed chamber open only to God. The mystical body becomes a kind of spiritual soundbox that gives back the sounds it receives, its living structures warming and brightening angelic music with human timbre: “in mentis misteriis resonat refeccio quam refero ad Regem” (in the mind’s mysteries [my soul] resonates with refreshment that I return to the King). 21 Rolle’s involuntary eruption into song after hearing canor for the fi rst time is thus a consequence of the sonorous instrumentalization of his human form. We might even compare the reverberant structure of Rolle’s being to the pronounced acoustics of gothic church architecture, which spurred innovation in music composition and liturgical performance in the later Middle Ages. Essentially, Rolle takes the architectural space of his fi rst encounter with canor , the resonant chapel in which he sings night psalms, and internalizes it, reconfi guring his corporeality to better suit his mystical ambitions. One startling consequence of this reverberant audition of canor is its trans- subjective elision of personal boundaries and resulting communalization of mystical union, more commonly represented in medieval Christian mysticism as intimate, solitary, and singular. The transformation of the human form into a sounding instrument blurs the lines between the mystic, his experience, and his God to powerful eff ect: “[Rolle] is the singer and the song; his God is the singer and the song, as are the angels and the blessed of heaven, and they are joined in one melody, both vocal and instrumental.” 22 Mystical music-making collapses distinctions between the singer and the song; the mystical singer becomes himself music. This ontological remaking of the contemplative’s being into music becomes a recurrent theme in Chapters 44–46 of the Melos amoris in sometimes surprisingly literal confi gurations. Rolle writes of those who “audientes organica neupmata nimirum ac sonum suscipiunt citharedorum ac sedent suaviter citharam ac cimbalum a se non separantes” (listening to LISTENING FOR CANOR 183 polyphonic descants receive the sound of the harp-singers and recline pleas- antly, unable to distinguish the harp and cymbal from themselves).23 This could mean either that the mystic becomes a musical instrument, played by the divine hand, or that he becomes the actual sound of the divine harp and cymbal. The text leans in favor of actual sound when it later describes the mystic as a “diatessaron devota,” a devout fourth, a musical consonance less perfect than the octave and unison but more stable than the imperfect major and minor third.24 At its pinnacle, mystical experience in the Melos amoris becomes a multivocal, communal concord on the ontological plane—the elect, the angels, and their three-personed God are sonorous, spiritual sounds that join substantially with one another to produce the divine harmonies that are most pleasing to Him. 25

Canoric Aesthetics This complex understanding of canor ’s experience proves crucial to understanding one of the most vexed problems attending the Melos amoris : what to do with the swells of rhythmic alliteration that regularly surge from the text. Take, for example, this passage from Chapter 17, to which I will shortly return in greater detail:

Frustra fundantur falsi fi deles quia funditus fi nietur fi ducia fenerantis et fumo inferni fi cti ferientur et omnes utique umbra honoris operti ut appareant in aulis avaris. Fervebunt fetentes formidine futura; formosus et fortis in feno falluntur et ideo imbuti impio instinctu fervore felici nunquam fruentur quia federati fuerunt in factis falsorum ut fi xi in fervore fi niendi favoris feruntur cum furibus in facibus frementes: horum fornax fetidus fauces iam fringet, nam fugiunt fi dem famamque fugant; sic fi lii feroces firmantur fortiter ut fundum furencium penetrent post pauca et penas percipiant perpetuo perdurantes. 26 [The false faithful lay a futile foundation, for the fidelity of financiers will fully fail and fumes of the inferno will flog the fraudulent along with crowds concealed under cover of commendation so they all assemble in avaricious auditoriums. The fetid will fall into feverish future fright; formidable foppish fellows will be defrauded with chaff and, since they are sodden with scandalous instinct, fortunate fervor will never favor them, for they fell confederates to the feats of falsifiers so that, fixed in a fury for foisting favors, they are fetched off with riffraff and fret, inflamed in firebrands; the foul furnace now fractures their pharynx, for they flee from faith and flout their fame to flight; thus are these ferocious offspring more firmly fortified to promptly pierce the paroxysmal pit and perceive its perpetually perduring punishments.]

Nicholas Watson captures the literary style this passage exemplifi es with gener- osity when he writes that the Melos “seems like a kaleidoscope” that invents a “luminous, shifting pattern whose strange beauty holds ear and eye even while the mind slides off in confusion. It is as if the jumbling of kinds of writing and modes of address that initially makes reading Incendium Amoris so annoying has been patterned until it becomes a formal principle.” 27 Watson’s description of 184 ANDREW ALBIN the cognitive eff ect of Rolle’s verbal music is apt—as the chains of consecutive consonants grow longer and longer, curiosity over exactly how long the hermit can keep up his staccato pyrotechnics tends to overtake attention to the actual meaning of the words at hand. Critics have been hard pressed to explain why alliteration is such a prominent feature of Rolle’s Latin works, especially the Melos . Given the hermit’s mystical orientation toward the ear, the natural and, I think, correct impulse has been to link the sound eff ects of his texts with the sound experience of his rapture— the verbal music of Rolle’s prose and the mystical music of his angelic choirs cannot help but recall and involve one another. As Watson remarks, to understand “Rolle’s supreme technical achievement . . . it follows that we must turn our attention to examining the precise relationship the Melos Amoris articulates between itself and the mystical experience of canor .”28 To date, critics have overwhelmingly conceived this relationship as mimetic in nature, supposing that Rolle sought to imitate, transcribe, or open access to canor through the sounds of alliteration. Any mimetic understanding of Rolle’s alliteration, though, must ignore his repeated and emphatic pronouncements on the inimitable singularity of canor , on canor ’s complete divorce and categorical diff erence from all sounds perceived from without by the ears. Indeed, for all of his spiritual sensations, Rolle goes to great lengths to distinguish authentic mystical heat, sweet, and song emitted directly into the soul from their ana- logical carnal sensations perceived from without by the body’s sensory organs. He makes just such a distinction in the Prologue of the Incendium amoris when he describes mystical fervor “sicut si digitus in igne poneretur feruorem indueret sensibilem” (as if a fi nger were put into fi re and enveloped with sensible heat), his simile indicating similarity not to highlight the continuity of material and mystical fi re but to reify their diff erence, as Rolle ostentatiously points out by gesturing to his fi gure of speech a few sentences later: “fl ammam . . . sub metaphora ignem appellaui” (I called it “fl ame” using fire as a metaphor). 29 Though both fl ame andfervor produce similar sensations of heat, they do so via diff erent sensory pathways that the aspiring contemplative would do well not to confuse. Rolle is at even greater pains to reassure his reader that fervor , dulcor , and canor are not products of an overactive imagination. The very fi rst sentence of Incendium amoris ’s Prologue insists on it: “sentiui cor meum primitus incalescere, et uere non imaginarie, quasi sensibile igne estuare” (at fi rst I felt my heart grow warm, and that was in truth, not in my imagination, as if it burned with sensible fi re). The same insistence reappears in Chapter 31, the fi rst chapter of what some manuscripts distinguish as the Incendium amoris ’s second book:

Non est ex simulacione aut imaginariis quod feci suscepcionibus, ut quidam de me interpretabantur; et quibus multi seducuntur, qui se suscepisse suspicati sunt quod nunquam susceperunt.30 [What I have done is not the product of feigning or of imaginative undertakings, as some regard my actions; and many indeed are led astray by such things, who suppose they have acquired what they never really received.] LISTENING FOR CANOR 185

Rolle’s admission that “many indeed are led astray” by dissimulating or imaginative audition of canor helps clarify why a mimetic understanding of the Melos ’s alliteration is untenable. By linking “simulacione” (feigning) with “imagini- ariis . . . suscepcionibus” (imaginative undertakings), Rolle already implies that imagined canor is a deceptive imitation of the real thing. To understand why more clearly, we need to recognize that when Rolle denies the role of the imagination in his spiritual sensations, he denies the imaginatio of Aristotelian faculty psychology as elaborated in Aristotle’s De anima , Thomas Aquinas’s commentary on the De anima , and the larger commentary tradition that fl our- ished around Aristotle’s text in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. 31 This tradition supplied the authoritative philosophical psychology of the later Middle Ages and assigned the imaginatio dual cognitive roles: abstracting all externally perceived sensations into immaterial forms perceptible by the soul, and constructing novel mental images (e.g., the prototypical golden mountain) from abstract forms called up from memory. Though denuded of their material acci- dents, imaginative forms were still derived from the things of the created world and susceptible to demonic infl uence; divine inspiration was of a higher order. For these reasons, the imaginatio could not fi gure into Rolle’s mystical sensory perception; contemplatives who fail to distinguish imaginative fabrications from authentic audition of angelic song mistakenly “suppose they have acquired what they never really received.” Texts further complicated the discernment of true canor in their dangerous ability to confuse the line between exterior and interior, material and immaterial, through the mimetic power of rhetoric. The psychology arising from the De anima commentary tradition had a signifi cant infl uence on medieval theories of rhetoric, providing systematic explanations for how written and spoken verbal signs could produce meaning and emotion in readers and audiences. 32 As Gregor Vogt-Spira explains in his study “Senses, Imagination, and Literature: Some Epistemological Considerations,” words were understood to “make our senses experience something absent, something not immediately available, and bring it prae sensibus ” through the vivid recombinatory power of the imaginatio . 33 In the rhetorically effi cacious reading of a text, the imaginatio apprehends the forms of the text’s words and assembles corresponding phantasmata from memory to be perceived so powerfully that “sensory perception brought about by the exterior world is not experienced as diff erent from the one evoked through texts.” 34 The ultimate end of rhetoric is thus “the elimination of the perception of diff erence” between textual signum and apperceptive res , through an active solicitation of the reader’s imaginative faculty. 35 Scholars who interpret Rolle’s alliteration as a mimetic strategy, then, sub- scribe to just such a theory of effi cacious rhetoric: alliteration bridges the gap between presentation and representation and allows the reader to experience absent and unavailable canor by bringing it vividly prae sensibus through imaginative means. Such an account of Rolle’s alliterative style cannot, however, square with his emphatic refusal of imagination in the authentic encounter with canor . Though hardly antipathetic toward mimesis—he uses it memorably in his vernacular Passion meditations, a genre of spiritual writing with which the 186 ANDREW ALBIN

imaginatio was tightly entwined 36 —it is diffi cult to see how Rolle would have employed mimesis in a mystical text like the Melos , which must seek to support the proper perceptual orientation of its readers and eschew those orientations that would mislead them in their spiritual progress. Though the mystical text must of necessity involve the imaginatio by dint of its verbal communication, it must ultimately exceed the imaginatio to enter into what amounts to an apophatic space of mimetic default where there can be no question of imaginative dissimulation. A text like the Melos amoris must spur more profound devotion through the intentional failure of its language’s mimetic capacities as it attempts to approximate the ineff able. We thus need an alternative account of Rolle’s alliterative style, one that can explain how the Melos ’s conspicuous sonorous patterning might help readers to exclude the imaginatio as much as they can, to augment their receptivity to genuine canor as much as they can, and to heighten their desire for mystical song to remarkable heights, without ever being able to deliver the experience itself. Instead of a mimetic aesthetics, then, I propose a canoric aesthetics proper to the Melos amoris that draws on the sonorities of both text and canor to promote the proper confi guration of aural, textual, and spiritual orientations among its readers. Fundamental to the operation of canoric aesthetics is, perhaps surprisingly, an insistence on the text’s aloud performance. Such insistence is not unique to the Melos : scholars like Joyce Coleman have inventoried the diverse array of actively voiced reading practices overwhelmingly common in late medieval England.37 More proper to the Melos amoris , prose alliteration reveals itself less readily to the scanning eye than through the speaking voice, absent the regular letterforms of the neatly typeset page. The Melos ’s meticulously scripted sound patterns best come to life when the text is read aloud. In addition to its alliteration, stylistic qualities that have irked many of the Melos ’s less sympathetic readers—its repetitiveness, its pointed self-reference, its sudden introduction of multiple speakers, its erratic shifts in theme, verb tense, and narratorial presence—are also all hallmarks of aloud performance, reminiscent of the kind of mystical performance that Mary Suydam has studied with respect to Beguine mystics of the Low Countries.38 By insisting that the Melos amoris be read aloud, canoric aesthetics summons a vocal performance that continually draws its audience’s attention to the patterned sonority of the text, to the sound that hovers just above and outside the reach of the text’s signifi cation. In doing so, it unremittingly activates sonority as a powerful arena of elevated experience, signaling that the text’s soundedness is meaningful while holding its precise meaning beyond the listener’s grasp, in the same way that the experience of canor is also beyond the capacities of the mystical aspirant’s perception. Canoric aesthetics thus structures an audience’s experience of the performance of the text to valorize and inspire longing for certain sounding and hearing practices, some of which the Melos amoris cannot in fact enact. This eff ect helps make canor real for the uninitiated, though it does not directly participate in that reality. Instead, canoric aesthetics fuels faith in and hope for the acquisition of canor and urges mystical aspirants to press on in their eff orts to attain Rolle’s rapturous states, thereby bolstering canor ’s authenticity, LISTENING FOR CANOR 187

Rolle’s authority, and the aspirant’s desire. In this way, through the Melos amoris ’s wrought alliterative style, canoric aesthetics makes poignant sound that is not there through sound that is there, circulating desire for sound through sound, without cease. Such an understanding of how the Melos amoris validates the mystical experience it describes through the generation and circulation of unsatisfi able desire locates Rolle’s text within a discursive tradition that modern critics have identifi ed as characteristic of mystical texts. Drawing on Michel de Certeau’s writings on mysticism, Karma Lochrie designates the medieval mystical text by the desire it elicits for an experience of divinity that cannot be had through the text alone. For Lochrie, mystical discourse founds its authority on the fi rst-person experience of divine encounter, yet it is “ultimately incapable of manifesting the divine utterance that founded it.” 39 The failure of the mystical text to “utter God” “provides a passage through utterance to something else . . . which is elsewhere than utterance”—ultimately, to the wellspring of desire that characterizes and drives mystical discourse in the fi rst place. 40 A more apt description of the Melos amoris from the perspective of canoric aesthetics could not be devised. What’s so remarkable about the Melos , though, is that as it participates in this discursive mode, the desire that the text generates is nothing less than desire for sound, for a coming into sound. The incommensurability of music and text that Rolle categorically insists upon is translated into actual sounding practice through the distinct and incommensurate relations of canor and alliteration. Living sound becomes the fulcrum of the Melos amoris ’s textual effi cacy as it actively shapes an audience’s aural experience to generate powerful desire. Though it is quite diffi cult to feel the eff ects of canoric aesthetics for ourselves—when we read the Melos amoris , we are not, of course, hermits enmeshed in the conditions and qualities of fourteenth-century medieval England— examining an exemplary passage can at least help to expose concrete manifes- tations of the textual eff ects meant to evoke sonorous desire in contemporary readers. I return to the passage quoted at the beginning of this section. Here, I have marked stress instead of quantitative accent and divided the Latin into its syntactic units, usually punctuated by conjunctions or clause-marking adverbs, to elucidate how the passage’s striking rhythmic quality plays with and against the Latin grammar:

Immediately, the text draws and sustains attention to its sounded quality in performance through the patterning of its fricative and plosive consonants and its dense weave of assonant vowels. It is a passage engineered for aural delight that 188 ANDREW ALBIN makes genuine demands of its performer—reading its consonantal barrage aloud requires a nimble tongue, agile lips, ample breath control, and calculated pacing. This is a diffi cult text that challenges and appeals to the body for its performance, not just to the body of its speaker, but also to the bodies of its auditors by training their aural attention to spoken words, to the demands those words make on the speaker’s vocal instrument, and to the pleasing eff ect the sounds of those words have on their own sense of hearing. When we scan the passage, we quickly notice its pronounced rhythm, yet Rolle is not composing in the classic meters of Latin verse, nor is he using Latin prose cursus . Here we have something much more homegrown: the passage splits not perfectly but more than coincidentally into an approximate four-beat alliterative line that would, in the decades after Rolle’s death, dominate the literature of England’s north. Each of these groupings usually comprises four words alliter- ating the same initial consonant, usually f , though alliteration and accent do not always coincide as they must in English alliterative verse. The alliterative pattern is not perfect: it does at times change in the middle of a grouping or carry over a few words into the next (e.g., “ut f úndum fur é ncium pen é trent post pá uca”); the meter at times stumbles and seems to break, only to resurge with renewed vigor in the next grouping (e.g., “h ó rum f ó rnax fé tidus f áuces iam fr ínget, | nam fú giunt f í dem fam á mque f úgant”). Taken as a whole, though, a powerful metrical sensibility inheres to the passage that is diffi cult to overlook. What is most important to notice here is that all this sophisticated sound work plays out above and beyond the words on the page and the meanings they convey. Look to the content of the passage, and it has nothing to do with canor — quite the opposite, it details the pains of hell, none of which are especially noisy. Two aspects of the text’s performance, it semantics and its sound, function independently of each other and are diffi cult to heed simultaneously: focus on the meaning and the alliteration becomes a background eff ect; focus on the rhythmic sound and the opposite occurs. This resistance to synchronicity between sense and sound further emphasizes the chasm between mystical text and heavenly music: just as alliteration rises and recedes at its own pace, unbeholden to the verbal content of the text, so canor grows and diminishes unpredictably for the contemplative who is graced by its audition. Just as canor acoustically layered its harmonies on top of the mundane singing of vespers in Incendium amoris Chapter 15, alliteration in the Melos amoris is formally layered on top of, but remains distinct from, signifying language, from which position it stirs up desires and devotions that may, in the end, lead to the longed-for heavenly sound that it does not, and cannot, off er.

Canoric Afterlives Rolle’s mystical texts were exceedingly successful in generating desire for canor . The margins of late-fourteenth- and early-fi fteenth-century manuscripts con- taining his works are full of brackets, glosses, notae, and maniculae that draw attention to descriptions of fervor , dulcor , and canor , at times expanding these marginal interventions to fuller commentary. Watson documents a fascinating LISTENING FOR CANOR 189 collection of direct textual responses, both supportive and critical, to the sensory enthusiasms of Rolle’s mysticism written by the generation of spiritual authors that succeeded him. 41 Indeed, Rolle’s mysticism found welcome among an expanding community of readers during this period, particularly among lay and female readers attracted to aff ective forms of devotional piety that emphasized emotional response to the humanity of Christ and so easily accommodated the sensorial fl ights of Rolle’s rapture. In ways that almost certainly exceeded Rolle’s aims, his mystical texts and the experiences they described soon spread well beyond the domain of dedicated solitary religious to whom they had initially been addressed and took on more widely popular appeal, fueling the remarkable growth of Rolle’s cult, in his native Yorkshire especially, during the 1370s– 1380s. 42 Devotion to the never-canonized St. Richard survived into the sixteenth century. At its peak, Rolle’s mysticism carried enough popular currency that a pious and illiterate laywoman like Margery Kempe could accurately paraphrase the Incendium amoris ’s Prologue to describe her own experience of mystical heat43 and could report angelic song in terms that faithfully echo Rolle’s:

Sche herd a sownd of melodye so swet and delectable, hir thowt, as sche had ben in paradyse . . . Thys melody was so swete that it passyd alle the melodye that evyr myght be herd in this world wythowtyn ony comparyson . . . And evyr aftyr this drawt sche had in hir mende the myrth and the melodye that was in heven. 44 [She heard the sound of a melody so sweet and delectable that she thought she had been in paradise . . . This melody was so sweet that it surpassed all the melody that might be heard in this world, without any comparison . . . And ever after being thus drawn [into melody], the joy and the melody that there was in heaven stayed in her mind.]

Dated to the turn of the fourteenth century, one manuscript, Lincoln College MS Latin 89, bears especially potent witness to the equal measures of enthusiasm and trepidation this more demotic form of Rolle’s mysticism generated. The manuscript’s sole contents are a heavily annotated, imperfect copy of the Melos amoris and a single gathering of fi fteenth-century music notation bound in at a later date; Lincoln College MS Latin 89 thus also sheds light on the particular fortunes of the Melos amoris and the canoric aesthetics the Melos espouses in the decades after Rolle’s death. Revealingly, the manuscript’s loquacious annotator 45 voices concern over the Melos amoris ’s sonorous orchestrations as early as the fi rst folio, on the bottom margin of which he draws attention to the uncertainties surrounding authentic canor and to the textual activities through which canoric aesthetics operates. Canor can only be known through direct experience, the annotator explains on folio 1v, in the same breath acknowledging the atmosphere of skepticism surrounding Rolle’s sensory mysticism: “Canticum de quo loquitur non est tale quale multi estimauerunt quia nemo potest cognoscere illud nisi qui accepit ceteris autem quamuis iusti et sancti sint incognitum est” (The song that he speaks of is not the sort that many judged it [to be], since no one can know it save him who has received it, while to others, however just and holy they may be, it is unknown). 46 While putatively referring to those early-fourteenth-century 190 ANDREW ALBIN detractors whose denouncements of canor Rolle vigorously refuted, the “iusti et sancti” who dismiss angelic song have their late-fourteenth-century counterparts in the conservative churchmen who, under Archbishop Arundel’s direction, sought to contain lay claims to spiritual authority and root out Wycliffi te heresy, of which Rolle’s writings had run afoul. 47 The popular, aff ective vogue for canor realized Arundel’s concern that “the teachings of Rolle . . . [would be] over-simplifi ed and distorted by over-enthusiastic and irresponsible followers.” 48 Angelic song is only supposed to be heard by God’s elect, and the authenticity of its inward audition is diffi cult to adjudicate—“nemo potest cognoscere illud nisi qui accepit” (no one can know it save him who has received it)—so its rising frequency among the followers of Richard the hermit was cause for concern and an easy target of anti-Lollard censorial reforms. Though he speaks out for the reality of true canor against those who would deny it, Lincoln College MS Latin 89’s annotator is far from heterodox in his advice to his readers. Echoing Arundel’s concern, he too expresses wariness over unrefl ective claims to canor : he openly admits the likelihood of false canor , attributing it to the machinations of the midday demon who affl icts monks and contemplatives with the vice of acedia , a listless torpor conducive to idle fl ights of fancy. The annotator goes on to clarify the diff erence between deceptive and authentic angelic song through a pithy exemplum: “nonnullus putauit se habere quod non habuit eo quod in solitudine sedit et capitis debilitatem incurrit in quo sonuit et putauit se audire melos angelorum illud autem de quo loquitur hic intra hominem est” (More than one has believed himself to have what he did not have because he sat in solitude and incurred feebleness of the head, in which state he made sounds and believed himself to hear angels’ melody. But that song which it speaks of here exists inside a man). The exemplum’s paraphrase of Incendium amoris Chapter 31—“multi . . . se suscepisse suspicati sunt quod nunquam susceperunt” (many . . . suppose they have acquired what they never really received)—is readily noted. At the same time, the exemplum echoes another text, Walter Hilton’s late-fourteenth-century epistle “Of Angels’ Song,” written to advise a fellow contemplative on the proper audition of Rollean canor . Hilton’s explanation of the causes of false canor bears more than a passing resemblance to the exemplum’s diagnosis of its foolhardy solitary:

He gedyrs hys wyttes be vyolence to seke & to behald heuenly thynges or hys eyghe be made gastly be grace, and ouertravailis be ymagynacion[s] hys wyttes, and be vndiscrete travelynge turnes þ e braynes in hys heued & forbrekes þ e myʒ tes & þ e wittes of þ e saule & of þ e body: & þan for febelnes of þ e brayn hym thynke þat he heris wondyrfull sownes & sanges; and þat is na thynge ellis bot a fantasye caused of trobelynge of þ e brayn.49 [He violently musters his wits to seek and behold heavenly things before his eye has been made spiritual through grace, and he overtaxes his wits because of his imaginings, and through excessive effort he turns his brains in his head and shatters the abilities and the wits of the soul and body. And then, due to feebleness of the brain, he thinks he hears wonderful sounds and songs, which is nothing more than a fantasy caused by troubling the brain.] LISTENING FOR CANOR 191

Both accounts are preoccupied with what Julie Orlemanski usefully terms the etiology of mystical experience, attributing delusory audition of canor to an over- taxed body, a feeble head, and an overweening imagination. Though Hilton’s etiology is more fi nely detailed, the annotator’s is more precisely attuned to the Melos amoris : he indicates that his solitary “sonuit et putauit se audire melos angelorum” (made sounds and believed himself to hear angels’ melody). That is, the exemplum’s confused mystic gives forth his own voice, hears the sounds he himself makes, and mistakes those sounds to be constitutive of canor , committing the mimetic fallacy the Melos is keen to ward against. What’s more, there are tantalizing hints that the annotator does not imagine the foolhardy solitary to make just any vocal sounds, but specifi cally those patterned verbal sounds coming from the alliterative text of the Melos amoris . Immediately preceding the exemplum comes a stern warning: “Cautus sit quisque qui lecturus sit hunc librum. Quamvis deseruit totum mundum non cito suspicetur se talem de quali loquitur hic” (Whoever is going to read this book: let him beware! However much he has abandoned the entire world, let him not quickly suspect himself [to be] such as it speaks of here). The warning is noteworthy for a variety of reasons. It conceives of the reader it addresses as precisely that, as a reader on the verge of the act of reading, as emphasized by the Latin’s active periphrastic construction. The imminence of that act of reading is made all the more palpable through the reference to “hunc librum,” “this book,” not just the Melos amoris but also Lincoln College MS Latin 89, the physical object that the reader holds in his hands and is at that moment reading. At the same time it makes us self-conscious of our current act of reading, the annotator’s warning slyly leads us into making the very mistake it cautions against. In the middle of a lengthy commentary that takes the “canticum” of the Melos amoris as its subject, the greater likelihood is that we will read the pair of minims comprising the third letter of the word “cautus” not as a u but as an n—that is, that we will read “cautus” as “cantus” upon fi rst encounter. Indeed, the annotator’s “cautus” on fol. 1v is remarkably close, graphemically speaking, to the “cantus” he writes near the end of the same annotation on the facing page, on fol. 2r ( fi gure 10.1). As we start to read what later turns out to be a warning against textual mis- construal and canoric presumption, minim corruption instead encourages us to fi nd the jussive promise of canor : “Cantus sit,” “Let there be song . . . ” and then the Latin grammar breaks down, we realize our error, and we must go back and revise our reading, chastened by a text that has misled us into feeble-mindedly believing we had what we did not have. We may even hear an echo of the Melos amoris ’s style in the warning’s rapid-fi re velar stops and voiced liquids—“ C autus sit q uisq ue q ui l ecturus sit hunc l ibrum”—implying that the graver mistake we should be wary of, and to which the foolish solitary in the exemplum falls victim, comes from mimetically mistaking the vocal sounds of alliteration for angelic song. Notably, the sophisticated textuality that here enlivens the annotator’s commentary only emerges when we read that commentary with canoric aesthetics fi rmly in mind. From such a perspective, we can detect the annotator’s sensitivity to the overlapping but distinctive repertoires of textual, vocal, and spiritual Figure 10.1 Graphemically similar (a) “Cautus” and (b) “Cantus” from the annotator’s original commentary. Copyright: Rector and Fellows, Lincoln College, Oxford, MS Latin 89, fols. 1v-2r. LISTENING FOR CANOR 193 performance that the Melos amoris advocates and that the Melos amoris ’s late- fourteenth-century readers practiced. His annotation ingeniously enacts for and draws its future readers into the bad reading it wishes to militate against. Around “hunc librum,” the physical object of the manuscript, the annotation constructs a present moment of reading for its future reader and implants that moment within a complex mesh of voices marginal and authorial, prelective and textual, human and angelic. The annotation then solicits one more readily had program of sonorous meaning congruent with the aff ective cultivation of canor and maps it onto the manuscript’s interpenetrating weave of voices, bodies, and texts, only to reject that aff ective program summarily in favor of a more diffi cult one that distances itself from aff ectivity’s imaginative register. In this way, the annotation takes up the Melos amoris ’s canoric aesthetics and extends them in response to the motivations, allegiances, beliefs, and desires of its expanding audience, in an eff ort to preserve the authenticity of canor and sustain the viability of canor ’s true acquisition under more enthusiastic but less encouraging cultural conditions at the turn of the fourteenth century. Lincoln College MS Latin 89 thus off ers powerful testimony to the strong appeal and ready diff usion of canor as a preeminent marker of divine favor for the generations who received, read, and disseminated Rolle’s mystical writings. It simultaneously attests to the skepticism surrounding aff ective experiences of canor and the great care devoted to distinguishing true angelic song from false. In turn, this strong appeal and this great care owe much to the unique potency of the aural meanings that constellate around canor , a potency rooted in the text of the Melos amoris and in those textual methods by which the Melos amoris puts aural meanings into circulation. To be sure, canoric aesthetics could never guarantee the integrity of the reading practices it prescribes for the Melos amoris —we need look no further than the rise of aff ective canor for ample evidence of alternative modes of reading Rolle’s mystical texts. Yet, by training our attention toward canoric aesthetics, by amplifying the Melos amoris ’s aural design and attending the mechanisms of that design’s operation, we come to reside more fully in the melody of the Melos and expand our sense of what medieval readers may have encountered when they took up Rolle’s virtuosic masterpiece. Beyond its interest, then, as a neglected major work and the most vibrant treatment of Rolle’s rapturous mysticism, beyond the window it opens onto an unstudied, extra- institutional, deeply sensory, and popular form of religious devotion that thrived during the English late Middle Ages, the Melos amoris instructs us in how to encounter medieval texts more richly, not just by reading them for what they say, but also by listening to them for what they do.

Notes 1 . E. J. F. Arnould describes the surviving manuscripts of the Melos amoris in Richard Rolle, The Melos Amoris of Richard Rolle of Hampole , ed. E. J. F. Arnould (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1957), lxxi–lxxxiii. At least seven more copies of the text are attested in library catalogues, including the autograph that resided at Syon. Hope 194 ANDREW ALBIN

Emily Allen mentions most of these in Writings Ascribed to Richard Rolle, Hermit of Hampole and Materials for His Biography (New York: Heath, 1927), 115–16. 2 . It is unclear what title, if any, Rolle had in mind for the text we now call the Melos amoris . Unlike the Incendium amoris , whose title Rolle indicates in the text’s Prologue, the Melos makes no clear internal mention of a title; he refers to the Melos as a “liber de perfeccione et gloria sanctorum” in the Super Lectiones Mortuorum , but I find it unlikely that Rolle knew the work by that name. Colophons, wills, and library catalogues almost all title the text Melum contemplativorum , Melos amoris , or some variation thereof. Though not unequivocal evidence of Rolle’s title for the work, it is noteworthy that the word “melum” or “melos” almost always appears in connection with the text. 3 . I am currently preparing a multimedia alliterative translation of the Melos amoris , forthcoming from the Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies’s Mediaeval Sources in Translation Series. 4 . Carl Horstmann’s 1896 remarks on Rolle’s authorship of the Melos amoris are exemplary: “His defects lie on the side of method and discrimination; he is weak in argumentation, in developing and arranging his ideas. His sense of beauty is natural rather than acquired, and his mind is too restless to perfect his writings properly. His form is not sufficiently refined, and full of irregularities; his taste not unquestionable; his style frequently difficult, rambling, full of veiled allusions—much depends on the punctuation to make it intelligible; his Latin incor- rect and not at all classic—it is the Latin of his time and, besides, full of solecisms and blunders of his own; it is not surprising that the learned of the guild should have looked down upon his rusticity.” Carl Horstmann, ed., Yorkshire Writers: Richard Rolle of Hampole, an English Father of the Church, and His Followers (New York: Macmillan, 1896), 2:xxxv–xxxvi. Allen echoes Horstmann’s sentiments in Writings Ascribed to Richard Rolle , 118. Arnould, the Melos ’s editor princeps , continues this heritage, describing the work’s literary style as “prolix and orderless,” a product of “Rolle’s untidy mind”; he disapproves of “the somewhat disconcerting ‘looseness’ of Rolle’s style, its redundancies, its digressions, and indeed its most distinctive features . . . reflections of his impulsive and highly-strung tempera- ment in its various moods” (Rolle, Melos Amoris , xvii, lxi). 5 . Denis Renevey claims the Melos amoris to be “a textual transcription of canor . . . [that] calls for a vast array of rhetorical techniques, such as the use of alliteration, balance, and anaphora” to capture the mystical experience mimetically. Denis Renevey, Language, Self and Love: Hermeneutics in the Writings of Richard Rolle and the Commentaries on the Song of Songs (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2001), 94. Nicholas Watson claims that the “ Melos Amoris represents itself as equivalent to canor ” such that “the text is canor .” Nicholas Watson, Richard Rolle and the Invention of Authority (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 180. In another article, he concedes that “reading the Melos gives us a reflection of canor , though it is not canor itself.” Nicholas Watson, “Translation and Self-Canonization in the Melos Amoris ,” in The Medieval Translator: The Theory and Practice of Translation in the Middle Ages , ed. Roger Ellis (Cambridge, UK: D. S. Brewer, 1989), 167–80. Katherine Zieman frames canor in the terms of Austinian speech act theory, locating its power in its “capacity to produce excess meaning in its performance—a sense of illocutionary force perceived as sacred.” Katherine Zieman, “The Perils of Canor : Mystical Authority, Alliteration, and Extragrammatical Meaning in Rolle, the Cloud -Author, and Hilton,” Yearbook of Langland Studies 22 (2008): 145. LISTENING FOR CANOR 195

6 . Richard Rolle, The Incendium Amoris of Richard Rolle of Hampole , ed. Margaret Deanesly (New York: University of Manchester, 1915), 243. All Latin quotations of the Incendium are taken from this edition. English translations are mine. 7 . There is no evidence that Rolle ever wrote music. Presumably, he would have learned how to read music as part of his ecclesiastical training, and there are strong indications in his texts’ vocabulary that he read in music theory, most likely during his two or three years of study at Oxford University. Whether the hermit actually could write music or not is, of course, beside the point; he consistently takes the stance that he lacks the ability to record the music of canor , a strategically important incapacity for the operation of canoric aesthetics. 8 . Rolle, Incendium Amoris , 278. 9 . This is not to say that canor is absolutely divorced from words. In Incendium amoris Chapter 32, the hermit indicates that the mystic “eadem oda etsi non eisdem uerbis laudes Deo resonabitur” (will resound the same praises to God with the same song, though not the same words). Even so, canor ’s defining quality remains its expansive soundedness: “pre habundancia interni gaudii et sonoritate singulari pneumatizando moram faciens, quod prius ipsum non nisi per unius hore spacium occupabat: iam sepe per dimidiam diem uix implebit” (tarried by the abundance of inward joy and singular sonority while singing, what once occupied him for no longer than an hour he now will find difficult to fulfill in half a day). Rolle, Incendium Amoris , 237. 10 . Rolle, Incendium Amoris , 189–90. 11 . Zieman, “Perils of Canor,” 144. 12 . Zieman, “Perils of Canor,” 139. 13 . In spite of Rolle’s insistence that he writes the Incendium “non philosophis, non mundi sapientibus, non magnis theologicis infinitis quescionibus implicatis, sed rudibus et indoctis” (not for philosophers, nor lovers of the world, nor great theologians embroiled in infinite questions, but for common and unlearned men) (Rolle, Incendium Amoris , 147), it becomes clear over the course of the text that he addresses a devout male audience, “fratres” (Rolle, Incendium Amoris , 168, 185, 191), who, far from common and unlearned, can read Latin and entertain thoughts of entering the solitary contemplative life. 14 . Mary Suydam, “Beguine Textuality: Sacred Performances,” in Performance and Transformation: New Approaches to Late Medieval Spirituality , ed. Mary Suydam and Juanna Ziegler (New York: St. Martin’s, 1999), 195. Though Suydam makes this claim with respect to the communal, sensual performativity of Beguine mystical texts, her insight into the shift of sensory focus in the dimly lit nighttime chapel still pertains. 15 . The Oxford Latin Dictionary reinforces this sense, defining the verb as “To recite through in a singing tone, chant (usu. in a disparaging sense)” and “(transf.) to reel off, repeat.” Oxford Latin Dictionary, combined edition, ed. P. G. W. Glare (New York and London: Oxford University Press), s.v. “d ē cant ō .” 16 . Rolle expresses the difference between psalmody and canor (“quasi tinnitum psallencium”) the same way he does the difference between sensible fire and fervor (“quasi sensibile igne”), again underlining the difference between material and mystical stimuli. 17 . Rolle, Melos Amoris , 135.33–34. All Latin quotations of the Melos are taken from Arnould’s edition and give page and line numbers. English translations are mine. 18 . Rolle, Melos Amoris , 136.11–19. 196 ANDREW ALBIN

19 . Rolle, Melos Amoris , 136.22–24. 20 . Rolle, Melos Amoris , 89.19–20. For the architectural iconography of the senses, see Elizabeth Sears, “Sensory perception and its metaphors in the time of Richard of Fournival,” Medicine and the Five Senses , ed. W. F. Bynum and Roy Porter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 17–39. 21 . Rolle, Melos Amoris , 16.26–27. Another striking example of Rolle’s reverberant instrumentalization of the human form can be found at 137.17–22. 22 . Sara deFord, “Mystical Union in the Melos Amoris of Richard Rolle,” in The Medieval Mystical Tradition in England: Papers Read at the Exeter Symposium, July 1980 , ed. Marion Glascoe (Exeter, UK: University of Exeter, 1980), 189. 23 . Rolle, Melos Amoris , 136.32–34. 24 . Rolle, Melos Amoris , 142.34. We might locate in this striking image an extended metaphor that maps spiritual perfection onto intervallic perfection by way of the technical language of medieval music theory. 25 . See, for example, Rolle, Melos Amoris , 138.17–18, 140.12–16, and 144.8–13. 26 . Rolle, Melos Amoris , 52.33–53.6. 27 . Watson, Richard Rolle and the Invention of Authority , 172. 28 . Watson, Richard Rolle and the Invention of Authority , 174. 29 . Rolle, Incendium Amoris , 145–46. 30 . Rolle, Incendium Amoris , 234. 31 . For the De anima commentary tradition and its controversies, see Sander W. De Boer, The Science of the Soul: The Commentary Tradition on Aristotle’s De anima , c.1260–c.1360 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2013); and Paul J. J. M. Bakker and J. M. M. H. Thijssen, eds., Mind, Cognition and Representation: The Tradition of Commentaries on Aristotle’s De anima (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2007). Rolle would have been exposed to the Aristotelian corpus during his studies at Oxford; he cites the philosopher’s Physics 7.3 in Incendium amoris Chapter 14. 32 . See also the chapters by Ghislain Casas and Robert Stanton in this volume (chapters 1 and 2, respectively). 33 . Gregor Vogt-Spira, “Senses, Imagination, and Literature: Some Epistemological Considerations,” in Rethinking the Medieval Senses: Heritage/Fascinations/Frames , ed. Stephen G. Nichols, Andreas Kablitz, and Alison Calhoun (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2008), 53. 34 . Vogt-Spira, “Senses, Imagination, and Literature,” 54. 35 . Vogt-Spira, “Senses, Imagination, and Literature,” 54. 36 . For the role of the imagination in Passion meditations, see Michelle Karnes, Imagination, Meditation, and Cognition in the Middle Ages (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011); and Robert Worth Frank, Jr., “ Meditationes Vitae Christi : The Logistics of Access to Divinity,” in Hermeneutics and Medieval Culture , ed. Patrick Gallacher and Helen Damico (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989), 39–40. See also Alastair Minnis, “Affection and Imagination in ‘The Cloud of Unknowing’ and Hilton’s ‘Scale of Perfection,’” Traditio 39 (1983): 323–66. 37 . Joyce Coleman, Public Reading and the Reading Public in Late Medieval England and France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 38 . Suydam notes how “many scholars have noticed the tendency of medieval women’s devotional texts to be repetitive, to wander around the point, and to feature dialogues that seem forced or ‘stagy.’ Yet such techniques may work perfectly well from a performance, rather than from a literary perspective.” Suydam, “Beguine Textuality,” 196. 39 . Karma Lochrie, Margery Kempe and Translations of the Flesh (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991), 68. LISTENING FOR CANOR 197

40 . Lochrie, Margery Kempe and Translations of the Flesh , 69. 41 . Watson, Richard Rolle and the Invention of Authority , 261–4. 42 . For the development and spread of Rolle’s cult, see Jonathan Hughes, Pastors and Visionaries: Religion and Secular Life in Late Medieval Yorkshire (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell and Brewer, 1983), 301–2. 43 . Margery Kempe, The Book of Margery Kempe , ed. Lynn Staley, TEAMS Middle English Text Series (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 1996), http://d. lib.rochester.edu/teams/publication/staley-the-book-of-margery-kempe . Book 1, Chapter 35, lines 2062–64 translates without attribution Rolle’s description of fervor as similar to placing one’s finger in the fire. 44 . Kempe, The Book of Margery Kempe , Book 1, Chapter 3, lines 241–50. The modern translation is mine. There are as many references to canor as there are to fervor in The Book of Margery Kempe . For a more detailed discussion of Kempe, see Julie Orlemanski’s contribution to this volume ( chapter 7). 45 . The annotator has left no overt trace of his identity, though there are clues scattered throughout the manuscript that suggest he was an Augustinian canon from Lincolnshire. 46 . Transcriptions of Lincoln College MS Latin 89 have been silently emended for intelligibility. I have expanded abbreviations, regularized punctuation, conser- vatively supplied wanting letters due to damage, and removed scribal reduplica- tions. English translations are my own. 47 . Hughes documents the anxious attention Rolle’s works received from Arundel and his circle in Pastors and Visionaries , 216–45. 48 . Hughes, Pastors and Visionaries , 237. 49 . Horstmann, Yorkshire Writers , 1:179–80.

CHAPTER 11

MARY BETWEEN VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS: THE LATIN MEDITATIONES OF BERNARD DE ROSIER

Cé dric Giraud

Mysticism is the domain in which language, confronted with the Absolute, tests its own limits. Following this idea, we might say that the Virgin Mary, as she is presented to us in Christian tradition, off ers mysticism a paradigmatic fi gure.1 As mother to Jesus Christ, Mary fi nds herself, through the Incarnation, in one of human life’s most signifi cant relationships—that of mother and child—with God himself. Yet the canonical Gospels remain largely taciturn regarding the physical and aff ective contact between Mary and her child, or the whole range of mani- festations that relationship supposes. In the evangelical canon, Mary expresses herself verbally by means of fi a t , uttering just a few words at Cana, and making only rare interventions during Jesus’s public ministry. 2 One branch of Christian tradition was content with this terseness, and came to consider Mary’s silence as exemplary of a life lived in God’s presence. In this view, the character of Mary’s status as the “Virgin of Silence” constitutes the most perfect response possible to the mystery worked through her. God’s intervention in the course of human history calls for mute reverence, and language can only ever be an imperfect recourse. 3 However, another current of Christian tradition was by no means satisfi ed with this interpretation of the Virgin. Beginning in the fi rst centuries of Christianity, piety and inventiveness attributed to Mary a much richer life than what the narrative contained in the four canonical Gospels recognized by the Church might lead us to suppose. 4 In parallel to the doctrinal quarrels that marked the fi rst generations of Christianity, the faithful sought to describe Mary’s life and words, notably in the apocryphal Gospels widely read throughout the Middle Ages. 5 These Apocrypha preserve for us the words supposedly pronounced by Mary; of equal or greater importance, they also bear witness to the traces of communication between Christian believers and a Marian fi gure conceived of as a living person possessed of certain unique privileges—for instance, that of having ascended directly to Heaven after her earthly life. Indeed, Mary’s Assumption 200 CÉDRIC GIRAUD gives the Virgin yet another claim to exceptional status among human beings, for she shares with her son Jesus Christ alone the honor of not having to wait for the Last Judgment to see her body united with her soul. Mary’s privileged status, epito- mized in her divine maternity and in the Assumption, thus led Mary to become the point of departure for a long tradition of literary creations in which Mary speaks in order to render an account of her experience in the history of salvation. Mary thus becomes both a recipient for, and the subject of, the words of the faithful; this is to say that Christian authors expressed their relationship to the Savior’s mother both by speaking to Mary and by making Mary speak . Many of the most interesting literary creations concerning the Virgin Mary are to be found in examples taken from the genre of the meditation. 6 Meditation serves as both a stage of spiritual life based primarily on the logos and as the transcription of that life, so that written meditations act as both an incitation to the spiritual exercise of meditation and also as a model for its execution. The nature of medieval meditation is double, situated between reading (lectio ) and contemplation (contemplatio ), that is to say, between a way of reading a text in order to extract from it a truth that is to be internalized, and a literary genre whose religious content is supposed to favor this practice. Saint Augustine plays a major role in this history of meditation as both genre and practice, for it is he who provides the means of expression and the new themes that, from the time they were fi rst taken up with favor by Christian tradition, shaped the stylistic and doctrinal repertoire for both medieval and modern meditations. Augustine’s Confessions furnished a model that would be followed by generations, even centuries, of readers, insofar as the elements of Augustine’s autobiographical narrative combine both the introspection that meditation nurtures and a template for confession, understood here as the in-tandem recognition of one’s status as a sinner and celebration of divine misericordia . In consequence, for Augustine, meditation consists simultaneously of refl ection and of a form of confessional speech whose traces must be written down. The passage into writing is fundamental, since its purpose—for Augustine as for the literary tradition shaped by his infl uence—is to preserve the aliveness of a whole spiritual process that carries man from the contemplation of his misery to praise of God. The considerable success of Augustine’s Confessions in the West inaugurates a kind of literary outlet for the practice of meditation. From a potentially solitary exercise predestined to interiority and silence, meditation becomes, under the infl uence of Augustine, a speech act that writing enables to remain perennial. To make itself heard, the meditative voice must thus have recourse to writing, which possesses a double function. The meditation’s con- servation in writing serves, fi rst, as a memorial for the author, who in this way eter- nalizes the trace of the spiritual process that led him to discover God. Writing also serves as an encouragement to future readers who are supposed to use the text as a model from which to practice their own meditations. This double character reveals how the meditative text sustains within itself traces of an orality that make possible a kind of communication between God and the text’s reader. Several important studies have traced the meditative genre’s birth in Latin at the dawn of the twelfth century up to its apogee in the classical period, and onward through its decline in the eighteenth century. Jean-Fran ç ois Cottier, for MARY BETWEEN VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS 201 instance, has highlighted the seminal role played by Anselm of Canterbury in the formalization of a genre that progressively dissociated itself, at the end of the eleventh century, from other forms inherited from the high Middle Ages, such as prayers borrowed from the Psalms. 7 At the other end of this spectrum, the genre’s decline has been related in detail by Christian Belin. Centering his study on meditative texts of the French seventeenth century, Belin off ers a panoramic view of meditative practice and the Bible, from Anselm of Canterbury through the end of the classical period. 8 Yet much about this history remains to be studied. If the meditative voice has to pass through writing to be heard, meditative writings cannot be active unless they are read. With this thought in mind, we observe that a large range of medieval meditative literature remains unknown, since the passage from copying manuscripts to printing books exercised a kind of selective action on these texts, on which historians continue to depend heavily. Among all the meditative voices that fell silent for lack of readers, that of the renowned legal thinker and fi fteenth-century archbishop of Toulouse Bernard de Rosier deserves special mention. 9

Bernard de Rosier Born in 1400 to a family of offi cials living in Toulouse, Bernard entered the cathedral chapter of Saint Stephen when he was eighteen. Bachelor in utroque in 1421, he was proclaimed doctor before 1426 and pursued an ecclesiastical cursus honorum crowned by the offi ce of chancellor, which he received in June or July of 1427. He then consecrated the 1430s to his university career and writing, becoming chapter provost. His presence at the curia in Rome in 1444 and his writings in favor of pontifi cal power were rewarded when he was fi rst named bishop of Bazas in 1447, then of Montauban in 1450, and fi nally, in 1452, archbishop of Toulouse, the intellectual and political capital of Southern France. Although he is well-known as the author of numerous legal consultations and treatises on the Church, it is often overlooked that Bernard de Rosier also wrote several Marian treatises. Bernard’s as-yet-unpublished Marian texts are known through two surviving manuscripts, both contemporary with their creation during the second half of the fi fteenth century. 10 These texts constitute a documentary source of primary importance on account of their length (a total of more than 200 pages), their exclusively Marian subject matter, and the synthesis they bring to prior traditions. Yet although these texts off er a remarkable example of the reception of the Augustinian meditative tradition they have not previously been studied. 11 According to an organization instituted in all probability by the author himself, the two remarkably similar manuscripts each contain six works by Bernard, which in their ensemble use a combination of exegesis, preaching, hymns, and so forth to praise Mary and to make her voice heard. Before delving into deeper analysis, let us pause for a moment to survey their ensemble. Each work, and in consequence the manuscript in which each is contained, can be used as the support for an act of meditation; most take the form of a dialogic address, whether Bernard speaks to Mary or Mary speaks to men. We thus recognize in these meditations an occasion to make Mary speak directly, both as 202 CÉDRIC GIRAUD a memorial to Bernard’s own private devotion to Mary, and as an invitation to readers to prolong their own piety through the practice of meditation. First comes the Typological Explanations on the Pentateuch (Paradigmata super Penthateucum ), in which de Rosier proposes interpretations drawn from the fi rst fi ve books of the Old Testament and applied to Mary. Each group of typologies ( paradigmata ) is followed by an epignerarium laudis , that is, a tribute of praise in the form of a prayer addressed to the Virgin, which reprises the theme of the biblical book whose study it closes. The second text, of identical method, off ers an exegetical commentary on the Song of Songs ( Expositio super Cantica ). In it, de Rosier proposes a literal reading that suggests an updated interpretation connecting the words attributed to Solomon in the Song of Songs to what the Gospels say about Mary. As in the fi rst text, each chapter is paired with a prayer (here called a suf- fragium ) imploring the Virgin’s help in diff erent circumstances of spiritual life. The third work is a Breviary, or Summary on angelic salvation ( Breviarium, or Viridarium super salutacione angelica ) which explains the prayer “Hail Mary” ( Ave Maria ) in no fewer than 12 chapters. Unlike the fi rst two texts, this breviary is more of a fl ori- legium, or anthology, composed of citations from Latin Fathers such as Augustine and Jerome, and medieval authors such as Anselm of Canterbury and Bernard of Clairvaux. De Rosier calls the fourth work a Roman Journey on the “Magnifi cat” (Itinerarium Romanum super “Magnifi cat” ). He divides this fourth work into ten parts, each one further divided into three stages: an explanation (collatio ) explaining the sense of the angelic salutation, a meditation ( meditatio ) praising the Virgin, and a short concluding prayer ( oratio ). The fi fth composition, the Concordance of Old Men on the Apocalypse ( Concentus seniorum super Apocalipsim ), returns more explicitly to typological exegesis, proposing a commentary on the 24 old men of the Apocalypse, spiritual beings who surround God, and whom Bernard identifi es as characters from the Old and New Testament, all heralds of Mary. Finally, the sixth opus is made up of a series of eight sermons preached by Bernard de Rosier during diff erent Feasts of the Virgin. This corpus follows the rules of the sermo modernus , a kind of sermon typical in the ambit of the University and which is characterized by the use of biblical themes, scholarly structures, and frequent recourse to Church authorities (i.e., the auctoritates ).12 Six of these eight sermons are precisely dated, from December 8, 1425, for the oldest to April 1, 1431, for the most recent. These years for which we possess Bernard’s sermons and treatises correspond to diffi cult times for the inhabitants of Toulouse. In fact, the population of the city suff ered through numerous crises, including fi res and war, but also epidemics and food shortages that were the cause of hunger riots and misery. 13 It is in part this troubled social context that explains the place Bernard reserves for Mary in his spiritual writings. To speak to Mary and to make Mary speak appear in this light as the best means to reassure and protect the social body of a suff ering city.

When Bernard Speaks to Mary The prefaces Bernard provides for these works allow the reader to glimpse at the rules that, according to Bernard, govern human speech addressing the mother of MARY BETWEEN VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS 203

God. They thus deepen our understanding of how the author conceived of his literary oeuvre, and the role of voice in it. This question concerns, above all, the vocabulary of praise. Mary’s eminent status among all creatures is such that one may only speak of her in the superlative. As the subject of praise par excellence , the Virgin remains inaccessible to the human speaker. It is impossible for men— and in particular for the narrating sinner Bernard de Rosier—to praise Mary adequately; that is challenge only God can meet. At the same time as Bernard’s writing seeks to demonstrate the impossibility of adequate praise for the Virgin, he seeks to obtain the Virgin’s mercy in order to legitimize his speech and make his act of meditative writing possible. It is necessary, however, to recognize that this tension, inaugurated and recollected by the author at the threshold of each work, creates only an apophasis, a kind of trompe l’ œ il silence. Bernard’s belief in the power of Mary’s intercession and the help she can bring allow the author to overcome the pious fear of remaining mute when confronted by divine inef- fability. The confi dence Bernard has in the virtue of Mary’s intercession itself engenders a rhetoric of praise (encomium ) that supplants all fi gures of euphemism, suspension, or reticence. The very structure of the Breviarium (i.e., the third work in this corpus), in which Bernard explains the Ave Maria , attests to this confi dence. The work’s preface is composed of citations by seven doctors, each of which insists on the insuffi ciency of human language as regards Marian praise. This is compensated for, even eff aced by, the final prayer, a sort of “Our Lady” in seven parts drawn from well-known Catholic authors in imitation of the model of the “Our Father” ( Pater noster ) constructed in seven requests. The classical rhetorical requirement of aptum , that is, of a balance between the subject and its treatment, fi nds an apparently felicitous Christian application in this descriptive address to Mary. Once the conventionalized assertions of incompetence and sin Bernard includes in his prefaces have been overcome, nothing stands between his words and Mary herself. Even though situations such as the encounter with God lead to muteness for other Christian authors, for Bernard, there is no spiritual experience that cannot fi nd expression in words, and no situation in which God cannot be touched through words. Language plays the role of a transparent vehicle that gives direct access to the Virgin’s many titles, powers, and virtues, which are expressed most often using the superlative mode. One of the most typical examples of this encomiastic prose art comes from the fi rst work in these manuscripts, the Typological Explanations on the Pentateuch :

Lux diei preclara, Maria beatissima, mira luce clarissima, celesti fulgens splendore, virgo splendendissima, super choros angelorum in celis serenissima, pollens animi decore, in terris nitidissima, ubique lux beatorum, gloria et laus supernorum, in splendoribus sanctorum omni laude dignissima. 14 [O living light of day, most blessed Mary, burning with a most admirable light, shining with heavenly radiance, most splendid Virgin, most serene in the heavens above the angelic choirs, full of the beauty of the soul, purest on Earth, everywhere light of the blessed, glory and praise of the inhabitants of Heaven, most worthy of all praise in the splendor of the saints.] 204 CÉDRIC GIRAUD

Mary is the most worthy creature of all creation; the words addressed to her must be worthy of their recipient. The fact that Bernard fi nds in this superlative style an address adequate to Mary holds important literary consequences. For Bernard to make Mary speak in these dialogues is to substantiate his own words without risk of challenge. Bernard’s stylistic recourse to the superlative off ers the writer a form of certainty of possessing a voice authorized to speak to Mary, something that indirectly grants the speaker his own form of incontestable authority. The recourse to a language of superlatives holds doctrinal consequences as well, since addressing Mary as the most perfect creation supposes that one recognizes her as possessing every possible kind of perfection. Following the example of Anselm of Canterbury and others, Bernard applies a form of superlative argument to Mary: The Virgin in her eminent purity surpasses all creatures and, excepting that of God, one can neither conceive of nor express purity greater than hers. In this way we might say that Bernard off ers his own resolution, in 1425, of a question so controversial as the nature of Mary’s conception; he does so, moreover, 14 years before the offi cial defi nition given by the Council of Basel in September 1439, and without mention of the pars contra . 15

When the Virgin Speaks To understand the way in which Bernard makes the Virgin Mary speak, the most signifi cant text is the collection’s extraordinary sixth sermon, written for Good Friday. For this sermon on Mary’s pain and martyrdom on the day of Christ’s Passion, Bernard writes from within Mary’s point of view—that is, the focalization of his sermon is through Mary. At nearly 8,000 Latin words, Bernard’s text thus constitutes a veritable theatrical play. Its remarkable length both makes it a true treatise on the subject of meditation on the Passion, and also tends to exclude the possibility that it could have been delivered in a properly liturgical context in its complete form. Although at least some part of the text was doubtless preached, the act of writing gives rise to an amplifi cation intended for the text’s use in meditative practice. In this sense, the sermon combines orality and writing, poised between the orality of Bernard’s actual preaching, the author’s act of writing-down, the copyist’s transcription, and the appropriation by the meditating believer who reads the text silently or aloud. The sermon’s structure is itself quite complex, since it is composed in seven dialogues between the faithful and the Virgin, each one ending with a speech by the Virgin to Christ. Beginning in the second dialogue, Mary’s words are amplifi ed by further remarks (acclama- tio ) addressed to Jesus’s disciples, Judas, the Jews, Pilate, and the executioners, all actors in the Passion. In the sixth dialogue, these remarks are replaced by seven complaints (querimonia ) that Mary addresses to various interlocutors, ranging from God the Father to the wood of the Cross. As for the seventh and fi nal dialogue, it includes seven sighs (suspirium ) that render it an implicit counterpart to the words spoken by Christ on the Cross. The text concludes at last with six complaints ( planctus ) in the style of Old Testament lamentations. We might say that the purpose of this discourse is to address the past and present listeners who form a receptive community. In order for the faithful to MARY BETWEEN VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS 205 understand the Virgin Mary as she appears here, it is necessary to prepare them for her speech. For this reason, a prayer to the Virgin precedes each of Mary’s own theatricalized interventions: in it, the faithful (the reader or listener) asks Mary to show him her tears, so that he may understand the pain of her heart and the nature of the martyrdom she has suff ered. Thus in the sermon’s very first dialogue, Bernard addresses the Virgin so that she might deign to communicate and explain her pains to the reader in a dialogue of lamentation (treni dyalogo ). The Virgin must show herself to the faithful so that they also lament; the pain of compassion must break their stone hearts and allow them to take part in the merits of the Passion of Christ. Thus the prayerful beseech Mary, and she answers them, saying:

Filii mei quia dolore compati, fl ere et gemere cupitis mecum, pariter respondeo vobis: ecce mater. 16 [Because you wish to share in my pain, to cry and lament with me, I respond to you as well: Here is your mother.]

The other dialogues repeat this structure: Bernard, speaking for all those who will hear or read his text, asks the Virgin to explain the reasons for her pain, and to touch stone hearts with her words, so that they might shed tears of compassion and pain. The speech pronounced by Mary becomes the privileged medium of conversion according to a process particularly well described in the sixth dialogue in the form of a prayer:

Loquere, domina, peramplius et tuo sacro dulci eloquio corda nostra compunge ut passionis et martirii tui magnitudine certiores eff ecti ad fl etus uberes prorumpa- mus, et ipsa nobis breviter respondet et dicit: ecce mater. 17 [Speak to us longer, Our Lady. Touch our hearts by the kindness of your word so that, assured of the grandeur of your passion and of your martyrdom, we burst into abundant tears. And she answers briefly, saying: Here is your mother. 18 ]

Speech teaches—certiores eff ecti according to the Latin; but it is to better lead the emotions of the faithful to tears of compassion. In a sermon on Christ’s Passion, Bernard thus brings about a remarkable change by making compassion for Mary’s pains the main criterion of piety. This is the whole meaning behind the change of perspective that displaces the center of the scene from the Cross of Christ to Mary, through whose eyes we see the Passion, to such a degree that at the end of the sermon the Virgin concludes by saying:

Durare non possum amplius, ecce jam morior. 19 [I can no longer continue; here I must die.]

Mary has become the primary fi gure of the sermon and of the scene of Good Friday. Rather than a sermon on Christ’s Passion, which nonetheless provides the liturgical reason why the sermon was preached, Bernard off ers a sermon on Compassion, a term omnipresent throughout the text. This is to say that he makes the reader live the scene through Mary. Whereas the canonical gospels only tell 206 CÉDRIC GIRAUD us about Mary’s reactions at the foot of the Cross from an external perspective, the theatrical enactment of her speech opens a true intimacy with the mother of Jesus. To make the listener or reader share (in) the Virgin’s point of view, each of Mary’s speeches relies on the tried and true rhetorical means of direct address, rhetorical questions, and on interjections like “O.” Bernard de Rosier makes abundant use of these means, which permeate all of Mary’s speeches with a moving and emotional orality. Mary’s emotional communication enacts or realizes a set of grammatical notions (grammatical in the sense of the trivium ) with which Bernard, being a good rhetorician, is steeped. To wit: From the thirteenth century onward, grammatical theories distinguished two modes of meaning in emotions, per modum rationis (the conceptual mode) and per modum aff ectus (the aff ective mode). An anonymous thirteenth-century author gives a very clear example:

Puer enim potest dicere “ploro,” licet non ploret actu. Potest etiam proferre vocem plorantis, que est illiterata per Priscianum. Scilicet cum dicit “ploro,” non attendimus quod vere ploret vel doleat, nec per hoc acquirit nobis dolorem vel pietatem, sed per secundum, scilicet per vocem illiteratam plorantis, acquirit nobis dolorem sive pietatem. 20 [A child may indeed say “I am crying” even though he is not crying at that moment. He may also utter an expression of suffering, which is impossible to transcribe according to Priscian. In other words, when he says “I am crying,” we do not expect him to truly cry or suffer, and he does not elicit pain or pity from us. On the contrary, if he uses an expression of the second type, that is to say a non- transcribable expression of suffering, he elicits these responses from us.]

In other words, the narrator has a choice beyond marking the distinction between indirect and direct speech; he can use direct speech to off er the narrative description of aff ect or he can voice the eff ects of emotion on speech. Only by making the Virgin speak can Bernard evoke the expression of a pain truly present in the mind of the speaker ( secundum rem as the theorists say), rather than a pain merely made present in the mind by a representation ( secundum speciem ), as would be the case if the preacher himself took on her speech. In contemporary terminology, one might say that Bernard proposes a shift in focalization that erases the writer in favor of the character he portrays, and to whom he grants the speaking role. By giving primacy to movere (moving) over docere (teaching), Mary takes the text’s listeners or readers as witnesses to all the emotions she is experiencing—astonish- ment toward her Son and the Apostles who kept her in ignorance of the Passion, admiration for her Son’s courage, indignation toward Judas and the Jews. These speeches aim to infl uence the hearer by acting on the soul. As Andreea Marculescu evokes in her discussion of demonic possession in chapter 8 of this collection, Platonic tradition divided the soul into rational, concuspiscible , and irascible parts. In Christian thinkers’ reinterpretations of this tradition, each part of the soul feels diff erent passions. Thus the concupiscible part corresponds to the passions that the soul feels, such as joy, sadness, love, hate, and so on. On the other hand, passions that have to do with the diffi culty of achieving good or MARY BETWEEN VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS 207 avoiding evil belong to the irascible; these include audacity, fear, or hope. As for the rational part where thought is located, Christian thinkers followed platonic tradition and affi rmed its immortality. In Bernard’s oeuvre, the irascible part of the soul is clearly the most sought after, not only because Mary primarily expresses the pain to which she is subjected, but also because she has diffi culty making her voice heard, which creates an additional feeling of frustration for her, and potentially for Bernard’s reader, who is called upon to share Mary’s point of view. Indeed, the leitmotif in Mary’s speech is her will—generally thwarted—to be heard. In her fourth speech to Jesus, Mary complains that he doesn’t listen to her, and in several complaints, Mary accuses the enemies of Jesus (Pilate and the executioners) of not paying attention to her words. 21 Mary also accuses successively God, the angel Gabriel, and her own sisters of not listening to her: she wonders why God turns a deaf ear to her, why Gabriel has replaced the angelic salutation with curses, and why her sisters fall silent rather than off ering her comfort. 22 (She is, after all, the Mother of Sorrows—the mater dolorosa .) Even when Christ addresses Mary in order to entrust John to her as her own Son, Mary fi nds reason for complaint, lamenting that she has lost much in the exchange, since the mother of the Savior now becomes mother to the sinner. 23 Yet close reading enables us to appreciate how this theatrical realization of the Gospel takes on a more profound meaning through Bernard’s sermon. The Gospel of John showed Christ giving Mary as a mother to John the Evangelist, saying, “Ecce mater” (“Behold, your mother!” [John 19:27]). Bernard places these words, “ecce mater,” in Mary’s mouth so that they become an address destined for the community of the faithful. In so doing, he endows the expression with a profound theological sense. Bernard has Mary speak as a direct mediator between Christ and mankind. The phrase “Ecce mater” thus comes to mean: “I am your mother.” This rhetorical canalization is no incidental detail, but rather the key or lever through which to grasp the stakes of Bernard’s enterprise. It is highly signifi cant that this phrase, “ecce mater,” is pronounced 33 times during the Good Friday sermon. This perfect number, corresponding exactly to the age of Christ at the time of his crucifi xion, draws a parallel between Mary and Christ. This symmetry emphasizes how Bernard creates a sort of verbal Pieta whose central point of composition is the Virgin. We must now seek to understand the signifi cance behind this shift to focalization through the Marian voice. Bernard’s strategy of making a traditionally silent character speak is more than an expression of literary prowess. For the historian, this rhetorical device reveals an important characteristic of fi fteenth-century piety. Bernard, like many of his contemporaries, saw Mary’s voice as above all normative. The Virgin’s exhortations must elicit specifi c behaviors; this is much more central to Bernard’s purpose than feeding an internal life that, signifi cantly, Bernard does not mention. The call to the believer to join in Mary’s compassion for Christ’s suff ering is not intended to encourage a process of interiorization, but rather to initiate a process of visualization analogous to the “narrative evocation of the sacred” analyzed by Alain Boureau. 24 As it is often recognized, popular piety tended to fi ll in any blanks left by canonical scripture, or indeed, simply to 208 CÉDRIC GIRAUD multiply narratives wherever and however possible. Perhaps Bernard was infl u- enced by the popularity of the apocryphal gospels, which he, like so many of his contemporaries, could have known through the works of Vincent de Beauvais and Jacobus de Voragine. In such circumstances, it becomes logical, and perhaps inevitable, that since the Bible does not say all that can be said about Mary, and since it left her few opportunities to speak, Bernard makes Mary talk in a way that fi lls in the silences left by the sacred text. As we have seen, Bernard’s ventriloquized narration directs itself toward the believer’s imagination and aff ect. His meditation is thus less a process of interiorization leading to internal spiritual transformation than the visualization of biblical episodes animated by Bernard’s rhetoric. Despite the text’s presentation as a sermon, the distinct elements of Bernard’s rhetoric highlighted here, such as the pursuit of emotion, the role of the imagination, and the sermon’s repetitive structure, clearly indicate that Bernard’s intent here is to write a spiritual exercise. Bernard’s sermon off ers, in fact, an apt support for the reader’s private meditation. The division of the text into numerous subsections and the alternation between complaints and prayers uttered by Mary facilitate equally the reader’s episodic or partial consultation and a longer, more sustained reading practice. As is the case for many meditative texts, Bernard’s writings function like musical instruments that the reader can pick up and play as he desires, in order to re-create a particular emotional state such as, in this case, feeling Mary’s suff ering. 25 In the end, Bernard’s eff orts to render the Virgin as present, accessible, and even touching succeed. Perhaps ironically, because this vivifi cation of her character also allows the faithful to see her as more clearly defi ned, it also contributes to objectifying her. Rhetoric has its own grace; Mary becomes a statue of words to whom the faithful can pray for salvation. Bernard’s work seems to have been intended as a kind of devotional object, a sort of learned equivalent to a rosary through which to summon the Virgin’s presence. Whether compared to a musical instrument or to a rosary, the meditative text becomes a means through which to pursue a “verbal chain.” The words spoken by Mary and written by Bernard must be taken up again by the reader who, on the basis of this textual support, can let his own voice be heard in personal prayer.

The Meditative Voice and Marian Piety Three aspects of Bernard de Rosier’s text bear witness to the mutation of the meditation between its appearance as a literary genre in the twelfth century and its arrival in the early modern era. First of all, there is a mutation in content. Whereas the tradition that began with Anselm of Canterbury was based on a simultaneously aff ective and intellectual conception of meditation, the tendency from the fourteenth century onward was to limit meditation to the realm of aff ectivity and emotions. 26 As in the eloquent example off ered by Bernard’s work, the purpose of the meditative genre becomes more to plant the seeds of a spiritual emotion than to nourish the intellect. Where the Virgin is concerned, this reorientation of meditation appears simultaneous to the establishment in pontifi cal circles of devotional practices focused on the suff ering experienced by MARY BETWEEN VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS 209

Mary, such as Masses dedicated to the Seven Sorrows. Second, there is a mutation of methods: unlike early meditations, and particularly those of Anselm of Canterbury, wherein a certain liberty of inspiration left the reader quite free to appropriate the text for himself, Bernard de Rosier’s meditations guide the reader step-by-step through a very detailed sequence. The question which then emerges concerns the balance between introspection and structured prayer. By making his textually supported meditation on the Virgin Mary a spiritual exercise whose recitation might be considered as suffi - cient in and of itself, Bernard (and other authors, also) ran the risk of producing a literary genre that fostered a “color-by-number” approach to spiritual life. The peril of spiritual ossifi cation led, in reaction, and beginning during the Middle Ages’ autumn, to the temptation to escape from textually supported meditation into direct contact with God, unconstrained by textual support or even vocalized prayer. My hypothesis is that this evolution in the written genre of the meditation to which Bernard’s oeuvre belongs lies at the origin of the early modern debate that opposed the partisans of meditation, who were in some measure Bernard’s heirs, and “mystics” (especially those from within the Carmelite order) who asserted that man could enter into communication with God without recourse to language or written communication. 27 Finally, the status of the devotional book itself undergoes a change as part of this transformation. During the early part of this history in the twelfth century, the book of meditations remains a unique object, specifi c to a community and intended for the usage of a limited group of contemplative monks. In this sense, the manuscript support served as a vehicle through which to recollect and memorialize the author’s spiritual life. Later, the fashion for devotional books, exemplifi ed by the popularity of Books of Hours, helped to create a market in which spiritual books became subject to reproduction and sale—in sum, became objects above all else. 28 In the history of the evolution evoked here, Bernard stands at the threshold between the Middle Ages and the early modern period. By addressing Mary directly and by making Mary the privileged speaker within his work, Bernard places the voice at the heart of the meditative pact. His fi delity to an Augustinian model based in introspection and confession should not, however, mask for us the ways that Bernard is indeed a man of his time. The voice that resonates in these texts, whether Bernard’s own or that of Mary, speaks in service to the pastoral control of emotion so typical of the Church at the end of the Middle Ages and into the early modern period. We thus recognize an ensemble of traits in Bernard’s work, including the use of the superlative to address Mary, the adaptation of her discourse through varied means of expression, and, especially, the marked pursuit of expressivity, which rather clearly evoke a Franciscan piety, that is to say, an aff ective piety. Such observations strike us all the more forcefully when we consider that Bernard held a view of the Immaculate Conception which the Franciscans were also defend- ing at that time, namely, that Mary was conceived without either personal or original sin. 29 Bernard de Rosier constitutes an important witness to the several-hundred- year-long history of Christian meditation, for the way he uses Mary’s voice to 210 CÉDRIC GIRAUD provoke emotions distills the evolution of the meditative genre between the end of the Middle Ages and the seventeenth century. Indeed, if he wishes to remain faithful to the genre’s Augustinian origins, he must make heard a voice in the process of communication with God. Over the course of the Middle Ages, it became increasingly necessary to have a sacred fi gure intervene (Christ, Mary, or a saint), as soon as the voice of the meditating author appeared not to carry far enough to reach the reader. Recourse to the voice of a sacred fi gure as a substitution for the authorial voice provides an eff ective solution, one that Bernard utilizes with a level of systemization rarely achieved before him. At the risk of the anachronism esthetic judgment may constitute, it is diffi cult not to notice the wealth of inspiration within Bernard’s texts and their undeniable pathos. In making use of all the resources of a fully mastered art and a tradition at his command, Bernard attempts to touch a public who suff ers from want and sickness. Placing the voice of Mary at the center of his spiritual works, Bernard de Rosier bestows upon the Marian word a mediating role, and a way, to our modern eyes, to give this form of expression a very human role. By making Mary’s voice heard, Bernard both exalts the Virgin by presenting her as a superlative fi gure (she is the most perfect woman, but also the most plaintive!) and also puts her within reach of the faithful. In a city oppressed by war, famine, and epidemics, Mary becomes an accessible model and a fi gure of mediation. The mental representation of Mary the faithful are supposed to emulate cannot thus be other than a model conceived along fi xed lines. This model answers the need to make Mary heard, according to a tradition several centuries long, and it ends with standards of behavior for the faithful, who must imitate Mary’s own behaviors, which is to say that like the Virgin, they should be moved and weep.

Notes Translated by Irit Ruth Kleiman. 1 . On Mary during the Middle Ages, see Clelia Maria Piastra, ed., Gli studi di mariologia medievale: Bilancio storiografico, Atti del I Convegno Mariologico [ . . . ] Parma 7–8 novembre 1997 (Florence: SISMEL—Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2001); Miri Rubin, Mother of God: A History of the Virgin Mary (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009), 303–12; Marielle Lamy, “Marie toujours plus sainte,” in Structures et dynamiques religieuses dans les soci é t é s de l’Occident latin (1179–1449) , ed. Marie- Madeleine de Cevins and Jean-Michel Matz (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2010), 321–37. 2 . On the Virgin Mary in the Bible, see Pierre Grelot, “Marie (Vierge), I. Ecriture sainte,” in Dictionnaire de spiritualit é (Paris: Beauchesne, 1980), 10:409–23; and Mary Margaret Pazdan, “Mary, Mother of Jesus,” in The Anchor Bible Dictionary , ed. David Noel Freedman (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 4:584–86. 3 . See, for example, Bernard of Clairvaux, Sermo in dominica infra octavam Assumptionis B. V. Mariae , in PL 183, col. 429–38. 4 . For another discussion of the voices given to Mary as a mother, see the contribution to this volume by H él è ne Bernier-Farella ( chapter 3). 5 . The most frequently cited of these apocryphal texts include the Liber de ortu beatae Mariae , ed. Jan Gijsel (Turnhout: Brepols, 1997); and Liber de nativitate sanctae Mariae , ed. Rita Beyers (Turnhout: Brepols, 1997). MARY BETWEEN VOICE AND VOICELESSNESS 211

6 . Emmanuel von Severus and Aim é Solignac, “M é ditation, I. De l’Ecriture aux auteurs mé dié vaux,” in Dictionnaire de spiritualit é , 10:906–14. 7 . Jean-Fran çois Cottier, Anima mea: Pri ères privé es et textes de d évotion du Moyen Age latin (Turnhout: Brepols, 2001); see also David S. Hogg, Anselm of Canterbury: The Beauty of Theology (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2004); and Eileen C. Sweeney, Anselm of Canterbury and the Desire for the Word (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012). 8 . Christian Belin, La conversation int érieure: La m é ditation en France au XVIIe siè cle (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2002). 9 . Patrick Arabeyre, “Les écrits politiques de Bernard de Rosier (1400–1475), archev êque de Toulouse,” Thesis, Ecole nationale des chartes, 1987, 1:2–43; and Patrick Arabeyre, “Un pr élat languedocien au milieu du XVe siè cle: Bernard de Rosier, archev êque de Toulouse (1400–1475),” Journal des savants 3–4 (1990): 295–306. 10 . Auch, Biblioth èque municipale, 4 and Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, vat. lat. 1023. On these manuscripts, see the Catalogue gé n éral des manuscrits des biblioth èques publiques de France , vol. 4 (Paris: Librairie Plon, 1886), 392–93; and Codices Vaticani Latini, Tomus II, Pars Prior [vol. 2, pt. 1], Codices 679–1134 , ed. Augustus Pelzer (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1931), 523–27. 11 . The lack of scholarly attention to Bernard’s scholarly oeuvre can be explained by the limited diffusion of the texts themselves. These two manuscripts, one now held in the South of France in Auch and the other in Rome, bear witness to the dissemination of Bernard’s Marian works both locally and in Rome. In each case, however, and for reasons that escape us, they seem not to have been widely known either in Bernard’s entourage or at the Pontifical court. 12 . Nicole Bé riou, “Les sermons latins apr ès 1200,” The Sermon , ed. Beverly M. Kienzle (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), 389–90. 13 . On this context, see Philippe Wolff and Marcel Durliat, “L’é preuve des temps (mi-XIVe–mi-XVe si ècles),” in Histoire de Toulouse , ed. Philippe Wolff (Toulouse: Privat, 1988), 183–222. 14 . Liber paradigmatum , Auch, Biblioth èque Municipale, 4, fol. 17v. All translations from the Latin are my own. 15 . On this context, see Marielle Lamy, L’Immacul é e Conception: Etapes et enjeux d’une controverse au Moyen Age (XIIe–XVe si è cles) (Paris: Institut d’ études augustiniennes, 2000); and Lamy, “Les plaidoiries pour l’immaculé e conception au Moyen Age (XIIe–XVe si ècles),” in Piastra, Gli studi di mariologia medievale , 255–74. 16 . Sermon 6, Auch, Biblioth èque Municipale, 4, fol. 169r. 17 . Sermon 6, Auch, Biblioth èque Municipale, 4, fol. 169r. 18 . Sermon 6, Auch, Biblioth èque Municipale, 4, fol. 169r. 19 . Sermon 6, Auch, Biblioth èque Municipale, 4, fol. 191. 20 . Citation from Irè ne Rosier-Catach, “Discussions m é dié vales sur l’expression des affects,” in Le Sujet des é motions au Moyen Age , ed. Piroska Nagy and Damien Boquet (Paris: Beauchesne, 2008), 208. 21 . See, for example, Sermon 6, Auch, Biblioth èque Muncipale, 4, fol. 178r-v. 22 . Sermon 6, Auch, Biblioth èque Municipale, 4, fol. 181v–182r. 23 . Sermon 6, Auch, Biblioth èque Municipale, 4, fol. 187v–188r. 24 . Alain Boureau, “La mise en scè ne du divin,” in L’Ev é nement sans fin: R é cit et christianisme au Moyen Age (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1993), 39–54. 25 . On the text as musical instrument, see Ineke van’t Spijker, Fictions of the Inner Life: Religious Literature and Formation of the Self in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 235–39. 212 CÉDRIC GIRAUD

26 . On the question of affective evolution in the meditative genre, see Jean Baruzi, Saint Jean de la Croix et le problè me de l’exp érience mystique (Paris: Salvator, 1999), 430–31; and Fran çois Tr émoli è res, “Haine de la m é ditation? Notes sur les enjeux d’une querelle th éologique,” Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa 41.3 (2005): 539–40. 27 . Sabrina Stroppa, “L’ Ars meditandi nel Seicento mistico.” Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa 41.3 (2005): 515–36. 28 . Burcht Pranger, The Artificiality of Christianity: Essays on the Poetics of Monasticism (Stan ford, CA: Stan ford Un iver sit y Press, 20 03), 13. A lthough Ber nard de Rosier’s text was not itself been printed during the modern era, it thus stands as a precur- sor to the fashion for printed editions of medieval meditations which became— often under mistaken attribution to saints Augustine, Anselm of Canterbury and Bernard of Clairvaux—modern classics of piety. On this subject, see Andr é Wilmart, Auteurs spirituels et textes d évots du Moyen Age latin: Etudes d’histoire lit- t éraire (Paris: Etudes augustiniennes, 1971). 29 . Franco Andrea dal Pino, “Culto et piet à mariana presso i frai minori nel Medioevo,” in Gli studi di mariologia medievale , 159–92. It bears consideration that this markedly Franciscan character of Bernard de Rosier’s Marian works, and especially of their affective tonality, calls into question a branch of rather critical contemporary Mariology, which considers medieval exaltation of the Virgin to be a factor in diminishing women in so far as this exaltation creates a gulf between Mary (ever holier) and the faithful (ever more sinful). See Lamy, L’Immacul ée Conception , 12.

CHAPTER 12

VOICE AND WISDOM IN EARLY ITALIAN ART

Matthew G. Shoaf

In later medieval Europe, categorical distinctions between the senses of sight and hearing informed the way that thinkers understood responses to art. Thirteenth-century theologians Saints Bonaventure and Thomas Aquinas, for example, judged seeing images of Christ and the saints superior to hearing about them for the purpose of aiding memory and arousing devotion. 1 In the fourteenth century, early commentators on Dante’s Commedia , responding to a well-known passage in the poem about sculptures that appear to speak and sing, underscored the wonder of that enlivened quality by explaining that speech is normally grasped through hearing, not through sight. 2 It does not follow, however, that medieval artists strictly segregated the senses, or that medieval art conveyed nothing about auditory experience. Indeed, sculptors and painters in Dante’s time empowered images to make claims on sound. These claims are especially evident where images addressed their audiences as the beholders of voices. Characterizations of seeing early Italian art as a kind of visual listening trace as far back as early Italian art itself. The almost-audible sculptures Dante describes are an important example to which we will return. Another notable instance appears in Florentine chronicler Filippo Villani’s On the Origin of the City of Florence and of Its Famous Citizens (ca. 1381–1383). When Villani describes Giotto di Bondone as a restorer of the dignity and renown of the art of painting, he lists the near audibility of Giotto’s fi gures among his achievements.

For pictures formed by his brush follow nature’s outlines so closely that they seem to the observer to live and breathe and even to perform certain movements and gestures so realistically that they appear to speak, weep, rejoice and do other things, to the delight of him who beholds and praises the artist’s genius and skill. 3

In an earlier era of art history, Heinrich W ö lffl in opened his infl uential Die Klassische Kunst (1898) with an oral metaphor for Giotto’s primacy in art history. “At the beginning of Italian painting stands Giotto; he it was who 214 MATTHEW G. SHOAF loosened the tongue of art. What he painted speaks.” 4 Recent scholarship on art in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Europe, for its part, has examined how inscriptions and gestural poses made images “speak,” as will be discussed in this chapter. Amid these variants of what I am broadly calling “visual listening,” however, the auditory aspects of pictures have held little resonance for observers. Few have remarked, for example, that in works by Giotto and his contemporaries, more mouths are portrayed as open than in previous centuries. 5 The present chapter examines ways in which Trecento art called attention to the voice, assigned it spiritual values, and used it to shape perceptions of the fi g- ures depicted. My analyses center on pictorial distinctions between human and divine speech, giving particular attention to art’s reduction of humans to divergent kinds of voicelessness. In some pictures the voice is represented with an inconsistency that reinforced Christian patriarchal views of certain categories of persons as loud but unable to speak truth—voiceless in a spiritual sense. Other images construe holy authorities as nearly voiceless themselves: subtly yield- ing their voices to God’s own. Earlier in this volume, Julie Orlemanski’s study of Margery Kempe considered the role of noise in negotiating an individual’s spiritual authority. My own discussion ultimately bears on the spiritual authority of images. I argue that in a period of art history when depictions of speech acts proliferated, pictorial suppression of human voices was a means of making art a medium of holy wisdom.

Voices in the Speaking Image and Visible Speech Scholarly observations of vocal aspects in medieval art are too numerous to review individually. 6 Yet it is fair to say that the voice generally occupies a marginal or veiled position in art historical discussions, where the complexities and powers of its construction usually escape notice. Two prevalent modes of pictured communication, the “speaking image” and visibile parlare (“visible speech”), are primary points of reference here, each leading toward the ideas of voicelessness, and of voice-image relationships, for which I will argue. The “speaking image” concept, whose main proponent has been Hans Belting, concerns icon-like images of saints engaging viewers in a kind of “dialogue.”7 The central panel of an altarpiece of Saint Dominic painted in 1344–1345 by Francesco Traini for the Dominican church of Santa Caterina in Pisa fi ts this image-viewer structure fi( gure 12.1 ). The saint faces outward, inviting the viewer to engage with him. For Belting the voice has no place in such an exchange, but in Traini’s panel it is there, and acknowledging it changes the relationship we perceive between speech, image, and viewer. Dominic, with mouth closed, holds open a book displaying words from Psalm 34: “Venite fi lii audite me. ti / more[m] domini docebo vos” (Come, O children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of the Lord).8 Who or what summons us is unclear. The voice demanding to be heard might belong to Scripture, or it may be the saint’s, echoing and transmitting Scripture. The ambiguity was likely deliberate, a point to which I will return. VOICE AND WISDOM 215

Our other point of reference is visibile parlare. The term comes of course from the tenth canto of Dante’s Purgatorio , where the marble reliefs mentioned earlier depict exemplars of humility for souls trying to purge their pride. 9 The stone fi gures strike the narrator-pilgrim as almost audible due to their extraordinarily lively gestures and attitudes. The vividness of the angel and Mary in a scene of the Annunciation prompts him to remember the words that each spoke according to the Gospel of Luke. When he beholds a choir accompanying King David as he dances before the Ark of the Covenant, Dante’s eyes and ears disagree over whether the fi gures actually sing. No inscribed words appear on the sculptures, nor does Dante’s lengthy description of them mention any mouth. Oral actions may have been irrelevant. Early Dante commentator Francesco da Buti (1324– 1405) off ers a critical perspective: “qui, cioè nel mondo, non si trova questo parlare visibile. Ne l’altro mondo ser à lo parlare visibile: imper ò che ciascuno vedr à lo concetto dell’altro, sensa essere espresso con lingua” (here, in this world, this visible speech is not found. Visible speech will be in the next world, in that people will see each other’s ideas without use of the tongue). 10 Visible speech in the Purgatorio reliefs is similarly above nature, something only God can make. The nonorality of the stone fi gures is a function of their divine status and a refl ection of the tongue’s fallibility. Visible speech does have correlates in this world, however, according to Buti. Immediately after pointing to the otherworldly nature of visibile parlare , he adds—in an apparent contradiction: “e questo medesimo addiviene a noi, quando veggiamo dipinta o sculpita una storia che a noi sia nota: pare a noi che le persone dipinte dicano le parole, come l’angiulo ci pare che dica Ave a la Vergine Maria, quando è bene atteggiato” (and this very thing happens to us when we see painted or sculpted a story that is known to us: it seems to us that the pictured persons speak words, like the angel who appears to say “Ave” to the Virgin Mary, when it is well crafted).11 Art historians, most notably Roger Tarr, have similarly found visibile parlare a useful term for appreciating the ways that communication is rendered in narrative pictures from late medieval Italy. One of Tarr’s examples is the now-fragmentary Triumph of Death fresco painted by Andrea Orcagna in the Franciscan church of Santa Croce in Florence (ca. 1345; fi gure 12.2). Three ailing beggars standing near a scene of Hell open their lips in the presence of a personifi cation of Death (now lost). One of them emits a poetic plea: “Dacchè prosperitade ci ha lasciati / O morte medicina d’ogni pena, / Deh vieni a darne omai l’ultima cena!” (Since prosperity has left us, o death, medicine to all pains, do come and give us now our last supper). This is visibile parlare , according to Tarr, who argues that painting in fourteenth-century Italy, like poetry, could be “imbued with the latent power of speech.” 12 Tarr hints at vocality when he implies that images could carry a charge of utterance that could be seen if not heard. But he maintains that gestures, poses, and inscriptions do the speaking. In another fresco Tarr uses to make his point, The Raising of Lazarus painted by Giotto in the Arena Chapel in Padua ( ca. 1305), the artist kept the decisive mouth closed or barely open ( fi gure 12.3 ). Jesus performs the resurrection in front of followers, the family of the deceased, and inquisitive Jewish onlookers. His disciples gather behind him. Saints Martha and Figure 12.1 Francesco Traini, Saint Dominic altarpiece, tempera on wood panel, 1344– 1345, Museo Nazionale di San Matteo, Pisa, Italy (Scala/Art Resource, New York).

Figure 12.2 Andrea Orcagna, Beggars, detail of The Triumph of Death , fresco, ca. 1345, Museo dell’Opera, Santa Croce, Florence, Italy (Scala/Art Resource, New York). Figure 12.3 Giotto di Bondone, The Raising of Lazarus , fresco, ca. 1305, Arena Chapel, Padua, Italy (Alfredo Dagli Orti/Art Resource, New York).

Figure 12.4 Lorenzo Maitani (?), Screaming sinner, marble, ca. 1310–1330, Orvieto Cathedral, Orvieto, Italy (author). Figure 12.5 Simone Martini, The Lamentation of Christ, tempera on wood panel, ca . 1330–1340 (bpk, Berlin/Staatliche Museen/Joerg P. Anders/Art Resource, New York).

Figure 12.6 Master of San Torp è, The Witness of John the Baptist , tempera on wood panel, 1310–1320 (Saint Louis Art Museum, Museum Purchase 46:1941). Figure 12.7 Andrea Pisano, The Naming of John the Baptist , bronze, 1336, fifth panel of South Doors of the Baptistery of San Giovanni, Florence, Italy (Bridgeman Images).

Figure 12.8 Artist disputed, Francis of Assisi Preaching before Pope Honorius III , fresco, 1291–1296, Church of San Francesco, Assisi, Italy (Alfredo Dagli Orti/The Art Archive at Art Resource, New York). 220 MATTHEW G. SHOAF

Figure 12.9 Giotto di Bondone, Temperance , fresco, ca. 1305, Arena Chapel, Padua, Italy (Alfredo Dagli Orti/Art Resource, New York).

Mary Magdalen, sisters of Lazarus, kneel in supplication at his feet. Saints Peter and John watch him as they steady the shrouded corpse, which begins to stir. Covered noses allude to its stench. The Jews are engrossed in the revived body, though only a young man in front of the crowd has an unimpeded view of it. He cranes his neck forward and lifts a hand pensively to his chin. Behind him, a partly visible man raises his hands in surprise or terror. Christ’s command sets all of this in motion. In the Gospel account, he gives life to the dead man by crying out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” 13 In Giotto’s fresco, Jesus commands with a hand gesture that denotes what art historian Moshe Barasch takes to be “an elevated and intensive level of speech.” 14 Tarr himself remarked of the fi gure that “the eloquence of gesture alone” conveys the life-bringing power of his word. 15 Yet Giotto’s use of a “speaking hand,” a convention of medieval art, is intriguing not only because the scriptural passage he portrays emphasizes Christ’s audibility, but also because the avoidance of patent orality seems at odds with naturalistic details throughout The Raising of Lazarus such as the three-dimensional rendering of bodies and clothing, or the physicality of surfaces and terrain. It is also incon- sistent with other utterances in the scene. The kneeling Martha parts her lips; the young Jew who has a direct view of Lazarus appears to vocalize; and Saint Peter opens his own mouth widely (teeth are visible, on close inspection). Lazarus himself separates his teeth. 16 These oral details seem more compatible with an early Renaissance view of artistic progress than with visibile parlare , a concept in which mouths have no clear place. Lorenzo Ghiberti’s Commentaries , a fi fteenth-century VOICE AND WISDOM 221 text that echoes Villani’s praise for Giotto’s pioneering naturalism, also takes an interest in the ancient artist Polygnotus of Thasos, who Ghiberti says advanced the art of painting by opening fi gures’ mouths and showing teeth. 17 The open mouths in Giotto’s fresco are not touches of realism for the sake of innovation, however. Instead, they function to emphasize one of the picture’s themes: the recognition of Christ’s divine power. 18 Three of the open mouths belong to persons who doubted Christ, or did not yet believe in his divine nature, or were otherwise burdened by spiritually blinding sin. Martha could not imagine Christ saving her brother, even though he tells her of his power to overcome death. 19 The young Jew is one of many who reportedly became convinced of the Christ by his revival of Lazarus. 20 And Peter, not named in the Gospel story, falters elsewhere in his faith. 21 Lazarus has relevance in this regard as well. Medieval exegetes cited his resurrection as an allegory for open confession and rebirth from sin. 22 According to Gregory the Great’s Moralia in Job , an early medieval biblical commentary widely cited in fourteenth-century Italy, Christ’s words “Come out!” demand that Lazarus bring forth his sins “suam ore proprio” (by his own mouth). 23 The confessional utterance restores to the sinner the sight of the Lord, which he had fl ed in concealing his evil deeds.24 But Giotto’s pale fi gure only begins to speak or is on the point of utterance. Still emerging from reeking death, his eyelids are heavy, his gaze unfocused. Peter has just started to loosen his wraps. The unbinding of Lazarus’s burial shroud signifi es liberation from evil pleasures of the world, according to Tuscan preacher Giordano da Pisa in the sermon delivered in Florence around 1306. 25 In the fresco, the spiritual liberation of Lazarus is incomplete. The same holds for the other fi gures in question. Their utterances are base and weak in relation to the “visible speech” of Christ’s hand, which gains in power from the contrast. Here, orality indicates an absence of divine force and truth—a spiritual voicelessness.

Voice, Inferiority, and Affect The diff erentiation of spiritually senseless utterance from speech in Giotto’s The Raising of Lazarus fi ts broad cultural patterns. Incommensurate vocalities in late medieval mystical and musical texts, for example, helped to make manifest a reality beyond the senses, as discussed by Orlemanski and Andrew Albin in this volume. In Romanesque and Gothic art open mouths often signaled moral and social inferiority, an interpretive key that establishes lowliness and carnality against which the spiritual could be defi ned.26 In Trecento art the visual code of diff erentiated utterance reinforced long-standing stereotypes of moral deviance and social indecorousness. But the code’s use was not simply an extension of earlier artistic practice. Artists in thirteenth-century Italy seldom used it. Its reemergence was therefore rather abrupt. What changed? Why did the voice become relevant anew as a pictorial marker of inferiority, particularly when art made bold claims to represent reality by means of naturalistic styles in which a device such as the “speaking hand” looks incongruous? One factor was a new artistic interest in evoking psychological experience in order to stimulate viewers’ aff ective participation in pictured action, a development well-known to art historians. 27 A second, less familiar factor was a cultural shift in attitudes toward the voice. 222 MATTHEW G. SHOAF

The human voice, being in a fundamental sense ephemeral, may seem beyond study in historical contexts. Yet textual evidence from late medieval Italy registers perceptions of the voice, values that attached to it, and uses made of it. Listeners’ inclination to isolate the voice for consideration, judgment, and social diff erentiation merits emphasis. Brunetto Latini, introducing a guide to speaking well in his The Book of the Treasure, wrote of Hebrews and others in the Orient speaking “in their throats.”28 Dante’s De vulgari eloquentia identifi es a variety of regional accents and even judged some of them harshly. One dialect, spoken in Romagna, displeased him as “womanish” in its pronunciations. 29 Sensitivities to the nuances of vocal expression also went far beyond the level of individual listeners. Historians Jacques Le Goff and Jean-Claude Schmitt argued years ago that the new freedoms of speech enjoyed by laypersons in the thirteenth century were widely muted in the fourteenth by the enclosure of voices of power within churches and city halls, the rise of courtesy manuals, and moralist discourses concerning the “sins of the tongue.” 30 To this list we can add laws by means of which, beginning in the later thirteenth century, communal offi cials in Italy tried to assuage fears of social disorder by curbing emotional public outbursts such as lamentations of the dead. 31 It seems that real mouths were closing—or were supposed to do so—as pictured mouths were opening.32 These contextual elements point to the cultural operation of a distinction between the voice as such and the production of verbal meaning. Philosopher Mladen Dolar, citing Saint Augustine’s well-known ambivalence toward singing in the tenth book of his Confessions , has argued that in the Western metaphysical tradition the voice that strayed from words had disruptive potential, threat- ening not only particular meanings but the very possibility of signifi cation.33 This voice-language distinction provides a useful lens for representations of the socially and spiritually marginal in the patriarchal Christian universe. Hell, a spiritual extreme, is an instructive place to begin. During his downward journey into the infernal otherworld, Dante witnesses deteriorations of verbal communication as speech loses the power to communicate, a pattern traced by literary scholar Joan Ferrante.34 Some souls, such as the howling gluttons and the gibberish-spouting Plutus and Nimrod, lose control of their tongues. Others fi nd their speech garbled or hindered by being submerged in mud (the sullen), by taking the form of serpents with split tongues (thieves of holy things), and by other impediments. At the same time, vocal sounds come to the fore, beginning with Dante’s approach to Hell, where the fi rst sensory information he receives are “sospiri che l’aura etterna facevan tremare” (sighs which caused the air to tremble).35 Analogously, a marble vision of Hell, carved in relief for the fa çade of the cathedral in Orvieto between 1310 and 1330, makes a terrifying spectacle of the cries of the damned ( fi gure 12.4 ). Wide-open mouths vary in shape, some exposing teeth and tongue, each framed by a contorted face, all combining to describe a cacophony from which fellow sinners shield their ears but which Christ the Judge, pictured far above, does not hear. The loudness underscores the absence of communication as well as the sobering idea that these fi gures have no further say in their excruciating fate. The disruptive potential of human utterance, severing contact and community among the damned, is perhaps at its most spectacular in these reliefs.36 VOICE AND WISDOM 223

Words issuing from a pictured mouth may seem opposite such screams in terms of their relationship to meaning, all the more so when the language takes a poetic form. This is the case in Orcagna’s Triumph of Death (fi gure 12.2) in Santa Croce, Florence, one of Tarr’s examples of visibile parlare . What survives is a fragment of a monumental cycle of frescoes that included The Last Judgment and views of Hell. The infi rm beggar’s plea to a now-missing personifi cation of Death for her “last supper” (a quick death) is rhymed, eloquent, and neatly lettered. But the impression of articulateness is misleading. The beggar’s words express impatience and are therefore sinful, devoid of spiritual value—not true speech. 37 Orcagna did not rely on the hollowness of the plea’s verbal content to speak for itself, but went further to emphasize its fl eshy opacity by exposing the beggar’s gums and prominent front teeth. Two old men behind the woman open their own mouths, perhaps to echo her petition or to express awe at Death. The visible eye of the bearded man opens wide, while the brow of his blind counterpart furrows. The point of these last details was not primarily to personify sinful impatience, but rather to make the painted Death psychologically compelling for the viewer. The petitioner herself contributes to this function. Her begging to be killed adds misery and urgency to the scene and, by the same token, makes a subjective and emotional experience of the presence of Death in the picture. The pursuit of aff ective power in art heightened the appeal of using explicitly vocal fi gures in other pictorial contexts. Scenes of Christ’s life and death are among the most sonorous. In considering the social identity of the visibly loudest fi gures in two artworks, we glimpse ways in which social prejudices with auditory dimensions fueled the aff ective potential of pictured voices. One example, an exceptionally noisy The Lamentation (or Entombment ) of Christ , painted by Simone Martini for a portable devotional altarpiece, brings female vocality to the fore ( fi gure 12.5 ). Mourners have gathered at Christ’s corpse. The Virgin Mary cradles her son’s head while others encircle the body, tenderly handling and kissing it. Two of them cry out, including Saint Mary Magdalen. Nearby stands a crowd of women, the most prominent of whom make dramatic arm gestures and open their mouths to wail. The outbursts amplify the event’s grief. The new artistic interest in aff ectivity converges here with the emotional engage- ments of late medieval aff ective devotion. The cries’ intensity must have been disturbing, resonating with what male authorities found to be excessive about women: emotionality, carnality, and vocality.38 By the time Martini painted this picture, that attitude had new relevance in public life. Communal legislation had begun to restrict public lamentations, perceived as a specifi cally feminine mode of expression and as a threat to public order. 39 Wailing women such as Martini’s, so reminiscent of the earlier ritual practitioners discussed by Hé l è ne Bernier-Farella in this volume, may have unsettled Trecento viewers by recalling those now-forbidden sounds. The cries of Martini’s fi gures were also potentially disturbing in another sense. The Gospel account of the Lamentation relates that Christ’s mourners “fulfi lled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah: ‘A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children, she refused to 224 MATTHEW G. SHOAF be consoled, because they are no more.’” 40 In the Book of Jeremiah, this verse is followed by another in which the Lord continues: “‘Keep your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears; for there is a reward for your work . . . [Your children] shall come back.’” 41 Seen through this scriptural passage, the weeping of Martini’s women threatens to obscure God’s consolations, namely, his assurance of the return of the dead to life and reason for hope—a core element of Bernier-Farella’s discussion in chapter 3 . Cultural perceptions of the voice as a spiritual barrier encompassed stereotypes not only of women but also of Jews. Mendicant preachers in Tuscany spoke of Jews as being prone to blasphemy, having abandoned God. 42 Devotional literature vilifi ed Jewish utterances in representations of Christ’s life by likening Jewish voices to sharp weapons and the barking of dogs. 43 These notions would have stoked the aff ective potential of open mouths in a panel painting of The Witness of John the Baptist , originally part of an altarpiece in early-fourteenth- century Pisa (and now unfortunately truncated) by the so-called Master of San Tor p è (fi gure 12.6). The subject is the recognition of Christ’s divine nature, and the panel thus takes the viewer to an early moment in Jesus’s adult life, when he is publicly unknown except to John, the lone witness to his divine nature. 44 In the image, Jesus descends a hilltop while a Jewish priest and his assistants interrogate the Baptist. The men have come to investigate rumors that John himself is the Messiah. 45 John attempts to correct this notion. While in another picture about the recognition of Christ, Giotto’s The Raising of Lazarus (fi gure 12.3), the Jews are on the point of belief, in the Pisa panel there is no prospect of conversion. The main event is a communication clash. The priest and his beardless assistant open their mouths in their inquiry. John and Jesus, by contrast, speak by means of scrolls and gestures. Voices are openly at odds with words. The Baptist’s lettered scroll announces the arrival of Jesus as a revelation of the true Messiah: “Ecce [agnus dei]” (Behold the Lamb of God). 46 The Jews frown and do not understand what John is saying. They see no further than the bodies before them, a near-sightedness that recalls the Jews’ inattention to Jesus and their obstructed view of Lazarus in the Arena Chapel fresco. Nor do the priest and his assistants appear to hear the Baptist. They make noise and hear noise, a closed circuit of interference that is impervious to the divine message despite their physical proximity to its emission. More blatant than in Martini’s Lamention , The Witness of John the Baptist pictures the clamorous obstruction of the speech which truly mattered. My argument up to this point has given weight to an “Other” of visual speech: pictorial associations between overt vocality and the absence of meaning. However, a broader look at Trecento art reveals limitations both of this view of open mouths and of the idea that only sinful or socially marginal fi gures were denied meaningful voices. The negative stigma that attached to explicit orality in art was not absolute. Artists at times depicted religious song with open mouths, for example. 47 Two of the most important persons in Trecento Art, the Virgin Mary and Christ, were not above explicit vocality themselves. At times the Virgin’s lips part a little and Christ’s mouth opens slightly. Numerous sculpted crucifi xes show him in what may be a fi nal groan or cry, with teeth visible. 48 Why these apparent exceptions occurred VOICE AND WISDOM 225 cannot be reduced to a simple explanation. Further investigation may wish to consider, among other things, artistic experimentation, interest in stimulating viewers’ aff ective participation in images, and the possibly deliberate operation of a double standard as factors informing choices to make Christ, the Virgin, and religious singers visibly vocal. This chapter, in its eff ort to understand pictured speech in relation to the voice, turns now to images where a relationship more nuanced than the stark polarity discussed earlier becomes clear. We will see presently that while visible speech stood opposite one sense of voicelessness (meaningless noise), it incorporated another valence of voicelessness: the suppression of speakers’ vocal agency. The utterances of authority are now at issue.

All-but-Voiceless Authorities What we mean by “speaking” in Trecento art needs further attention because the agency of speakers in their utterances can be indistinct. Figures serving as mouth- pieces for God are a case in point. The fi eld of potentially relevant images includes depictions of sibyls and biblical prophets, instruments of divine speech par excellence, as well as images of Christ, who in the Book of John says of himself: “My teaching is not mine but his who sent me.” 49 Saints and other venerated persons likewise mediated God’s word in Trecento art. What does the displacement of a human voice by a divine one look like? What is revealed about the function of the human voice when it is pictorially reduced, without complete negation or invali- dation, in the transmission of divine wisdom? I will now consider three images in response to these questions: a bronze relief depicting Zechariah naming his son John (the Baptist); a fresco in which Saint Francis of Assisi preaches before a pope; and the fi rst image discussed in this chapter, Franceso Traini’s panel painting of Saint Dominic. Although separated by subject matter and medium as well as by authorship, date, and geography, the images cohere around issues of the voice. Absence of voice did not imply absence of authority in Trecento art. Representations of The Naming of the Baptist make this plain. A typical rendering of the scene takes its place in the bronze-relief narrative cycle of the life of Saint John the Baptist on the south doors of the Baptistery of San Giovanni in Florence, completed by Andrea Pisano in 1336 ( fi gure 12.7 ). In it, Saint Elizabeth holds the newborn John while her husband, the priest Zechariah, writes on a small tablet. The three fi gures are still and do not interact. Their muteness becomes palpable through juxtaposition with a hushed conversation between a pair of neighbors or relatives. Silence is central to their story. In the Book of Luke, Zechariah learns from the angel Gabriel that his wife will bear him a son to be named John, who will be “great in the sight of the Lord” and “fi lled with the Holy Spirit” even before birth. Gabriel says that John will turn “the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous” and “many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God.” But the old priest doubts that he and his aging wife will conceive, and Gabriel renders him “mute, unable to speak,” in punishment for his disbelief. After the birth, when neighbors and relatives prepare to name the child after his father, the still-mute Zechariah writes the words, “His name is John.” Immediately the priest’s “mouth was opened and 226 MATTHEW G. SHOAF his tongue freed, and he began to speak, praising God.” The sudden return of his speech frightens neighbors and stirs anxious talk throughout the region about what will become of this child, “For, indeed, the hand of the Lord was with him.”50 Prior to this clamorous conclusion, the silent Zechariah gains prominence at Elizabeth’s expense. It is she, after all, who fi rst announces the baby’s divinely given name. But her neighbors and relatives ignore her, turning instead to Zechariah to learn what he wants the child to be called. Andrea’s sculpture accents the occlusion of Elizabeth’s socially marginalized voice. She lowers her head deferentially while awaiting her husband’s written announcement. For his part, Zechariah retains household command, seated with his feet elevated, a posture of authority. Yet he humbles himself. Hunched over, he writes obe- diently. The composition of the picture reinforces Zechariah’s self-eff acement. Positioned at the scene’s left edge, he yields the center to his infant son, who stands unusually erect in his mother’s hands. The old priest already knows from his orally crippling exchange with the angel that John will become Christ’s herald and a revealer of divine wisdom. The sculpted scene, then, presents a hierarchy of silences, each preparing the way for the one above it, all to culminate eventually in the delivery of God’s word. Images of other authorities were not always so literal about silence in their suppression of voices. In a scene from the celebrated fresco cycle of his life painted in the 1290s in the Upper Church of San Francesco in Assisi, Saint Francis seems to preach before Pope Honorius III and several cardinals (fi gure 12.8). A now fragmentary inscription below the picture (and not visible in the photograph) alters this impression: “Beatus Franciscus coram domino papa et cardi . . . ta effi cacitur predi- cavit ut patenter claresceret quod ipse non in doctis humane sapientie verbis set divino spiritu loqueretur” (Blessed Francis in the presence of the Lord Pope and Cardinals . . . devoutly and eff ectively preached such that it was manifestly clear that it was the Holy Spirit that spoke, not he who was learned in words of human wisdom). 51 These words interpret the auditory event and bring to it other allusions. For instance, the last phrase echoes the Acts of the Apostles, which relates how a grace-fi lled Saint Stephen, the fi rst of the early Christian martyrs, spoke with “wisdom and Spirit” that overwhelmed his adversaries.52 Francis was in prestigious company. The painted inscription adapts a passage from Bonaventure’s Legenda maior (completed after 1260), the offi cial hagiography of Francis and argument for his sanctity. The language derives specifi cally from theLegenda ’s twelfth chapter, which concerns the eff ectiveness of Francis’s preaching.53 There, before Bonaventure tells the story of Francis preaching before Honorius, he describes the saint as Christ-like in constantly receiving “Dei virtus et sapientia” (the power and wisdom of God), in penetrating listeners’ hearts, and in eliciting admiration without the aid of rhetorical skill. Francis’s word “cum non humanae inventionis ornatum praetenderet, sed divinae revelationis affl atum redoleret” (made no pretense at the elegance of human composition but exuded the perfume of divine revelation). The circumstance of the sermon’s delivery bears out these assertions. Just as Francis was about to preach, his mind went blank. Suddenly he forgot the sermon he had memorized for the occasion! Humbly admitting the problem, he invoked the grace of the Holy Spirit, whereupon the Spirit began to make itself heard through his mouth.54 VOICE AND WISDOM 227

The fragmentary inscription beneath the fresco in Assisi contains neither this invocation of Grace nor any mention of Francis forgetting his sermon. Early audiences’ familiarity with those details of the story may have been assumed. But the principal claim is spelled out: The Holy Spirit spoke through Francis. The Francis in the fresco opens his mouth slightly and “speaks” with his hands, but the visible speech appears weak, no equivalent of divine utterances visualized in other scenes in the fresco cycle.55 There was no need for it to be. The inscription heightens the event’s wonder by leaving vague what was said and how it sounded. At the same time, Francis’s minimal gestures reduce his agency as a speaker. The burden of representing the holy voice falls elsewhere. The inscription highlights the reception of the preaching: “it was manifestly clear that it was the Holy Spirit that spoke.” The painter accordingly fi lled the papal chamber with the sermon’s audience. Young cardinals show engagement and deep thought, while elder cardinals are alert and even unsettled. The pope himself leans forward silently in his throne and gazes at Francis, absorbed in what he hears. This is where we fi nd the voice of the Holy Spirit. The fresco asks us to see it indirectly, in the responses it elicits. It will help us to anticipate my conclusions in this essay if we pause to observe how the varied reactions within the scene combine to describe an auditory experience and attest to its extraordinary nature. The voice of the Holy Spirit is perceived as such only by the most senior offi cials. The gap between their responses and the minimization of Francis as speaker helps the viewer to imagine the voice as apart from the man, though not entirely separate. Traini’s Saint Dominic achieves a similar eff ect in a diff erent way (fi gure 12.1 ). This non-narrative portrayal is precise about the content of the speech represented, a verse from Psalm 34: “Venite fi lii audite me. ti / more[m] domini docebo vos” (Come, O children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of the Lord). Fear of the Lord is the very beginning of wisdom, according to Scripture. 56 In Traini’s image, the vocal source of this wisdom is equivocal, as noted earlier. Is it the book or Dominic who speaks? A comparable ambiguity occurs immediately above the saint in the central pinnacle of the altarpiece, where Christ himself faces outward and displays a text inscribed with words he speaks in the Book of John (8.12): “Ego sum lux mundi [et] q[ui] seq[ui]t[ur] me no[n] ambulat i[n] te[nebris]” (I am the light of the world and whoever follows me does not walk in darkness). The narrative context from which the statement comes—Christ teaching Jews in the temple of Galilee—contains a key concept of vocal agency. Before referring to himself as “the light of the world,” Christ fi nds that he must explain himself to an audience amazed by his learning:

My teaching is not mine but his who sent me. Anyone who resolves to do the will of God will know whether the teaching is from God or whether I am speaking on my own. Those who speak on their own seek their own glory; but the one who seeks the glory of him who sent him is true, and there is nothing false in him. 57

In Traini’s altarpiece, Christ and Dominic are supporters of God’s word, and thus appear to speak truly, that is, not “on their own.” Unlike Christ, the saints’ self-submission to divine speech was not a given. They could lose control of their tongues, as suggested in Gregory the Great’s Moralia in 228 MATTHEW G. SHOAF

Job .58 Trecento art reiterated this view. Saints Peter, Mary Magdalen, and Martha mouth their doubts in Christ’s divinity in Giotto’s The Raising of Lazarus (fi g- ure 12.3). Saint Mary Magdalen wails over Christ in Martini’s Lamentation ( fi g- ure 12.5). 59 Earlier traditions of medieval art stressed the need to purify human mouths prior to divine use. In representations of The Vision of Isaiah, a seraph or angel touches the prophet’s “unclean” lips with a live coal before he speaks God’s words.60 Analogously, purifying actions precede speech in the pictorial narratives of Zechariah and Saint Francis we have seen. Zechariah completes the purge of his vocal skepticism by carrying out God’s will in writing John’s name, an act that releases his tongue. Francis channels divine speech after he fi rst forgets human wisdom, expresses humility, and invokes the Holy Spirit. 61 As regards the image of Dominic, purifi cation is implied in the saint’s submission to the book and in his visual conformity to the fi gure of Christ above him. It was nonetheless important that the voices of these fi gures not be negated entirely. Divine speech needed their voices for its enactment and power. Mladen Dolar’s argument for distinguishing the voice from language off ers an insight into this dependence, observing the necessity of the voice in religious contexts where the truth resides in Holy Scripture. Words written down in sacred texts

can acquire performative strength only if they are relegated to the voice, and it is as if the use of the voice will ultimately endow those words with the character of sacredness and ensure their ritual efficacy, in spite of—or, rather, because of—the fact that the use of the voice does not add anything to their content. 62

The letter depends on the voice for authority, and in order to do its part the voice must be partly outside language and meaning. The hints of vocal agency on the part of Francis and Dominic enable divine communication to occur eff ectively. Vocal agency also secures for them a share in that transmission—no trivial matter for images of founders of religious orders that evangelized the masses. 63 Audiences could be skeptical of preachers’ claims that God spoke through them. 64 The imbal- ance between human voices and the divine voice in Trecento art has had no place in studies of visibile parlare and the “speaking image” but clearly has implications for pictured fi gures, whose command of an audience depends on it.

Voiceless Viewers My discussion in this chapter has examined images of prominent saints, with some attention to the life-restoring fi gure of Christ in Giotto’s The Raising of Lazarus ( fi gure 12.3), and to the ways that Christ’s authority as a source of divine utterance is confi rmed over the more orally animated depictions of other characters. This role was not assumed to be obvious; indeed, their initial blindness to it is one of the fresco’s central themes. As noted earlier, in the temple of Galilee, Christ had to explain to his audience that what they heard from him was not his own speech, but rather God’s. My chapter now concludes with an idea of how picturing divine speech had stakes not only for the perceptions of its human transmitters, but also for art itself. VOICE AND WISDOM 229

When a pictured speaker appears to convey divine wisdom, the picture simultaneously asserts itself as a medium of that wisdom. At issue is artistic ambition that surpasses the imbuing of art “with the latent power of speech,” Tarr’s formulation of the visible speech concept. That aim takes an unusual form in a novel personifi cation of Temperance, painted in fresco en grisaille by Giotto in the Arena Chapel (fi gure 12.9), where The Raising of Lazarus itself appears (fi gure 12.3). Temperance is one of seven didactic personifi cations of virtue that lead to salvation in the chapel’s decorative program. Leaving aside attributes that traditionally associated temperance with sexual abstinence and sobriety, Giotto gave Temperance a reserved pose, placed into her hands a sword that she carefully binds, and put a delicate bridle on her mouth. The fi gure encourages restraint of the passions. The bridle, specifi cally, recalls ideals found in the Bible, Roman ethics, and contemporary conduct literature concerning the guarding of one’s mouth and the control of the tongue.65 Dominican friar Bartolomeo da San Concordio’s early-fourteenth-century treatise Teachings of the Ancients off ers a relevant notion: We learn to speak by keeping silence; it is how true wisdom is acquired. 66 Giotto’s Temperance inventively prompts its viewer to imagine the nearness of that wisdom, and does so without showing speaking or speech at all.67 Explanation for this stress on silence should acknowledge textual correlates as well as the culture of restrained speech emerging in Europe in the early fourteenth century, as discussed by Le Goff and Schmitt. But there is also a sense in which pictures had their own interest in quiet: If the handing down of wisdom presupposed recipients’ vocal restraint, then it follows that images, as mediums of wisdom, had a stake in the silence of their viewers. Quiet viewing is at the core of the visibile parlare concept itself. When Dante stands transfi xed by the marble reliefs he beholds in Purgatory, the virtual utterances they stimulated in his mind are interrupted only by his ears’ insistence that the stone emits no voices and by his guide Virgil’s prods.68 The narrator is dumbstruck by the sculptures’ divine craftsmanship and by the enactments of humility that come across in pictured dialogue and song. 69 His temporary muteness suggests his own humbling, an indication of the effi cacy of the images in their function of purging pride. 70 Silence may have been an equally desirable condition for viewing pictures in this world. Giotto’s Temperance invites interpretation as an assurance that the truth of Christ’s life-giving command and of the chapel’s other painted fi gures would be “heard” above human voices, including voiced responses to the painter’s own extraordinary craft. Art examined in this chapter must have relied on cultural context to establish the quiet that its authority required. But how far that reliance went is a diffi cult question. We glimpse its limits when images take it upon themselves to turn down the volume.

Notes 1 . Thomas Aquinas, In III Sententiarum 9.1.2b, in S. Thomae Aquinatis Opera omnia , ed. Robert Busa (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1980), 1:294; Bonaventure, Commentaria in liber III Sententiarum 9.1.2, in Doctoris seraphici S. Bonaventurae Opera omnia (Florence: Ad Claras Aquas [Quaracchi], 1887), 3:203. For discussion, see David Freedberg, The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 162–63. 230 MATTHEW G. SHOAF

2 . “[L]o parlare, secondo natura, è udibile; ma non visibile.” Francesco da Buti, Commento di Francesco da Buti sopra la “Divina Commedia” di Dante Alighieri , ed. Crescentino Giannini (Pisa: Nistri, 1858–1862), 2:237. 3 . Filippo Villani, De origine civitatis Florentiae et eiusdem famosis civibus , trans. John Adams, in Giotto in Perspective , ed. Laurie Schneider (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1974), 37. For the Latin text, see Julius von Schlosser, ed., Quellenbuch zur Kunstgeschichte des abendl ändischen Mittelalters (Vienna: Verlag von Carl Graeser, 1896), 370–71. 4 . Heinrich Wö lfflin, Classic Art: An Introduction to the Italian Renaissance , trans. Peter Murray and Linda Murray (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 3. 5 . “A history of the disappearance and renaissance of [showing the mouth wide open] remains to be written.” Donal Cooper and Marika Leino, eds., Depth of Field: Relief Sculpture in Renaissance Italy (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2007), 183n35. 6 . See, for example, Moshe Barasch, Giotto and the Language of Gesture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); Emma Dillon, “Representing Obscene Sound,” in Medieval Obscenities , ed. Nicola McDonald (Woodbridge, UK: York Medieval Press, 2006), 55–84; Frank Bü ttner, “H ören Sehen: Klä nge in der Malerei der Renaissance und des Barock,” in Mit allen Sinnen: Sehen, Hö ren, Schmecken, Riechen und F ü hlen in der Kunst , ed. Andrea Gottdang and Regina Wohlfarth (Leipzig: Henschel, 2010), 46–68. 7 . Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image before the Era of Art , trans. Edmund Jephcott (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 351, 410. 8 . Ps. 34.11. All biblical passages are cited from the Revised Standard Version. 9 . Dante, Purgatorio 10.22–105, trans. Charles S. Singleton (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1973). 10 . Buti, Commento , 237. 11 . Buti, Commento, 237. 12 . Roger Tarr, “‘Visibile parlare’: The Spoken Word in Fourteenth-Century Central Italian Painting,” Word & Image 13.3 (1997): 236. 13 . Jn. 11.43–44. 14 . Barasch, Giotto and the Language of Gesture , 34; Tarr, “Visibile parlare,” 234. 15 . Tarr, “Visibile parlare,” 234. 16 . Excellent photographic reproductions of facial details of Peter, Martha, and Lazarus are found in Giuseppe Basile, Giotto: The Arena Chapel Frescoes (London: Thames and Hudson, 1993), 177–79. 17 . Lorenzo Ghiberti, Lorenzo Ghibertis Denkw ürdigkeiten (I Commentarii) , ed. Julius von Schlosser (Berlin: Julius Bard, 1912), 1:20. 18 . In Jn 11.42, Jesus explains that the point of the miracle is to convince the crowd that he has been sent by God. 19 . Jn. 11.39–40. 20 . Jn. 11.45. 21 . Mt. 14.31. 22 . Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona, The Usurer’s Heart: Giotto, Enrico Scrovegni, and the Arena Chapel in Padua (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2008), 132. 23 . “Mortuo enim Veni foras dicitur, ut ab excusatione atque occultatione peccati ad accusationem suam ore proprio exire provectur” (For the dead man is told “Come forth!” so that he be called to proceed from excuse and concealment of his sin to self-accusation by his own mouth.) Sancti Gregorii papae I, cognomento Magni, Opera omnia , PL 76, col. 232; translation in Derbes and Sandona, Usurer’s VOICE AND WISDOM 231

Heart , 132, where the authors argue convincingly for the penitential significance of this scene and others in the chapel’s fresco decoration. My interpretation reinforces this thesis while specifying that the pictured action precedes penitence. 24 . “[Ut] cum de vitio suo quisque arguitur, sub defensionum verba quasi sub quaedam se arborum folia abscondat, et velut ad quaedam excusationis suae opaca secreta faciem conditoris fugiat, dum non vult congnosci quot fecit. In qua vede- licet occultatione non se Domino, sed Dominum abscondit sibi. Agit quippe ne omnia videntem videat, non autem ne ipse videatur” ([A]s when anyone is censured for his vice, he hides himself under his words of defense as under the leaves of a tree, and somehow seeks refuge from his creator’s face in some secret shadow of his excuse, since he does not wish what he did to be known. In this hiding he does not hide himself from God, but God from himself; he acts so that he may not see the All-seeing, not so that he may not be seen himself). Latin original in Sancti Gregorii Opera omnia , PL 76, col. 231; translation in O. K. Werckmeister, “The Lintel Fragment Representing Eve from Saint-Lazare, Autun,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 35 (1972): 12–13. 25 . Giordano da Pisa, Quaresimale fiorentino, 1305–1306 , ed. Carlo Delcorno (Florence: Sansoni, 1974), 294–95. 26 . Fran çois Garnier, Le Langage de l’image au Moyen Age: Signification et symbolique , 2d ed. (Paris: Le L é opard d’Or, 1982), 135–36. Associations between disorder and speechless voices trace back to ancient Greek culture, which stigmatized non-Greeks as uncivilized inferiors by means of an apparently onomatopoeic term (barbaros ) that mockingly evoked the sound of non-Greek languages to Greek ears. In the Middle Ages the inheritance of this ethno- centric ordering of the world is seen in the lack of language among monstrous races—Speechless Men, barking Cynocephali, and others—in various texts and images, imaginary outsiders in relation to Christians of European ter- ritories. Debra Higgs Stickland, in a study of “the pictorial code of rejection” in medieval culture, observed that lack of speech had theological implications from a Christian perspective: “without speech the Word of God can be neither communicated nor disseminated.” Debra Higgs Strickland, Saracens, Demons, and Jews: Making Monsters in Medieval Art (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003), 48. 27 . Hans Belting, “The New Role of Narrative in Public Painting of the Trecento: Historia and Allegory,” in Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity and the Middle Ages , ed. Herbert L. Kessler and Marianna Shreve Simpson (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1985), 151–68. 28 . Brunetto Latini, The Book of the Treasure (Li Livres dou Tresor) , trans. Paul Barrette and Spurgeon Baldwin (New York: Garland, 1993), 279. 29 . Dante Alighieri, De vulgari eloquentia , ed. and trans. Steven Botterill (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 35. 30 . Jacques Le Goff and Jean-Claude Schmitt, “Au XIII siè cle: Une parole nouvelle,” in Histoire vé cue du peuple chré tien , ed. Jean Delumeau (Toulouse: Privat, 1979), 1:257–79. 31 . Carol Lansing, Passion and Order: Restraint of Grief in the Medieval Italian Communes (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2008). 32 . Lansing makes a similar point in Passion and Order , 219–20. 33 . Mladen Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006), 42–52. 232 MATTHEW G. SHOAF

34 . Joan Ferrante, “The Relation of Speech to Sin in the Inferno,” Dante Studies , no. 87 (1969): 33–46. 35 . Dante, Inferno , 4.26–27, trans. Charles S. Singleton (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1970). 36 . For vocality in the fa ç ade sculptures of Orvieto cathedral more generally, see Matthew G. Shoaf, “The Voice in Relief: Sculpture and and Vocal Surplus at the Rise of Naturalism,” in Resounding Images: Medieval Intersections of Music, Art, and Sound, ed. Susan Boynton and Diane Reilly (Turnhout: Brepols, forthcoming). 37 . Lucia Battaglia Ricci, Ragionare nel giardino: Boccaccio e i cicli pittorici del Trionfo della Morte (Rome: Salerno, 2000), 114–15, 118, 248–52, 254–55. 38 . R. Howard Bloch, Medieval Misogyny and the Invention of Western Romantic Love (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 17–33; Carla Casagrande, “The Protected Woman,” trans. Clarissa Botsford, in A History of Women in the West , vol. 2, Silences of the Middle Ages , ed. Christiane Klapisch-Zuber (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press, 1992), 98–101. 39 . Lansing, Passion and Order . 40 . Mt. 2.17–19, citing Jer. 31.15. 41 . Jer. 31.16. 42 . Jeremy Cohen, The Friars and the Jews: The Evolution of Medieval Anti-Judaism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982), 238–41. 43 . See, for example, Saint Bonaventure, Meditations on the Life of Christ: An Illustrated Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century , ed. Isa Ragusa and Rosalie B. Green, trans. Isa Ragusa (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961), 319, 325–29, 332–33; James H. Marrow, “Circumdederunt me canes multi: Christ’s Tormentors in Northern European Art of the Late Middle Ages and Early Renaissance,” Art Bulletin 59.2 (June 1977): 174–75, 178–80. In early Trecento art, Jewish enemies of Christ also became vociferous in newly dramatic scenes of the Passion, visibly shouting at and taunting him during his capture and torture, for example, in the Passion scenes carved by Giovanni Pisano on the pulpit in the cathedral of Pisa (ca. 1310). See Matthew G. Shoaf, “Giovanni Pisano’s Marble Wounds: Beholding Artistic Self-Defense in the Pisa Cathedral Pulpit,” in Beholding Violence in Medieval and Early Modern Culture , ed. Allie Terry-Fritsch and Erin Felicia Labbie (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012), 39–59, at 43 and 46. 44 . Jn . 1.7. The Baptist publicly testifies that Jesus is the Son of God, citing divine things he has seen and heard. For his testimony, see Jn. 1.29–34. The Baptist begins his declaration in the panel painting. 45 . Jn. 1.19–24. 46 . Jn. 1.29, 36. The picture conflates two episodes that occur on consecutive days in the Book of John. Whether the priest and his assistants were still present the next day, when John sees Jesus approach and declares “Behold,” the text leaves unresolved. 47 . The fresco decoration of the Church of San Francesco in Assisi contains narrative scenes in which monks, children, and secular court musicians sing. The inclusion of friars singing praise of God in The Miracle of the Crib at Greccio is an especially clear example of open mouths having a positive connotation. Song did raise moral concerns, however. See Howard Mayer Brown, “Ambivalent Trecento Attitudes Toward Music: An Iconographical View,” in Music and Context: Essays for John M. Ward, ed. Anne Dhu Shapiro (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Department of Music, 1985), 79–107. Instances of explicit vocalization are rare in the visual evidence presented by Brown. VOICE AND WISDOM 233

48 . The sculptures of Nicola and Giovanni Pisano, beginning with the carved marble decoration of the pulpit in Siena Cathedral (completed in 1268) up to Giovanni’s late work in the early fourteenth century, are rich terrain for a more thorough investigation of the emergence in Tuscany of the tradition of opening the mouths of Mary and Christ. The frescoes painted by Giotto in the Arena Chapel are also of interest where Christ’s vocality is concerned. Beyond The Raising of Lazarus , Jesus’s lips also part slightly in The Baptism , The Wedding at Cana , The Betrayal , Christ before Caiaphas , and The Way of the Cross . An extreme instance of an open- mouthed Christ in Trecento art is the Crucifixion sculpted by the so-called Master of Santa Anastasia for the church of San Giacomo alla Tomba in Verona (now in the Museo di Castelvecchio, Verona). 49 . Jn. 7.16. 50 . Luke 1.8–20, 59–66. 51 . Alastair Smart, The Assisi Problem and the Art of Giotto: A Study of the Legend of St. Francis in the Upper Church of San Francesco, Assisi (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 279–80. 52 . Acts 6.10. Cf. Mt. 10.19–20, where Jesus comforts his apostles in anticipation of hostility to their faith: “Do not worry about how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given to you at that time; for it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” 53 . “efficacibus subito coepit verbis affluere tamque potenti virtute illorum mentes virorum sublimium ad compunctionem inflectere, ut aperte clareret, quod non ipse, sed Spiritus Domini loquebatur” (he immediately began to pour forth a stream of words so penetrating and of such power to move the minds of those eminent men to repentance that it was patently manifest that it was not he that spoke but the Spirit of the Lord). Saint Bonaventure, “Legenda maior S. Francisci,” Analecta Franciscana 10 (1941): 613. 54 . Bonaventure, “Legenda maior S. Francisci,” 613. 55 . A hand of God in the sky gestures toward Francis in The Renunciation of Worldly Goods . In The Ecstasy of Saint Francis , Christ descends from the heavens and speaks to the saint with his hand. 56 . Prov. 1.7, 9.10. 57 . Jn. 7.16–18. 58 . “Quis vero inveniri potest qui, quamlibet perfectus sit, de otioso tamen sermone non peccet” (But who can be found, however perfect, who has not offended in idle words?) Sancti Gregorii Opera omnia , PL 76, col. 634. 59 . For more on flawed saints, see the discussion of figures of penitence in Derbes and Sandona, Usurer’s Heart , 129. 60. Isa. 6.4–9. For detailed discussion of this motif, see Marcia Kupfer, “Spiritual Passage and Pictorial Strategy in the Romanesque Frescoes at Vicq,” Art Bulletin 68.1 (March 1986): 46–52; and Cynthia Hahn, “Purification, Sacred Action, and the Vision of God: Viewing Medieval Narratives,” Word & Image 5.1 (1989): 73–75. The purification of Isaiah’s lips is rare in Trecento art. It appears in a late-thirteenth-century panel painting of the Madonna and Saints by Giovanni del Biondo, now in the Vatican Museum. See Millard Meiss, Painting in Florence and Siena after the Black Death: The Arts, Religion, and Society in the Mid-fourteenth Century (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1951), Figure 52. 61 . Jacobus de Voragine’s thirteenth-century Legenda aurea describes the Holy Spirit itself as a cleansing agent. Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend: Readings on the Saints, trans. William Granger Ryan (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012), 307. 234 MATTHEW G. SHOAF

62 . Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More , 107. Emphasis in original. 63 . Andr é Vauchez, “The Pastoral Transformation of the Thirteenth Century,” in Andr é Vauchez, The Laity in the Middle Ages: Religious Beliefs and Devotional Practices , ed. Daniel E. Bornstein, trans. Margery J. Schneider (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1993), 100. 64 . See Carla Casagrande, “Le Calame du Saint-Esprit: Grâ ce et rh étorique dans la pré dication au XIIIe si ècle,” in La Parole du pr é dicateur, Ve –XVe si è cle , ed. Rosa Maria Dess ì and Michel Lauwers (Nice: Centre d’ études mé dié vales, 1997), 235–54; and Silvana Vecchio, “Les Langues de feu: Pentec ôte et rhé torique sacré e dans les sermons des XIIe et XIIIe siè cles,” in Dess ì and Lauwers, La Parole du pr é dicateur , 255–69. 65 . See Selma Pfeiffenberger, “The Iconology of Giotto’s Virtues and Vices at Padua,” PhD dissertation, Bryn Mawr College, 1966, Chapter V, pages 15–16. Laura Jacobus, Giotto and the Arena Chapel: Art, Architecture, and Experience (London: Harvey Miller Publishers, 2008), 227. 66 . “Gregorio sopra Ezechiele. Dice Salamone: tempo è di tacere e tempo di parlare. Non dice: tempo di parlare e tempo di tacere; perocch é noi non dovemo parlando imparare a tacere, ma tacendo imparare a parlare” (Gregory on Ezekiel. Solomon says there is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak. He does not say, a time to speak and a time to keep silence; and so we should not learn to keep silence by speaking, but rather learn to speak by keeping silence). Bartolomeo da San Concordio, Ammaestramenti degli antichi latini e toscani raccolti e volgarizzati per Fra Bartolommeo da san Concordio , ed. Vincenzo Nannucci (Florence: Ricordi, 1840), 145. Bartolomeo is citing Gregory the Great’s Homilies on the Prophet Ezekiel (I.11), which in turn cites Ecclesiastes (3.7). 67 . Associations between temperance and wisdom had occurred in art prior to the fourteenth century. See Lynn White, Jr., “The Iconography of Temperantia and the Virtuousness of Technology,” in Action and Conviction in Early Modern Europe: Essays in Memory of E. J. Harbison , ed. Theodore K. Rabb and Jerrold E. Seigel (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1969), 206–207. White’s study discusses early connections between wisdom and temperance, but does not mention Giotto’s personi- fication. Giotto paired Temperance with an opposing vice, Wrath ( Ira ), who rends her garment. The pairing may associate temperance with the restraint of outbursts that obstruct wisdom. “L’ira toglie ognie sapienza” (Wrath removes all wisdom), according to Bartolomeo da San Concordio (Ammaestramenti , 445). 68 . Dante, Purgatorio , 10.46, 10.60, 10.100. 69 . Dante, Purgatorio , 10.32–33, 10.97–99. 70 . For an opposing view, one that finds the passage to express profound pride on Dante’s part, see Teodolinda Barolini, “Re-Presenting What God Presented: The Arachnean Art of Dante’s Terrace of Pride,” Dante Studies 105 (1987): 43–62.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Andrew Albin is assistant professor of English at Fordham University. His research in historical sound studies, material culture, and medieval auralities has been recognized with grants and fellowships from the Medieval Academy of America, the Pontifi cal Institute of Mediaeval Studies, the Yale Institute of Sacred Music, and the American Council of Learned Societies. His publications include articles in The Chaucer Review and Early Theatre . Albin’s alliterative and multimedia English translation of Richard Rolle’s Melos amoris is forthcoming from the Pontifi cal Institute’s Mediaeval Sources in Translation Series. Hé lè ne Bernier-Farella is Ma ître de Confé rences at the Universit é de Cergy- Pontoise. Her research takes an anthropological approach to the history of ancient religions and the Christianization of ancient and Byzantine Greek society. She serves on the editorial board of the Revue de l’Histoire des Religions . Ghislain Casas is a doctoral candidate at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (EPHE) and the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales (EHESS). His dissertation studies the cosmological and political stakes of medieval angelology. Casas holds the agr égation in Philosophy and has taught at the EPHE and at McGill University. He is the author of several articles and book chapters on angels and medieval philosophy. Marisa Galvez is assistant professor of French at Stanford University. She spe- cializes in the literature of the Middle Ages in France and Western Europe. Her areas of interest include the troubadours, vernacular poetics, crusade literature, and the critical history of medieval studies as a discipline. She is the author of Songbook: How Lyrics Became Poetry in Medieval Europe (Chicago, 2012). C édric Giraud is Maî tre de Confé rences habilité at the Universit é de Lorraine, and a member of the Institut universitaire de France. His fi rst book, Per verba magistri: Anselme de Laon et son é cole (Brepols, 2010), received the Gobert Prize from the Acad é mie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres. Dr. Giraud is the coeditor of Rois, reines et é v êques . . . (Brepols, 2009) and Universitas scholarium: M élanges . . . Jacques Verger (Droz, 2011), and the author of more than 20 journal articles and book chapters. He is a member of the editorial board of the Revue historique. Babette S. Hellemans holds doctorates in historical anthropology from the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales (EHESS) and in medieval history from 258 CONTRIBUTORS

Utrecht University. She is senior lecturer in the history of medieval thought at the University of Groningen. Dr. Hellemans has been a visitor at CNRS laboratories, at the Humanities Center at Johns Hopkins University, and at Oxford University. She is the author and editor of several books and numerous articles on Peter Abelard. Irit Ruth Kleiman is associate professor of Romance Studies at Boston University. Her research interests include historiography, intellectual history, psychoanalysis and literature, the cultures of memory, and the tropes of embodiment across medieval France, Europe, and the Mediterranean. Kleiman’s fi rst book Philippe de Commynes: Memory, Betrayal, Text (Toronto, 2013) received the Newberry Library’s Weiss/Brown Award. Bruno Lemesle is Professeur en Histoire M édi é vale at the Universit é de Bourgogne and an expert in medieval law. His publications include Confl its et justice au Moyen Age: Normes, loi et r é solution des confl its en Anjou (PUF, 2008) and La socié t é aristocratique dans le Haut-Maine (PU de Rennes, 1999). Professor Lemesle is also the editor or coeditor of fi ve books about medieval justice and the author of more than two dozen widely cited articles and book chapters. Andreea Marculescu is currently visiting assistant professor of French at the University of California, Irvine. She was a 2012–2014 ACLS New Faculty Fellow at Harvard University. Her research interests include medieval drama, Aff ect Studies and emotions, history of psychiatry, and narratives of mental ill- nesses in medieval and early-modern literature. Her publications include book chapters and articles in Critique , Mediaevalia , and Renaissance and Reformation . She is currently working on a book manuscript titled The Return of the Possessed: Piety, Theology, and Personhood in Medieval French Theatre . Julie Orlemanski is assistant professor of English at the University of Chicago. She is completing a book manuscript entitled “Symptomatic Subjects: Bodies, Signs, and Narratives in Late Medieval England.” Her essays have appeared in Exemplaria , A Handbook of Middle English Studies, Robert Thornton and His Books, and postmedieval . She is beginning work on a new project on medieval personifi cation. Matthew G. Shoaf is associate professor of Art History at Ursinus College. He has published studies of looking, hearing, and speaking in Trecento art, with articles appearing in Word & Image , Studies in Iconography , and Micrologus , and chapters in Beholding Violence in Medieval and Early Modern Culture (Ashgate, 2012) and Resounding Images: Medieval Intersections of Music, Art, and Sound (Brepols, forthcoming). His current book project, Hearing Early Italian Art, began during an Andrew W. Mellon Regional Faculty Fellowship at the Penn Humanities Forum (University of Pennsylvania). Robert Stanton is associate professor of English at Boston College. He special- izes in the Anglo-Saxon period, and is the author of The Culture of Translation in Anglo-Saxon England , as well as numerous articles on translation, saints’ lives, medieval mystics, and animal studies. He is currently at work on a book entitled Animal Voices in Anglo-Saxon England . CONTRIBUTORS 259

Anna Zayaruznaya is an assistant professor in the Department of Music at Yale University. Her research, which brings the history of musical forms and notation into dialogue with medieval literature, iconography, and the history of ideas, has appeared in the top journals of her fi eld, including the Journal of the American Musicological Society and the Journal of Musicology . Her fi rst book, The Monstrous New Art: Divided Forms in the Late Medieval Motet , was published in 2015 by Cambridge University Press. INDEX

Page numbers in bold indicate fi gures. To avoid excessive duplication, discussions of works by known or attributed authors are indexed by or under the names of their creators. Abelard, Peter, 6–7, 83–95 passim, Benedict, Saint, Rule of, 69, 88 97n27, 97n38, 108–9 Bernard de Rosier, 8, 69, 201–10 passim, Acts of the Apostles, 68, 226 211n11, 212n28, 212n29 Aeschylus, 51, 52 Bernard of Clairvaux, 70, 90, 101, Aldhelm, 29, 40, 42n17 104–5, 107, 108, 110–11, 113, 115, Alexander III (Pope), 69, 74, 80n52 118, 202, 212n28 Ambrose of Milan, Saint, 37, 72 Bible. See names of individual books Andrew of Crete, 50, 51 Binchois, 157, 165–6, 167, 168, 171, 172 Annunciation, the, 13, 225 Bonaventure, Saint, 16, 213, 226–7, Anselm of Canterbury, 201, 202, 204, 233n53 208–9, 212n28 Boniface (Anglo-Saxon riddler), 29, 40 Apocalypse (Biblical book), Boniface VIII (Pope), 24 181, 202 Boureau, Alain, 207 Aquinas, Saint Thomas, 16, 122n48, 142, Bridget of Sweden, 124 185, 213 Buti, Francesco da, 215, 230n2 Arena Chapel (Padua), 215, 217, 220, 224, 229, 233n48 Caiaphas, 49, 233n48 Aristotle, 1–3, 6, 14–15, 20, 22–6, 26n7, Callixtus I (Pope), 71 26n10, 28n25, 30–1, 33, 35–7, 89, Cassian, John, 142, 151n13, 151n14 92, 185, 196n31 Catherine of Siena, 124 Arundel, Archbishop Thomas, 190 Cavarero, Adriana, 140 Augustine, Saint, Bishop of Hippo, 9n10, Cavell, Stanley, 1, 95n7 27n21, 67–8, 92, 97n38, 113, 115, Certeau, Michel de, 127–8, 138n18, 116, 140 140, 187 Confessions, 2–4, 200, 113, 222 Charcot, Jean-Martin, 150 influence on meditative genre, 200, Châtelain d’Arras [Huon d’Arras], 101–2, 201, 202, 209, 210, 212n28 105–13, 116–19 Châtelain de Couci, 102, 122n53 Barasch, Moshe, 220 Christine de Pizan, 7, 156–7, 159, Bartolomeo da San Concordio, 229, 164–6, 170–1 234n66, 234n67 Chrysostom, John, 49–50, 51, 53 Basil of Caesarea, 53 Cicero, 86, 93, 96n11 Bédier, Joseph, 102, 119n6 Ciconia, Johannes, 165 Beleth, John, 66–7 Conon de Béthune, 102, 103–4 Belting, Hans, 214 Constable, Giles, 92 262 INDEX

Councils, Church Giotto di Bondone, 213–15, 220–1, 224, Basel [AD 1439], 204 228–9, 233n48, 234n67 Carthage [AD 421], 81n61 Raising of Lazarus, 217 Chaldecon [AD 451], 58 Temperance, 220 Lateran IV [AD 1215], 103, 108–9 Gospels, 49–50, 129, 199, 202, 205–6, Nicea [AD 325], 58 208. See also John; Luke; Matthew Gratian’s Decretum, 65–78 passim, 78n4, Dante Alighieri, 213, 215, 222, 229 79n13, 81n61 David (biblical king), 215 Gréban, Arnoul, 141, 143–4, 149 De laude novae militiae, 104–5 Gregory of Nazianzus, 47, 49, 54–5 Descartes (cogito), 92 Christos Paschon, 47, 56–7 Diomedes, 165 Gregory of Nyssa dogs, 22, 34–5, 39, 40, 224 Life of Macrina, 55 Dolar, Mladen, 25, 148, 222, 228 Gregory the Great (Pope), 231n23, Dominic, Saint, altarpiece of [Pisa], 231n24, 233n58 214, 216, 225, 227–8 Homilies on Ezekiel, 234n66 Donatus, 165 Moralia in Job, 221, 227–8 du Bus, Gervès, 157–8 on pastoral care, 68–9 du Fay, Guillaume, 158, 175n39 Grosseteste, Robert, 114–15, 122n49 Duby, George, 14 Guthlac, 37–8 Dueil angoisseus. See Binchois; Christine de Pizan Hammer of Witches. See under Kramer, Heinrich Elias, Norbert, 144 Heloise, 6–7, 83–95 passim Elizabeth, Saint (mother of John the Henri of Valenciennes, 104 Baptist), 225, 226 Hilton, Walter, 190–1 Eucharist, 50, 54, 57, 62n31, 65, 67 Honorius III (Pope), 219, 226–7 Eugene III (Pope), 74, 80n52 Hugh of Saint Victor, 103 Euripides, 51, 61n20, 62n43 Eusebius (Anglo-Saxon riddle writer), 29, Innocent III (Pope), 101, 103–4, 105, 33, 36, 40, 42n11 107, 108 Exeter Book, 29, 31–2, 36, 38, 39, 40, 41n2 Isaiah, 16, 69, 129, 228, 233n60

False Decretals, 71, 73 Jacobus de Voragine, 208, 234n61 Fauvel, Roman de, 155, 156, 157–9, 164 Jakemes, 122n53 Ferrante, Joan, 222 Jeremiah, 158, 223–4 Foucault, Michel, 7, 122n52 Jerome, Saint, 86–7, 93, 202 Francis of Assisi, Saint, 225–7, 228, Jerusalem, 124, 129, 137n5, 141 233n53, 233n55 Jews, 73, 141, 204, 206, 215, 220, 221, Francis of Assisi Preaching before Pope 224, 227, 232n43 Honorius III, 219 Job (biblical character), 49. See also under Franciscan piety, 209, 212n29 Gregory the Great John (Gospel), 207, 220, 221, 223, 225, Gabriel (angel), 13, 207, 225 227, 232n46 Galen, 142 John Cassian. See Cassian, John Gelasius I (Pope), 76 John Chrysostom. See Chrysostom, John Genesis, 5, 13 John the Baptist, Saint, 218, 219, 224–6, Ghiberti, Lorenzo, 220–1 228, 232n44 Giles of Rome, 15, 20–5 Joinville, Jean de, 4–5 Gilles de Bins. See Binchois Judas [Iscariot], 56, 204, 206 INDEX 263

Kay, Sarah, 158–9 Mystère de Saint Remi, 141, 143, 144–5, 148 Kempe, Margery, 7, 8, 144, 165, 189, 214 Mystery plays, 140–50 passim. See also Book of, 123–36 passim, 136n3, 197n44 individual authors and/or titles Kramer, Heinrich Hammer of Witches, 142, 143, 149, 152n18 Nicholas I (Pope), 70 Kumler, Aden, 109, 121n36 Nichols, Stephen, 113

Lacan, Jacques, 1, 22, 25, 28n28, 28n29, Orcagna, Andrea 28n37 Triumph of Death, 215, 216, 223 Lancelot (Arthurian character), 112, 118 Orvieto Latini, Brunetto, 222 cathedral facade, 217, 222 Lazarus Ovid, 89. See also Philomela John Chrysostom on, 50 Owl and the Nightingale, The, 38 Raising of Lazarus (Giotto), 215, 217, 220–1, 224, 228–9, 233n48 Paraclete, 90, 91–2, 97n27 Le Goff, Jacques, 222, 229 Passion Plays, 140–50 passim Leach, Elizabeth Eva, 43n21, 159, 161, Paul, Saint, 49, 69, 79n20, 94 165 Payen, Jean-Charles, 103 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 83–4 Peter, Saint, 220 Lincoln College MS Latin, 89, 189–91, Peter Lombard, 108 192, 193 Peter the Chanter, 109, 121n36 Lochrie, Karma, 187 Peter the Venerable, 90 Lollardy, 130, 190 Philomela, 43n21 Lucania (region in Italy), 52 Phoenix, The, 39, 43n23 Lucian of Samosata, 51–2 Piers Plowman, 135 Luke (Gospel), 13, 103, 215, 225–6 Pilate, 56, 204, 207 Acts of Pilate, 57 Machaut, Guillaume de, 7, 156, 159–64, 171 Pisa, Giordano da, 221 Macrobius, 89 Pisano, Andrea Magdalen, Saint Mary, 220, 223, 228 Naming of John the Baptist, 219, 225 Maitani, Lorenzo. See Orvieto Pisano, Giovanni, 232n43, 233n48 Malleus maleficarum. See under Kramer, Plato, 97n34 Heinrich Neoplatonism, 35 Martha, Saint, 215, 220–1, 228 platonic tradition, 206–7 Martini, Simone Pliny the Elder, 37, 39 Lamentation of Christ, 218, 223–4, 228 Plutarch, 35–6, 39, 60n6 Mary, Virgin, Mother of God, 6, 8, 47–8, Post miserabile (crusading letter of 1198), 103 51, 54, 55–9, 199–210 passim, 212n29, Priscian, 125, 173n13, 206 215, 223, 224, 233n48 Psalms, 4, 48, 54–5, 59, 62n31, 113, 179– Mary of Oignies, 124 82, 201, 214, 227 Matthew (Gospel), 49, 73, 103, 141, Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, 18, 24 233n52 Maurice of Sully, 101, 114–15, 116 Quia maior (Papal encyclical of 1213), 103, Mercadé, Eustache 107 Mystère de la Passion d’Arras, 141 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 7, 145 Rachel (biblical matriarch), 223–4 Michel, Jean Roland of Bologna, 71, 74 Mystère de la Passion, 141, 143, 144, 145, Rolle, Richard, 7, 8, 128, 133, 134, 165, 147, 149 177–93 passim, 193–4n1, 194n2, 194n4, Molinet, Jean, 139–41, 158, 159 194n5, 195n7, 195n9, 195n13, 195n16 264 INDEX

Romanos the Melodist, 56, 60n3 Thessalonians, 49 Rufinus of Bologna, 65–9, 70, 71, 74, Thibaut de Champagne, 102 75–7, 78n2 Thomas of Cantimpré, 144, 165 Rupert of Deutz, 142, 152n15 Toulouse (city), 201, 202 Traini, Francesco San Francesco, Church of (Assisi), 219, altarpiece of Saint Dominic, 214, 216, 226–7, 232n47. See also Francis of 225, 227 Assisi, Saint Turner, Victor, 53 San Torpè, Master of Witness of John the Baptist, 218, 224 Unam Sanctam (Papal Bull of 1302), 24 Santa Anastasia, Master of San Giacomo alla Tomba, 233n48 van Gennep, Arnold, 52 Scarry, Elaine, 145, 146 Veni Creator Spiritus, 5 Schmitt, Jean-Claude, 222, 229 Villani, Filippo, 213, 221 Seneca, 21 Vincent de Beauvais, 208 Sextus Empiricus, 34–5, 39–40 Virgil, 229 Simon of Bisignano, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71–2, von Moos, Peter, 7, 90–2, 97n26 76–7, 78n7 Sirach, Book of, 49 Watson, Nicholas, 135, 183–4, 188–9, 194n5 Skepticism, 34, 35, 91–2 Wheeler, Bonnie, 89 Solomon (biblical king), 202, 234n66 William of Auvergne, 15, 16–19, 24–5, 26n12 Song of Songs, 132, 177, 202 William of Moerbeke, 20, 24 Sophocles, 51 William of Waddington Stephen, Saint, 226 Manuel des péchés, 109 Stephen of Tournai, 74, 80n51 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 95n7 Stoicism, 30, 34, 35, 86, 89, 94–5 Wölfflin, Heinrich, 213–14 Symphosius, 29 Wycliffism, 190

Tarr, Roger, 215, 220, 223, 229 Zechariah (father of John the Baptist), Tatwine, 29, 40 225–6, 228 Theodosian Code, 71 Zumthor, Paul, 140, 150