The Medieval Chronicle V

The Medieval Chronicle V

The Medieval Chronicle 5 Series Editor: Erik Kooper

Frontispiece Paris, BnF fr. 2663, fol. 133: Le débarquement d’Edouard III en Normandie (See Laurence Harf-Lancner, ‘L’éclairage iconographique: l’illustration des Chroniques de Froissart)

The Medieval Chronicle V Edited by Erik Kooper

Amsterdam - New York, NY 2008

The paper on which this book is printed meets the requirements of “ISO 9706:1994, Information and documentation - Paper for documents - Requirements for permanence”. ISSN: 1567-2336 ISBN-13: 978-90-420-2354-3 ©Editions Rodopi B.V., Amsterdam - New York, NY 2008 Printed in the Netherlands

CONTENTS Contents .......... ......... ......... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .............v Contributors..... ......... ......... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... ...........vii Preface .......... ......... ......... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... ............ix Chris Given-Wilson .. ......... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .............1 Official and Semi-Official History in the Later Middle Ages: The English Evidence in Context Laurence Harf-Lancner ...... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... ...........17 L’éclairage iconographique: l’illustration des Chroniques de Froissart Teresa Amado ………………….…........ ......... ......... ......... ...........35 Fiction as Rhetoric: A Study of Fernão Lopes’ Crónica De D. João I Isabel de Barros Dias ......... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... ...........47 Gathering, Ranking and Denegating Sources in Thirteenthand Fourteenth-Century Iberian Chronicles Cristian Bratu….. ...... ......... ......... ………………………… ...........61 L’esthetique des chroniqueurs de la IVe Croisade et l’épistémè gothico-scolastique Graeme Dunphy ........ ......... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... ...........77 On the Function of the Disputations in the Kaiserchronik Per Förnegård . ......... ......... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... ...........87 Le Miroir historial de Jean de Noyal ou l’art de compiler Wojtek Jezierski ......... ......... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... ...........99 Taking Sides: Some Theoretical Remarks on the (Ab)Use of Historiography

Linda Kaljundi ………........ ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .........113 Waiting for the Barbarians: Reconstruction of Otherness in the Saxon Missionary and Crusading Chronicles, 11th –13th Centuries Andy King and Julia Marvin......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .........129 A Warning to the Incurious: M. R. James, the Scalacronica and the Anglo-Norman Prose Brut Chronicle Alison Williams Lewin …. ... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .........147 Chivalry and Romance in the Chronicle of Bindino da Travale Margarida Madureira ........ ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .........161 Le chroniqueur et son public: les versions latine et française de la Chronique de Guillaume de Tyr Marigold Anne Norbye ....... ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .........175 ‘A tous nobles qui aiment beaux faits et bonnes histoires’: The Multiple Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Genealogical Chronicle Anti Selart .......………........ ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .........197 Iam tunc…. The Political Context of the First Part of the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia Paul Trio .........………........ ......... .......... ......... ......... ......... .........211 The Chronicle Attributed to ‘Olivier van Diksmuide’: a Misunderstood Town Chronicle of Ypres from Late Medieval Flanders

CONTRIBUTORS

Chris Given-Wilson – Department of Mediaeval History – University of St Andrews (UK) Laurence Harf-Lancner – Littérature et linguistique françaises et latines – Université Sorbonne Nouvelle Paris III (F) Teresa Amado – Departamento de Literaturas Românicas – Faculdade de Letras – Universidade de Lisboa (P) Isabel de Barros Dias – Departamento de Língua e Cultura Portuguesas – Universidade Aberta – Lisboa (P) Cristian Bratu – Division of French and Italian – Baylor University (USA) Graeme Dunphy – Department of English – University of Regensburg (D) Per Förnegård – Department of French, Italian and Classical Languages – University of Stockholm (S) Wojtek Jezierski – Department of History – Stockholm University (S) Linda Kaljundi – Department of History – University of Tartu (EST) / Department of History – University of Helsinki (SF) Andy King – Department of History – University of Southampton (UK) Erik Kooper – Department of English – Utrecht University (NL) Alison Williams Lewin – Departmernt of History – St Joseph’s University – Philadelphia (USA) Margarida Madureira – Faculdade de Letras – Universidade de Lisboa (P) Julia Marvin – Program of Liberal Studies – Notre Dame University (USA) Marigold Anne Norbye – Department of History – University College London (UK) Anti Selart – Institute of History and Archaeology – University of Tartu (EST) Paul Trio – Departement Moderne Geschiedenis – Katholieke Universiteit Leuven (B)

PREFACE The majority of the papers contained in this fifth volume of The Medieval Chronicle were originally read at the 4th International Conference on the Medieval Chronicle (Reading, 2005), including two of the plenary papers, which traditionally precede the others. The basic editorial principles of the journal are still the same, which means that all papers will continue to be peer reviewed by two members of an editorial committee, and that the five major themes of interest remain: 1. The chronicle: history or literature? The chronicle as a historiographical and/or a literary genre; genre confusion and genre influence; different types of chronicle; classification; conventions (historiographical, literary or otherwise), etc.

2. The function of the chronicle The historical or literary context of the chronicle; its social function and/or utility; patronage; reading and listening; reception of the text, etc.

3. The form of the chronicle Origin/genesis of the chronicle; the language of the chronicle; chronicles in multiple languages; prose or verse; provenance and dissemination of the manuscripts, etc.

4. The chronicle and the reconstruction of the past Relationship present – past in the chronicle; the author’s historical awareness; the explication of history (the causa causans of history); fictionality vs. historical veracity; the function of the past for the author's present, etc.

5. Text and image in the chronicle Function of the manuscript illuminations; provenance and date of the illuminations; links with the text (e.g. factual or fictitious representation of the images), etc.

Beside papers on these subjects, also editions of short chronicle texts may be submitted for publication. Finally, it is a pleasure to express here my indebtedness to the members of the editorial committee: Peter Ainsworth, Kelly De Vries, Graeme Dunphy, Chris Given-Wilson, David Hook, Edward Donald Kennedy, Norbert Kersken, Sjoerd Levelt, Alison Williams Lewis, David Pattison and Jürgen Wolf. Erik Kooper

OFFICIAL AND SEMI-OFFICIAL HISTORY IN THE LATER MIDDLE AGES: THE ENGLISH EVIDENCE IN CONTEXT Chris Given-Wilson Abstract During the thirteenth century, most English chroniclers were still monks. By the fifteenth century, most of them were attached to royal or noble courts. Simultaneously, the enormous growth of bureaucracy and spread of literacy meant that much more written evidence was available to chroniclers. Perhaps inevitably, this led to attempts by the government and/or political factions to control or manipulate the flow of information to chroniclers in their own interests. Yet, paradoxically, this paper argues that it was monastic rather than secular chroniclers who were more likely to be influenced by such propaganda, whereas secular clerks, although often based at court or working for the government, generally seem to have been free to write what they wished. Only after the effective demise of monastic chronicle-writing during the early fifteenth century did secular chroniclers become more significantly propagandist in tone.

Until the thirteenth century, chronicles in England were written mainly in religious houses. This is not of course to forget those great secular chroniclers of the twelfth century such as Henry of Huntingdon and Roger of Howden, but it still remains true that until the early fourteenth century secular clerks were in a minority compared to monastic chroniclers. By the mid-fifteenth century, this situation had been reversed: the monastic tradition of historiography in England had virtually come to an end, and had been replaced by historiography centred primarily on royal and noble courts, and to a lesser extent upon towns. The last great age of the religious chronicle in England was the reign of Richard II, which inspired the writing of full-scale contemporary histories at the Benedictine abbeys of Westminster and St Albans and at the Augustinian abbey of Leicester, as well as a

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number of less detailed chronicles such as that written at Evesham. Yet even by the late fourteenth century these were beginning to look a little bit like relics from a former age. From the early fourteenth century, most of the really useful chronicles were being written by secular clerks, or even at times by laymen. The extent to which secular historiography in late medieval England was court-centred is perhaps not always emphasised as much as it might be. You do not have to be enjoying the king’s patronage or writing so-called ‘official history’ to be a court chronicler. You do, however, need to have demonstrable connections with the court and/or the royal administration, and – and this is something which is less easy to demonstrate – there also needs to be some kind of presumption, or at least supposition, that your connections with the court have something to do both with your motivation to write and with the way that you write. In the case of a chronicle such as the Gesta Henrici Quinti, which clearly emanated from Henry V’s court and was written by one of the king’s chaplains primarily in order to justify Henry’s foreign policy, the motivation to write is readily apparent (Gesta Henrici Quinti, xxiii-xxviii). In the case of a chronicler like Adam Usk, it had more to do with self-regard than public policy (Chronicle of Adam Usk, lxxxix-lxxxvi), and the same was probably true of several other court-based chroniclers of the later middle ages: they were men, in other words, who had achieved a certain status in public life, a status which made them feel a little bit pleased with themselves, and, like superannuated cabinet ministers nowadays, they decided to write their memoirs. Adam Murimuth, a royal diplomat and canon of St Paul’s cathedral, was probably one such man. The author of the Vita Edwardi Secundi, who undoubtedly had better connections at court and a deeper interest in contemporary politics than either Usk or Murimuth, wrote for quite different reasons, and was careful not to reveal his identity. If, as Denholm-Young suggested, he was the royal clerk John Walwayn, then he even rose, if only briefly, to be treasurer of England, but his concern was not with his own role in public affairs but with the great political issues of his day, and the chronicle which he left us is probably the most finely-tuned political chronicle of the late middle ages in England (Vita Edwardi Secundi (2005), xxiv-xxxii). Clerks of the royal chancery and the other government writingoffices also made a major contribution to late medieval English historiography. The Brut chronicle and its various continuations, for

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example, were probably compiled at least in part by chancery clerks, and it was the Brut which provided the basis of such apparently monastic compositions as the Anonimalle Chronicle (Taylor 1995: 45-64). Another apparently monastic chronicle the substance of which was in fact written by a royal clerk is the Crowland Continuation for the years 1459-86. And so this list could go on. One form of historical writing which certainly grew out of the culture of the court was chivalric historiography, or ‘chronicles of renown’: Chandos Herald, for example, was appointed English king-of-arms in 1377, just a few years before he began to write his Vie du Prince Noir, while Jean Froissart, the most famous chronicler of his day, by his own admission enjoyed nothing more than the sense of his own acceptance at the courts of kings and nobles (Given-Wilson 2004: 109). If we accept, then, that there was a fundamental shift from monastic-based to court-based historiography during the later middle ages, to what extent did this shift affect the way in which history was written in the late middle ages? A central question here is that of evidence, for it is abundantly clear that the quantity and nature of the evidence available to chroniclers also changed very significantly between the thirteenth and the fifteenth centuries. Broadly speaking, the evidence available to chroniclers before about 1200 was either oral, or it came in the form of pre-existing narratives – such as those of Bede, or William of Malmesbury, or Henry of Huntingdon, to name just a few of the most popular – which were copied and circulated around monastic and cathedral libraries or passed down from generation to generation. Administrative documents were a rarity, and more than one account of any episode or occurrence was most definitely a luxury. From the early thirteenth century onwards, this changed. Bureaucrats in France, England and elsewhere began systematically to make copies of the writs, charters, memoranda, and various other documents which they produced, to organize their archives, and to circulate growing numbers of pieces of parchment to monasteries, county courts, parish churches and so forth, and the result was an explosion of information which it is not entirely unreasonable to compare with the impact of radio, television and the internet in the twentieth century.1 Thus by about 1300, if not earlier, the task facing the chronicler had changed significantly. Overwhelmed by parchment, his task was now not so much the collection of information, but its selection. Most chroniclers had no desire simply to compile registers of government activity, although they

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could by now easily have done so. One way to deal with this problem was to do what Matthew Paris did, that is, to compile a separate Liber Additamentorum (Book of Additions), as he called it, in which he copied out documents which had been sent to St Albans, and to which he could then provide cross-references without having to interrupt the flow of his narrative. A century and a half later, the author of the Gesta Henrici Quinti could afford to make bolder assumptions about the availability of written records, simply telling his readers that they could find the documents to which he referred in ‘a book of royal evidences and records’, or ‘the archbishop’s register’, and so forth (Gesta Henrici Quinti, 9, 15, 19, 57, 95). Other chroniclers, however, preferred to incorporate at least a selection of these documents in their narratives, and one consequence of this boom in bureaucracy, therefore, was that it made it possible to write a different kind of chronicle. The chronicle which Henry Knighton wrote at Leicester Abbey during the last two decades of the fourteenth century, for example, incorporated more than a hundred separate documents, including newsletters, statutes, private letters, royal writs, diplomatic treaties, public proclamations, reports of parliamentary proceedings, and copies of both heretical opinions and the church’s condemnation of them – indeed there are long sections in which Knighton himself does little more than provide the linking passages between one document and the next. Many of these he acknowledged and copied out in full, but with less formal documents such as newsletters he often preferred to weave them into his text without acknowledgment, sometimes breaking them down into a number of sections interspersed with his own comments or with information derived from a different source (Knighton’s Chronicle 1337-1396, xxix-xli). There is nothing unusual about this, indeed it is from this method of composition that the idea of a ‘text’ derives, for the word ‘text’ comes from the Latin texere – meaning ‘to weave’, as in ‘textiles’ – and a number of fourteenth-century chroniclers used it to describe the process of integrating a variety of materials into a composite whole. Adam Murimuth, for example, said that he texuit part of his chronicle, while Thomas Walsingham described himself as having texuisse his chronicles at St Albans (Given-Wilson 2004: 15). But there was, of course – or at least there might have been – a further consequence of this proliferation of parchment which characterised the period between the early thirteenth century and the arrival of printing presses in the late fifteenth. Governments may have led the

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way in generating bureaucracy, but others soon followed, and literacy inevitably became more desirable and therefore more widespread. Subsequent history suggests that this was a process about which governments probably felt ambivalent. One of the consequences of the invention of printing, for example, was that it made censorship possible, at least in the strict sense of the word, that is, the systematic scrutiny of literature prior to publication. From this, much followed, including the Catholic church’s Index Librorum Prohibitorum. In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, by the same token, statecontrolled radio and television stations are commonplace, and in some countries internet access is banned. Governments, as we all know, fear the dissemination of information to the same degree as they manipulate it. This is not of course to suggest that medieval chronicles could be made to serve the same kind of propagandist purposes as modern radio or television. Most chronicles were entirely unsuitable vehicles for influencing contemporary audiences, who were much more likely to be swayed by sermons, proclamations or visual display. On the other hand, this is unlikely to have made governments or their opponents any less eager to influence what was written in chronicles. Chronicles, after all, were record evidence in the middle ages: they were cited in courts of law and in international diplomacy. Edward I used them to justify his overlordship of Scotland in the 1290s; Henry IV tried to use them to justify his succession to the throne in 1399 (Given-Wilson 2004: 65-80). Not to have bequeathed to his successors a historical record which could be used to justify the actions and legitimate the claims of both his dynasty and of the English crown would have been seen by a medieval king as irresponsibility. Is it the case, then, that as the flow of documentary information turned, during the later middle ages, from a trickle to a flood, this was accompanied by growing efforts on the part of governments – or indeed their opponents – to make sure that it was their version of history which chroniclers reproduced? The reporting of parliamentary proceedings provides an instructive example in this context. Before the Good Parliament of 1376, chroniclers took very little interest in parliament. During the last quarter of the fourteenth century, however, their attitude changed dramatically: parliaments now came to occupy a central position both in the political life of the nation and in chroniclers’ narratives, creating as a result a new kind of rhythm to political reportage, the rhythm of the (more or less) annual par-

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liament, which came increasingly to be treated as one of the major events on the national calendar, and in which more and more of the decisive business of the realm tended to be transacted. Chroniclers grew hungry for news of parliaments, and this demand was soon met by supply, in the form of parliamentary newsletters, tracts, and copies of statutes or rolls of petitions. Of the twenty-five parliaments held between 1376 and 1399, at least eleven were made the subject of tracts or newsletters which were subsequently incorporated by chroniclers into their narratives. The provenance of these documents is not always clear, although the likelihood is that most of them were written either by clerks of the chancery or clerks of parliament – indeed, the production of such summaries of parliamentary proceedings, which can often be shown to have been based on the rolls of parliament, may have been coming to be seen as one of the routine tasks of the parliamentary clerks. More importantly for present purposes, the production of these tracts or newsletters suggests a desire on the part of the government – whether it was the king who held power at the time, or his opponents, as in 1386-88 – to manage the flow of information to chronicles. Parliaments were becoming too important in the political life of the kingdom, and their decisions were too controversial, for the government of the day to allow them to be the subject of rumours or dissident allegations. What is also important to note, however, is that it was almost exclusively monastic chroniclers who incorporated these tracts or newsletters in their narratives: the chronicles of St Albans, Westminster, Evesham, Leicester, Canterbury and St Mary’s at York all reproduced them in varying degrees. The only secular chronicler to include one was Adam Usk, and this was for the parliament of 1397, at which he had actually been present in person (Given-Wilson 2004: 174-79). This last point raises the question of the different ways in which different types of chroniclers assembled the evidence on which they based their works. One should not, perhaps, exaggerate the extent to which monastic chroniclers were tied to the cloister – after all, we need only remember Matthew Paris’s stories of his visits to Westminster, where he met Henry III. On the other hand, monks did take vows, and generally speaking they were expected to remain in their monasteries, and the inevitable result of that was that they tended to be passive recipients of information rather than active seekers after news. What that meant – although the point should not be over-stated

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– was that they were people to whom the flow of information could be controlled – documentary information, at any rate. Of course they used their eyes and ears as well, and it is easy to picture a chronicler such as Thomas Walsingham or the monk of Westminster eagerly quizzing those who passed through St Albans, or came to and from London, for news about the latest campaign or parliament or quarrel between the king and one of his nobles. That is why chroniclers based at places such as Westminster – or at St Albans, a day’s ride to the north of the capital, or at Canterbury, on the main road to the continent – had such an advantage over those located in remoter parts of the country, and why it was at these monasteries that historical writing flourished in medieval England, especially from the thirteenth century onwards, as kings and their administrative departments became less itinerant and increasingly began to settle in and around London. Secular chroniclers had different ways of gathering news, but before going on to say something about them it is worth briefly mentioning another difference between them and monastic chroniclers – although once again it is a point which resists easy generalization. What it comes down to essentially is a difference in attitude towards what ought to be remembered. Monastic chroniclers – or at least those who wrote at the old and well-established Benedictine centres of historical writing such as St Albans, Westminster and Canterbury – regarded themselves as in some sense the prescribed custodians of the nation’s past. Chronicle-writing was, for them, not so much an option as a duty, undertaken not by individual enthusiasts (although that is not to doubt the enthusiasm of some of them), but as a corporate obligation. The history written at these old and great communities thus tended to be of a very traditional kind – a staple diet of kings, nobles and the royal family, wars, councils and parliaments, liberally laced with saints and prodigies. They wrote with breadth, attempting an overview of the high politics of the realm – a weave of dynastic and institutional history focused on king, church and government. The documents which they included also tended to be of the traditional kind: statutes, treaties, papal bulls, baronial reform programmes, royal proclamations – the sort of documents which later ended up in Stubbs’s Select Charters or Wilkins’ Concilia. Secular clerks, on the other hand, tended to write more individualistic and selective chronicles, more narrowly focused on what they as individuals had experienced, or were interested in, or had been able to discover,

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frequently concentrating on particular episodes or aspects of English history in depth rather than attempting the sort of systematic or continuous register of public events at which the best monastic chroniclers aimed. Nor, on the whole, did they include large numbers of documents in their chronicles – or, if they did, they tended to select only those which amplified their theme. Robert of Avesbury, for example, wrote a chronicle of the years 1327 to 1356, but made no attempt to describe Edward III’s rule in toto, concentrating almost exclusively on his wars. He included plenty of documents, but these were almost entirely of one kind, that is newsletters about the war (Adae Murimuth Continuatio Chronicarum, 304-468). The authors of the Vita Edwardi Secundi and the Gesta Henrici Quinti could both have included numerous documents in their chronicles had they wanted to, but made deliberate decisions not to. If you want to see a copy of the Ordinances (of 1311), said the author of the Vita, you can find it among the statutes; I shan’t include it here, because my readers would find it tedious (Vita Edwardi Secundi (2005), 32-34). The author of the Gesta, as we have seen, simply referred his readers to ‘volumes of records’, or archiepiscopal registers. The desire of monastic chroniclers to include documents recounting the great affairs of the realm meant that the sorts of documents which they were most likely to include in their chronicles were the same sorts of documents which governments or their opponents were most likely to circulate in order to disseminate their own particular version of history. An obvious example is the deposition of Richard II and the usurpation of Henry of Lancaster in 1399. The most famous – not to say infamous – example of so-called ‘Lancastrian propaganda’ at this time is the document known as the Record and Process, which states among other falsehoods that Richard willingly abdicated his throne ‘with a cheerful countenance’ (hilari vultu), that he nominated Henry as his successor, and that Henry was accepted unanimously and without opposition as king. Much of this is flatly contradicted by other sources. That Henry circulated the Record and Process is self-evident, but to whom did he circulate it? To the Benedictine chroniclers of St Albans and Evesham, is the answer, and to the anonymous chronicle known as the Continuatio Eulogii, which was probably written at the Grey Friars’ house at Canterbury. Where, on the other hand, do we find accounts of the revolution which can be used as a corrective to Henry of Lancaster’s disinformation? The most important are those written by

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the secular clerk Adam Usk, and by the French valet-de-chambre, Jean Creton – both of which are not just independent of Lancastrian influence but well-informed. Creton, after all, was actually with Richard II at Conway at the time that the king was captured, while Usk accompanied Henry on his march from Bristol to Chester, and sat on the committee which determined the legal grounds for Richard’s deposition and Henry’s claim to the throne. Given his role in these events, it seems inconceivable that Usk did not see a copy of the Record and Process, but he recognised it for the ‘smokescreen of untruth’ that it was and, despite the fact that he supported Richard’s deposition and eagerly sought Henry’s patronage, he chose to write his own much more equivocal account of the revolution of 1399. Like Creton, he had been there, and knew what had happened. The St Albans, Evesham and Canterbury chroniclers had not, and had to rely on the information that was fed to them.2 It is time now to turn to look more closely at secular chronicles. Who were these secular clerks and laymen who produced a growing proportion of the total historical output in England between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries? They were, manifestly, men of the world. Most of them served as lawyers, administrators, chaplains, secretaries or ambassadors to the great and powerful; if they were laymen, they were frequently soldiers. They attended court, they fought on campaigns, they travelled about, or abroad, on the king’s or their own business, and moved from the employment of one prince or noble to another; they could use their feet, in other words, as well as their eyes and ears, to gather material for their chronicles. As a result, the chronicles which they wrote tended to be shaped not by documents or by the chance arrival at St Albans or Canterbury of a noble or bishop or member of parliament on his way to the north or to the continent, but by their personal experiences, interests and connections. Most of them, in fact, included very few documents in their narratives, although several of the chroniclers of the fourteenthcentury French and Scottish wars, such as Murimuth, Avesbury and Geoffrey le Baker, made extensive use of the newsletters which Edward III and his captains sent back ‘from the front’, as it were – which, whether or not they were intended to be disseminated (and that is a debated point), obviously tended to portray the king and his warriors in the best possible light (Fowler 1991). For the most part, however, secular clerks were both more inclined and more able to rely

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on oral sources for their information. Froissart, famously, relied almost entirely on conversation and interview. Adam Usk, and the authors of the Vita Edwardi Secundi and the Gesta Henrici Quinti, also relied very much on what they saw and heard. By doing so, they were largely able to avoid that certain ‘flatness’ or ‘sameness’ which is sometimes detectable in monastic chronicles. What is so valuable about Usk’s account of Richard II’s deposition is that it is different from the other, semi-official accounts. The same is true of Geoffrey le Baker’s account of Edward II’s deposition: remember, for example, that passage in which he described the imprisoned king at Kenilworth castle, dressed in a black gown, swooning with grief when confronted by the deputation which had come to inform that he was about to be deposed, and having to be revived by the earl of Leicester and the bishop of Winchester; and when Adam Orleton, the bishop of Hereford, told him that if he refused to resign then his son would not be allowed to succeed him, he broke down once more, sobbing and wailing to the assembled company about his sadness at the knowledge that his people could no longer bear to be ruled by him (Chronicon Galfridi Le Baker, 27-28). Le Baker’s compassion for the doomed king – like Usk’s compassion for Richard II, so memorably expressed in his account of his visit to Richard in the Tower of London just ten days before his deposition (Chronicle of Adam Usk, 62-64) – stands almost alone amidst the overwhelming hostility of the other English chroniclers. And, like Usk’s narrative, its value depends quite specifically on the fact that it was not based on a written source. Another characteristic of secular chroniclers was that they increasingly wrote in the vernacular – something which monastic chroniclers hardly ever did. This is an important development, very much a product of a court-based historiographical culture. It is, for example, a particular feature of chivalric historiography. There were two main reasons why chroniclers wrote in the vernacular, and they are related. The first was because they hoped to reach a wider audience; the second was because their patrons asked them to, which once again often had something to do with reaching a wider audience. Political considerations were important here. Gabrielle Spiegel, for example, has charted this process in thirteenth-century France: the first prose histories to be written in the vernacular were translations of the so-called Pseudo-Turpin Chronicle, and they were written between 1200 and 1230 at the behest of a group of northern French

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and Flemish noblemen. By the last quarter of the thirteenth century, however, the impetus behind the writing of vernacular prose history had shifted to the French royal court, where, in 1274, the first instalment of the Grandes Chroniques de France reached completion. What the French kings were trying to do, according to Spiegel, was to appropriate vernacular historiography for their own political ends: by adopting the language which the nobility had initially employed for historiographical purposes, royally-sponsored vernacular history reflected the desire of the monarchy to join what she calls ‘the competition for mastery of the past’, and to assimilate those over whom it was increasingly coming to rule (Spiegel 1993: 12-14 and passim). It should not be forgotten, of course, that the Grandes Chroniques were actually written at the abbey of Saint-Denis, along with the more formal and longer Latin chronicles composed there, but in this case the evidence of royal patronage is so strong that it is actually rather difficult not to think of them as court-inspired, even if they were not court-based, chronicles. They fit easily, at any rate, into a pattern of official or at least national vernacular historiography which was emerging in several Western European countries at this time. It was also from the 1270s, for example, that kings in the Iberian peninsula began to commission (or even to write) vernacular prose histories the leitmotiv of which, like the Grandes Chroniques, was their ‘focus on the king, and [their] commitment to the fate of the monarchy’.3 It is within this context that we should view the first appearance in England, around 1300, of the Brut chronicle, written in the first instance in Anglo-Norman and later in English. The authorship of the Brut and its continuations remains, as it has always been, problematic, but it is probable, as John Taylor has argued, that they were in some sense products of the English chancery. They were not ‘official history’ in the sense that the Grandes Chroniques were, but they were the closest thing which medieval England produced to a national chronicle (Taylor 1987: 111-14). The popularity of these national, and in some cases official, chronicles, along with rising levels of vernacular literacy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (even if to some diehards vernacular literacy would have seemed like a contradiction in terms), created a growing demand for vernacular history, and this was surely one of the factors which contributed to the decline of monastic chronicle writing in the fifteenth century, for it was a development with which many

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monks, with their Catholic Latinist scholarship, clearly felt uncomfortable. During the fifteenth century, at any rate, monks by and large stopped writing chronicles: not entirely, but by and large. As a result, the symbiosis between kings and the religious houses which had acted as their apologists broke down, and national or official historiography moved decisively into the orbit of Western European courts. Fernão Lopes, the Portuguese royal chronicler, was not a monk but confidential secretary to King Duarte and keeper of the royal archive at the Torre do Tombo in Lisbon, when he was commissioned, in 1434, to write the official history of the Portuguese monarchy (Lopes 1988: vix, 157-59). George Chastelain, who was appointed official chronicler to Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy in June 1455, was simultaneously granted permanent lodgings within the ducal household and an annual salary equivalent to the duke’s conseillers and chambellans (Small 1997: 65-66, 109-16). Even Jean Chartier, who had already worked on royal chronicles for fifteen years without remuneration while a monk at Saint-Denis, records that when he was appointed chroniqueur du roi by Charles VII of France in 1437, the king ordered him to move to Paris, where he was granted a salary equivalent to the maître d’hotel, one of the senior officers of the French royal household. Within another generation, the tradition of official historiography which had been maintained at Saint-Denis since the twelfth century effectively came to an end, and following Chartier’s death in 1464 Louis XI formally dispossessed the abbey of its role as official historian to the monarchy (Spiegel 1978: 124-26). But how, finally, does England fit into this picture? English kings, it is often said, did not sponsor official historiography in the way that the French or Iberian kings did; and up to a point this is true. Yet if England lacked a continuous tradition of official historiography in the late middle ages, it did not entirely lack such a tradition. As Antonia Gransden has pointed out, the various continuations of the Flores Historiarum compiled at Westminster Abbey between 1265 and 1327 show many signs of having been written at the behest of the government – and that includes Robert of Reading’s continuation for the years 1307-27, which, Gransden has argued, evinced such hostility to Edward II precisely because it was commissioned by Queen Isabella and Roger Mortimer following their deposition of the king (Gransden 1974: 472-92). Westminster obviously makes sense in this context: official history required an institutional context, and Westminster Abbey stood in much the same relationship to the

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English monarchy as, for example, Saint-Denis did to the French. It was for both historical and practical reasons that official history was monastic in genesis. Nor, as already suggested, was it only the monks of Westminster who saw themselves as the ‘official’ custodians of England’s history: the monks of St Albans also to some extent envisaged this as their role. With the close of the monk of Westminster’s chronicle in 1394, however, the abbey’s historiographical tradition came to an end, and soon after the death of Thomas Walsingham in about 1422 that of St Albans followed suit. Chronicles continued to be compiled at a number of religious houses in the fifteenth century, but they are jejune and uninformative compared to the great monastic narratives of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. No English monk by now aspired to breadth and continuity of coverage in a national context – a fact recognised and lamented by Thomas Gascoigne in his Loci e Libro Veritatum, written in the mid-fifteenth century, in which he pointed out that the original founders of monasteries had imposed upon their monks the duty of writing chronicles, but that the monks no longer seemed to show any interest in doing so (Given-Wilson 2004: 212-13). Is it merely coincidental that at more or less the same time as the monastic historiographical tradition juddered to a halt, that is, from the reign of Henry V, the secular historiography produced at the English royal court seems to acquire a sharper and more propagandist tone? There cannot be a chronicle surviving from medieval England which argues more passionately the case for the king’s deeds and policies, or which propagates more unquestioningly the belief that God was an Englishman, than the Gesta Henrici Quinti. The modern editors of the Gesta argued that it was a deliberately propagandist tract, designed either to convince Henry’s own subjects of the need to support his wars, or to be presented to the Council of Constance as a justification for the king’s military aggression in France. Whether or not this is correct, there can be no doubt that the Gesta emanated from the circle around the king – it was written by one of Henry’s chaplains – and that it was directly inspired by the king or someone very close to him. By the second half of the fifteenth century, the link between court patronage and the production of propagandist tracts designed to influence contemporary opinion was clearer still. The Chronicle of the Rebellion in Lincolnshire and the so-called Arrivall in England of

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Edward IV, commissioned by Edward IV in 1470 and 1471 respectively, and written by royal clerks, were brutally direct in conveying their message, that is, the objectification as traitors of the king’s opponents and hence the legitimacy of the king’s treatment of them. Charles Ross described these two tracts as ‘a significant innovation in terms of official propaganda: the use of official chronicles’.4 In fact, propaganda came in many forms in late medieval England, and the problems of what one calls ‘official’ history and what not, of the intended audiences of such works, and of the ability of governments and their opponents to influence different kinds of chronicles, are really very difficult to resolve. What I am suggesting, though, is that English monastic historiography at those ‘pedigree communities’ such as Westminster and St Albans was actually rather more influenced by the dissemination of official information in documentary form than is sometimes appreciated, whereas during the fourteenth century in particular, secular clerks, despite the fact that many of them had close attachments to the court, were, paradoxically, freer to write more independent narratives. Only after the collapse of monastic historiography in the early fifteenth century, when the production and patronage of historical works became more exclusively centred on royal and noble courts, was secular historiography brought more firmly under princely control, sometimes in the form of what was indubitably ‘official’ history, sometimes less formally; all of which leaves one final conclusion to be suggested, namely that in a certain sense England appears to conform more closely to continental developments in historiography during the later middle ages than has generally been argued hitherto. Notes 1

On this process generally, see Clanchy (1993). Sayles (1981: 257-70); Chronicles of the Revolution, 1397-1400, passim. This contrast between monastic and secular chroniclers is not, of course, quite as simple as it might sound: for example, two Cistercian chronicles from the midlands and the north of England, one based at Dieulacres abbey in Staffordshire, the other at Whalley abbey in Lancashire, also wrote independent accounts of the revolution – independent, that is, of Lancastrian influence – although their accounts are both very brief. Neither Dieulacres nor Whalley was a known centre of historical writing, however, and there was clearly much less to be gained by circulating them with 2

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government documents than there was in the case of the traditional and established centres of historiography (Chronicles of the Revolution, 153-56). 3 Given-Wilson (2004: 120, 138); The Chronicle of San Juan de la Peña, xii-xiv; Spiegel (1978: 7, 11-12). 4 Ross (1981: 24). Both the Rebellion in Lincolnshire and the Arrivall have been conveniently reprinted in Three Chronicles of the Reign of Edward IV.

Bibliography Primary sources Adae Murimuth Continuatio Chronicarum. Robertus de Avesbury De Gestis Mirabilibus Regis Edwardi Tertii. Ed. E. M. Thompson. Rolls Series, London, 1889. The Chronicle of Adam Usk 1377-1421. Ed. and trans. C. Given-Wilson. Oxford, 1997. The Chronicle of San Juan de la Peña: A Fourteenth-Century Official History of the Crown of Aragon. Ed. and trans. L. H. Nelson. Philadelphia, 1991. Chronicles of the Revolution, 1397-1400, ed. C. Given-Wilson. Manchester, 1993. Chronicon Galfridi Le Baker de Swynebroke. Ed. E. M. Thompson. Oxford, 1889. The Crowland Chronicle Continuations 1459-1486. Ed. N. Pronay and J. Cox. London, 1986. Gesta Henrici Quinti. Ed. and trans. F. Taylor and J. Roskell. Oxford, 1975. Knighton’s Chronicle 1337-1396. Ed. and trans. G. H. Martin. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995. Three Chronicles of the Reign of Edward IV. Ed. K. Dockray. Gloucester, 1988. La Vie du Prince Noir by Chandos Herald. Ed. D. B. Tyson. Tubingen, 1975. Vita Edwardi Secundi. Ed. and trans. N. Denholm-Young. London, 1957. Vita Edwardi Secundi. Ed. and trans. W. Childs. Oxford, 2005. Secondary literature Clanchy, M. T. (1993). From Memory to Written Record. 2nd edn. Oxford: Blackwell. Fowler, K. A. (1991). ‘News from the Front: Letters and Despatches of the Fourteenth Century.’ In P. Contamine, C. Giry-Deloison, M. H. Keen, eds. Guerre et Société en France, en Angleterre et en Bourgogne, XIV-XV Siècles. Lille. 63-92. Given-Wilson, Chris (2004). Chronicles: The Writing of History in Medieval England. London: Hambledon and London. Gransden, A. (1974). ‘The Continuations of the Flores Historiarum from 1265 to 1327.’ Medieval Studies 36: 472-92. Lopes, Fernão (1988). The English in Portugal 1367-87. Ed. and trans. D. W. Lomax and R. J. Oakley. Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Ross, G. (1981). ‘Rumour, Propaganda and Public Opinion during the Wars of the Roses.’ In R. A. Griffiths, ed. Patronage, The Crown and the Provinces in Later Medieval England. Gloucester: Sutton. 15-32. Sayles, G. O. (1981). ‘The Deposition of Richard II: Three Lancastrian Narratives.’ Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research 54: 257-70.

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Small, G. (1997). George Chastelain and the Shaping of Valois Burgundy. Woodbridge: Boydell. Spiegel, Gabrielle (1978). The Chronicle Tradition of Saint-Denis: A Survey. Medieval Classics: Texts and Studies, 10. Brookline: Classical Folia Editions. ––– (1993). Romancing the Past: The Rise of Vernacular Prose Historiography in Thirteenth-Century France. Berkeley: University of California Press. Taylor, J. (1987). English Historical Literature in the Fourteenth Century. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ––– (1995). ‘The Origins of the Anonimalle Chronicle.’ Northern History 31: 45-64.

L’ECLAIRAGE ICONOGRAPHIQUE: L’ILLUSTRATION DES CHRONIQUES DE FROISSART

Laurence Harf-Lancner

Abstract Specialists in the history of literature are offered a new opening to texts by means of images, a visual counterpoint realised after the composition of the text itself: a perfect illustration of that is provided by the Chroniques of Froissart. The place of the images, their distribution and the choice of illustrated episodes also reveal an interpretation of the text. One particular scene is represented in all the manuscripts of Book IV which have an iconographical programme: the ball of the Ardents. The distribution is equally significant: when there is a series of pictures (like the fall of Richard II), this is another indication of the importance of an episode. The discrepances between the images and the text reveal an interpretation as well. The Chroniques possess a romance dimension and the fantastic emerges in the last two books. The illuminator sometimes seeks to highlight elements which remained in the shadow, thus giving his own reading of the text. Finally the image may serve as propaganda. The first book, with its two groups of related manuscripts, offers several examples: the French manuscripts, often from Paris, from the early fifteenth century, and the Flemish manuscripts, dating from after 1450, and from the environment of the Burgundian court. Even if the illuminators are true to the text of Froissart, one sometimes sees the political ideology come to the surface.

Dès la fin du XIXe siècle, Emile Mâle, dans L’Art religieux en France au XIIIe siècle (1898), cherchait dans les images le reflet des sociétés. Cette conception élargie de l’histoire de l’art s’épanouit vers 1930 en Allemagne avec Aby Warburg et son disciple Erwin Panofsky, qui associent histoire de l’art et étude de la civilisation (Schmitt 1999). Avec

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les historiens des mentalités s’est dessinée une deuxième approche: une réflexion sur le statut, les pratiques, les fonctions sociales et idéologiques des images (Baschet 19960). Depuis une vingtaine d’années, les historiens de la littérature s’intéressent de plus en plus aux images, qui offrent un contrepoint visuel au texte, réalisé un ou deux siècles après la composition de ce texte. Mais la spécificité de la littérature implique un rapport différent à l’iconographie, une troisième approche, centrée sur la relation entre les mots et les images, pour reprendre le titre du livre récent de Meyer Schapiro (Schapiro 2000; cf. Harf-Lancner 2005). L’exemple des manuscrits enluminés des Chroniques de Froissart est particulièrement révélateur de la richesse de cette approche. On peut en effet, en premier lieu, tirer de multiples informations du choix des images et de leur répartition dans le manuscrit. Par ailleurs l’analyse des écarts, des discordances entre texte et image peut révéler une interprétation du texte. Enfin l’image peut être utilisée dans le sens de la propagande et donner au texte une coloration politique. * *

*

Le choix des épisodes illustrés et la répartition des images sont révélateurs de la réception du texte. Les images ne font d’ailleurs sens que les unes par rapport aux autres à l’intérieur d’une série, par des jeux d’écho ou d’opposition. D’abord le choix d’illustrer certains épisodes traduit l’importance que leur accorde le maître d’œuvre ou le commanditaire. Il existe bien sûr des manuscrits si somptueusement illustrés que chaque chapitre s’ouvre sur une enluminure et qu’il n’y a donc pas de véritable sélection: c’est le cas du manuscrit Harley 43794380, le Froissart de Commynes, qui offre le livre IV des Chroniques avec 80 miniatures pour 82 chapitres.1 Mais il est évidemment intéressant, pour d’autres manuscrits, de dégager les scènes les plus illustrées, qui ressurgissent d’un manuscrit à l’autre. Ainsi on conserve six manuscrits du livre IV des Chroniques qui présentent un véritable programme iconographique.2 Presque tous ont été confectionnés en Flandre, dans les années 1460-1480, pour des princes de la cour de Bourgogne. Ce sont: – le manuscrit de Breslau (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Dépôt Breslau I, Rhediger 4), qui contient l’ensemble des Chroniques et qui a été composé pour le Grand Bâtard de Bourgogne (Le Guay 1998: 27-28). David

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Aubert a achevé de copier le livre IV en 1468, sans doute à Bruges, s’assurant, pour l’illustration, la collaboration de Loyset Liédet et, pour le livre IV, de Liévin van Lathem et Philippe de Mazerolles. – le manuscrit Paris, Arsenal 5190. Ce manuscrit en quatre volumes (Arsenal 5187-5190), qui offre la totalité des Chroniques, a été réalisé entre 1467 et 1487. Il existe une étonnante parenté entre le manuscrit de Breslau et le manuscrit de l’Arsenal, le premier ayant vraisemblablement servi de modèle au second et tous deux étant liés à l’atelier de Loyset Liédet (Le Guay 1998: 29). – le Froissart de Commynes (British Library, Harley 4379-4380), manuscrit du livre IV, en deux volumes, également réalisé à Bruges, vers 1470-1472. Il a été enluminé par deux peintres: le Maître de la Chronique d’Angleterre de Vienne et un peintre baptisé par François Avril le Maître du Froissart de Commynes (Le Guay 1998: 31-38). – Le Froissart de Louis de Bruges: Ce manuscrit donne en quatre volumes (BnF fr. 2643-2646) l’ensemble des Chroniques. Il a été composé à Bruges, vers 1470-1475, pour Louis de Bruges, seigneur de la Gruuthuse. L’illustration des deux derniers livres aurait été placée sous la responsabilité de Philippe de Mazerolles ((Le Guay 1998: 30-31). – le Froissart d’Edouard IV (British Library, Royal 18 E 2), manuscrit du livre IV réalisé en Flandre vers 1480 pour le roi Edouard IV d’Angleterre (Le Guay 1998: 38-39). – Enfin le manuscrit BnF fr. 2648, qui offre le seul livre IV, très différent, semble provenir d’un autre atelier brugeois, celui de Guillaume Vrelant, et dater des années 1455-1460 (Le Guay 1998: 41). Or la seule scène qui soit illustrée dans chacun des six manuscrits est celle du bal des Ardents, le fameux drame qui eut lieu le 28 janvier 1393 à Paris, à l’Hôtel Saint-Paul, où l’on célébrait, en présence du roi Charles VI, les noces d’une dame d’honneur de la reine. Le roi et cinq jeunes seigneurs firent irruption dans la salle, déguisés en hommes sauvages. Une torche enflamma l’étoupe des costumes, transformant les six sauvages en torches vivantes. Le roi dut son salut à la jeune duchesse de Berry, qui le roula dans les plis de sa robe. Le sire de Nantouillet eut la présence d’esprit de se jeter dans un baquet d’eau. Les quatre autres moururent. Le drame eut une énorme répercussion, dont se font l’écho plusieurs chroniqueurs. On connaît la résonance de ce drame et l’on comprend qu’il soit illustré dans tous les manuscrits, d’autant plus que le sujet se prête à l’esthétique macabre qui domine

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dans certains de ces livres.3 On trouve même sept peintures pour les six manuscrits car la scène est illustrée deux fois dans le manuscrit de l’Arsenal: deux miniatures du bal des Ardents, dues à deux peintres différents et appartenant à deux cahiers différents; on a réuni les deux peintures au moment de la reliure. L’observation des images met donc ici en lumière un épisode qui a particulièrement frappé les imaginations. La répartition des images est également significative. Elle n’est pas forcément régulière: il existe de véritables séries picturales, des suites consacrées aux différentes phases du même événement, comparables aux bandes dessinées: c’est un autre indice de l’importance accordée à un épisode. C’est le cas pour la fin du livre IV. La chute de Richard II et l’accession au trône d’Henry IV sont accompagnées d’une séquence iconographique de 9 miniatures dans le Harley 4379-4380, 7 dans le manuscrit de Breslau, 5 miniatures dans le BnF 2646, 3 dans le Royal 18 E2. Ainsi dans le manuscrit 2646 de la BnF, on trouve successivement illustrées les cinq scènes suivantes:4 – fol. 289, le meurtre du duc de Gloucester – f 295, le défi du comte Maréchal au comte de Derby – f 323v, Richard se rend à son cousin Lancastre – f 328v, l’abdication de Richard II – f 339v, les funérailles de Richard II (cf. Harf-Lancner 2004 et 2006). Outre le choix et la répartition des images, les écarts entre le texte et sa transcription picturale révèlent une interprétation du texte. Froissart donne souvent à ses Chroniques une dimension romanesque, en particulier dans les livres III et IV. En conteur habile, il laisse dans l’ombre des éléments que le peintre cherche parfois à expliciter, trahissant ainsi son interprétation du texte. C’est le cas du bal des Ardents, dont on vient de voir qu’il était illustré dans tous les manuscrits. Il faut toutefois exclure de cet ensemble l’étonnante turquerie du manuscrit BnF. fr. 2648 (fol. 308, figure 1), qu’il serait impossible d’identifier sans l’aide de la rubrique. La rubrique qui accompagne les peintures présente en effet quasiment le même libellé d’un manuscrit à l’autre: “L’adventure d’une danse faicte a Paris en semblance d’hommes sauvaiges la ou le roy fut en grant peril”. Mais dans le manuscrit 2648, on voit quatre personnages en coiffe orientale danser, une torche à la main. Cette danse fait écho à un détail de la chronique du Religieux de

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St Denis: (les hommes sauvages) ‘dansèrent la sarrasine’ (tripudiando choreas sarracenicas; I, 66). Les personnages dansent la moresque, divertissement pratiqué à la cour de Bourgogne, et portent des torches, comme dans la danse à la torche, également en vogue au XVe siècle (Le Guay 1998: 114). Ignorant des événements rapportés et du texte, le peintre s’est inspiré des divertissements à la mode autour de lui. Les six autres miniatures présentent une image globale de la scène, restituant synthétiquement les trois étapes successives: – l’entrée des six hommes sauvages: le roi, Hugues de Guisay, le comte de Joigny, Yvain de Galles, bâtard du comte de Foix, Charles de Poitiers, et le sire de Nantouillet. Le roi se détache du groupe, retenu par la duchesse de Berry: Le roy qui estoit devant, se departy de ses compaignons, dont il fu eureux, et se traist devers les dames pour luy monstrer, ainsi que jeunesse le portoit, et passa devant la royne et s’en vint a la duchesse de Berry qui estoit sa tante et la plus jeune.5

– l’embrasement des malheureux au contact d’une torche et la panique générale. La flamme du feu eschauffa la poix a quoy le lin estoit attachié a la toille. Les chemises linees et poyees estoient seches et se prindrent au feu a ardoir, et ceulx qui vestus les avoient et qui l’angoisse sentoient, commencierent a crier moult amerement et horriblement, et tant y avoit de meschief que nuls ne osoit approchier.6

– les deux rescapés: le sire de Nantouillet, qui se plonge dans une bassine d’eau de vaisselle, et le roi, sauvé par la duchesse de Berry: La duchesse de Berry delivra le roy de ce peril car elle le bouta dessoubs sa gonne et le couvry pour eschiever le feu.

Les quatre autres succombent. Les peintres sont remarquablement fidèles au récit de Froissart et les miniatures rivalisent de force dramatique et de précision dans l’évocation de cette terrible scène qui, d’un manuscrit à l’autre, offre souvent la même composition: quatre torches vivantes au centre du tableau, entourées par la foule horrifiée.7 Le roi est à gauche, près de la duchesse de Berry; le sire de Nantouillet et son baquet au fond (dans les manuscrits de Breslau et de l’Arsenal), au premier plan, à gauche (dans le BnF 2646), à l’arrière-plan à droite (dans le manuscrit

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Harley), au premier plan, au centre, dans le manuscrit Royal 18 E 2. Le roi apparaît à peine, dissimulé à demi dans les plis de la robe de la duchesse. Les peintres des manuscrits Breslau et Harley jouent du contraste entre la richesse des costumes, la solennité du décor et le groupe des sauvages en flammes. Les manuscrits Arsenal et Royal 18 E 2 sacrifient la foule pour privilégier la scène centrale: les sauvages en flammes au milieu du tableau; le roi à demi-dissimulé sous les jupes de la duchesse de Berry; le baquet d’eau sauveur. Mais le peintre du manuscrit BnF 2646 rend particulièrement justice à l’intensité dramatique du récit de Froissart, par la force et la violence de ses images. Tout est désordre, agitation et confusion dans cette scène aux teintes sombres éclairée par les seules grandes taches rouges des tentures, ici inséparables du thème du feu. Les quatre torches vivantes sont mêlées à la foule; le roi rescapé est enveloppé dans une étoffe par une dame et un seigneur tandis que le dernier sauvage, près du baquet d’eau, est tourné vers un porteur de torche qui semble s’esquiver. On peut réellement, pour toute l’illustration de ce manuscrit, parler d’une esthétique macabre.8 Quant au déguisement des six héros de la mascarade, l’image est parfaitement conforme au texte. Les sauvages sont couverts de longs poils, de la tête aux pieds. Froissart ne dit rien de leur visage. Mais dans tous les manuscrits (sauf le Royal 18 E 2), ils portent la barbe, attribut indispensable de l’homme sauvage. Dans les manuscrits Breslau et Arsenal, le travestissement du visage semble se limiter à ce trait. En revanche, les manuscrits BnF 2646 et Harley leur font porter un masque (Le Guay 1998: 80), qui fait écho à la notation du Religieux de Saint-Denis: Ensuite ils se masquèrent (cum larvis facies abscondissent), entrèrent dans la salle sous cet affreux déguisement qui les rendait méconnaissables et se mirent à courir de tous côtés en faisant des gestes obscènes, en poussant d’horribles cris et en imitant les hurlements des loups. Leurs mouvements ne furent pas moins inconvenants que leurs cris; ils dansèrent la sarrasine avec une sorte de frénésie vraiment diabolique.9

Froissart ne mentionne jamais le moindre masque, au contraire de Michel Pintoin. L’ajout iconographique a donc vraisemblablement pour origine une réalité transmise à la fois par une chronique et par la mémoire collective, mais aussi un souvenir des masques du charivari.

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Le rapprochement s’impose en effet avec le charivari du fameux manuscrit BNF fr. 146 du Roman de Fauvel.10 Froissart, comme le Religieux de Saint-Denis, désigne clairement le responsable du drame, le duc d’Orléans, mais il va beaucoup plus loin dans l’accusation que Michel Pintoin, qui se contente d’évoquer la légèreté du duc: Assés tost aprés ce vint le duc d’Orleans et entra en la salle, et avoit en sa compaignie quatre chevaliers et six torses tant seulement, et riens ne scavoit du commandement qui avoit été fait de par le roy » (d’écarter toutes les torches) « ne des sis hommes sauvages qui devoient venir; au mains s’en excusa il, mais depuis il en fut tres grandement chargié. Il entendy a regarder les danses et les dames, et il meismes commença a dansser au plus fort, mais je ne scay sur quelle intention il le povoit faire. (Froissart, XV, pp. 86-87)

Le récit des événements innocente la conduite du duc mais la mention des accusations et surtout l’intervention finale du narrateur laissent planer un doute sur ses intentions. La description de l’accident maintient l’ambiguïté: En ce desroy advint le grand meschief sur les autres et tout par le duc d’Orleans qui en fut cause, quoyque jeunesse et, possible est, ygnorance lui feissent faire; car se il euist bien presumé et consideré le grant meschief qui en descendy, il ne l’euist fait pour nul avoir. Il fut trop en grand de scavoir qui ils estoient. Ainsi que les cinq dansoient, il abaissa la torse que l’un de ses varlets tenoit devant luy si pres de luy que la challeur du feu entre ou lin. (Froissart, XV, pp. 87-88)

Là encore seule est incriminée explicitement la légèreté du jeune homme. Mais l’intervention du narrateur (‘possible est’) laisse planer implicitement le soupçon d’un geste criminel. Or les peintres reprennent l’accusation. Louis d’Orléans figure dans quatre représentations du bal des Ardents (il est absent du manuscrit de l’Arsenal), bien en vue. On le montre à l’écart, regardant les sauvages en flammes, isolé, à droite des sauvages, de la foule représentée symétriquement à gauche. – Dans le manuscrit de Breslau il se tient près d’un porteur de torche. – Dans le manuscrit Harley, il est identifiable à sa robe au col d’hermine.

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– Dans le manuscrit BNF 2646, on le voit au fond, levant les bras en signe d’émotion, toujours près du porteur de torche. – Dans le manuscrit Royal, l’accusation est explicite: le duc, au premier plan à gauche, tient lui-même la torche. On voit que les peintres traduisent dans l’image les accusations implicites de Froissart contre le duc d’Orléans, qui prennent ainsi beaucoup plus de relief. Par ailleurs, Froissart donne souvent à ses Chroniques une dimension romanesque et le fantastique affleure dans plus d’une page des deux derniers livres. En conteur habile, il laisse dans l’ombre des éléments que le peintre cherche parfois à expliciter, traduisant ainsi son interprétation du texte en n’hésitant pas à trahir ce texte. La discordance entre texte et image est alors particulièrement révélatrice. Ainsi le livre III des Chroniques de Froissart offre un superbe conte fantastique: l’histoire du seigneur de Coarraze, qui dispose d’un démon familier invisible, Horton, et connaît par lui les événements qui se produisent dans le monde entier (cf. Harf-Lancner 1999). Malgré la volonté de celui-ci de rester invisible, le sire de Coarraze exige de voir Horton: ‘Par Dieu, Harton,’ dist le sire de Corasse, ‘je t’ameroie mieulx se je t’avoie veu.’ Respondi Harton: ‘Et puis que vous avez tel desir de moy veoir, la premiere chose que vous verrez et encontrerez demain au matin quant vous saudrez hors de vostre lit, ce serai ge.’11

Mais le lendemain le héros ne voit rien venir et se plaint amèrement, la nuit suivante, à son serviteur, qui lui rappelle qu’au saut du lit il a vu ‘deux longs festus sur le pavement, qui tissoient ensemble et se jouoient’: il avait revêtu cette forme.12 Raymond de Coarraze réitère sa demande: ‘Il ne me souffist pas. Je te pry que tu te mettes en autre fourme, telle que je te puisse veoir et congnoistre.’ Respondi Harton: ‘Vous ferez tant que vous me perderez et que je me tanneray de vous, car vous me requerez trop avant.’

L’insistance du héros, la mise en garde qu’elle entraîne éclairent le sens de l’interdit. Le héros veut voir l’invisible, veut faire apparaître au grand jour un être de la nuit, veut pouvoir attribuer une forme définie à un être dont la véritable nature est justement d’être poly-

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morphe. Après le règne végétal, Horton va en effet revêtir une forme animale: celle d’une truie que le héros découvre le lendemain, à l’heure de tierce, dans la cour du château: Il jette ses yeulx et la premiere chose que il vey que en sa court a une truie, la plus grande que oncques avoit veu; mais elle estoit tant maigre que par samblant on n’y veoit que les os et la pel, et avoit les tettes grandes et longues et pendices et toutes esquartees, et avoit un musel long et agu et tout affamé. Le sire de Corasse s’esmerveilla trop fort de celle truie et ne le vey point volentiers et commanda a ses gens: ‘Or tost, mettez les chiens hors. Je vueil que ceste truie soit pilliee.’ Les varlez saillirent avant et deffremerent le lieu ou les chiens estoient et les fisrent assaillir la truie. La truie jetta ung grant bruit et regarda contremont sur le seigneur de Corasse qui s’apuioit devant sa chambre a une poie. On ne le vey oncques puis, car elle s’esvanoy, ne on ne sceut que elle devint. Le sire de Corasse rentra en sa chambre tout pensif et li ala souvenir de Harton et dist: ‘Je croy que j’ay huy veu mon messagier. Je me repens ce que j’ay huyé et fait huier mes chiens sur luy. Fort y a se je le voy jamais, car il m’a dit pluseurs fois que si tost que je le courrouceroie je le perderoie et ne revenroit plus.’ Il dist verité. Oncques puis ne revint en l’ostel du seigneur de Corasse et morut le chevalier dedens l’an ensieuvant.13

L’apparition est d’emblée placée sous le signe du surnaturel par la réaction du héros: il ‘s’esmerveille’ devant un spectacle qui sort de l’ordinaire et dont il n’a pas encore compris la signification. Mais c’est le regard lancé à l’homme par l’animal et surtout sa disparition soudaine qui révèlent au héros et au lecteur la nature féerique de la truie, nouvel avatar d’Horton. La transgression de l’interdit entraîne la disparition de l’être fantastique, comme dans les contes mélusiniens et en particulier le Roman de Mélusine de Jean d’Arras. Or ce conte de fées qu’on pourrait qualifier de mélusinien n’a été illustré que dans un seul manuscrit, celui de Breslau. La peinture du folio 67v est parfaitement fidèle au texte de Froissart.14 Au premier plan, une truie efflanquée, aux mamelles ‘grandes, longues et pendantes’, attaquée par trois chiens qu’excitent deux veneurs, dont l’un souffle dans un cor et brandit un épieu. En haut, d’une terrasse et de deux fenêtres, six spectateurs assistent à la scène; l’un d’eux, penché vers l’animal, tend la main vers lui: il s’agit certainement du sire de Coarraze. Mais on remarque aussi et surtout, suspendu en l’air entre deux corps de bâtiments, invisible à tous les regards, un être mon-

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strueux, nu, doté d’une longue queue, de griffes à la place des mains et des pieds, d’une tête difforme et cornue et d’une langue fourchue: il ne peut s’agir que d’un nouvel avatar d’Horton, que le peintre a voulu représenter sous sa forme ‘naturelle0, abandonnant définitivement le château de Coarraze. Le peintre fait ici un double choix: il choisit de faire voir l’invisible, contrairement au texte, qui frustre le lecteur de tout portrait d’Horton; il choisit de diaboliser l’être fantastique, une nouvelle fois contrairement au texte. Froissart a écrit un conte fantastique, dans lequel le mystère reste entier sur la nature et la forme du mystérieux Horton. Mais le peintre, en décidant de faire voir l’invisible, est obligé de faire un choix: il opte pour une représentation diabolique et fait ainsi virer le fantastique au merveilleux chrétien. L’image peut aussi être au service de la propagande dans l’historiographie. L’illustration des Chroniques de Froissart en offre des exemples caractéristiques. L’analyse iconographique confirme l’existence de deux familles de manuscrits du premier livre des Chroniques. La première regroupe des manuscrits français, la plupart réalisés à Paris dans les premières années du XVe siècle pour des seigneurs français; la seconde des manuscrits flamands, plus luxueux, nés dans la seconde moitié du siècle, dans la mouvance de la cour de Bourgogne. L’unité de ce corpus est remarquable: ces manuscrits ont été produits entre les années 1460 et 1483, à Bruges, pour des princes de Bourgogne – ou un proche du duc de Bourgogne (Commynes), ou le roi d’Angleterre, allié des Bourguignons.15 Dans les manuscrits français, réalisés avant l’occupation anglaise, on peut s’attendre à trouver des traces d’une idéologie profrançaise. Au contraire, les manuscrits flamands datent d’une période de rapprochement entre la Bourgogne et l’Angleterre. Bien que tous les peintres soient scrupuleusement fidèles au texte de Froissart, on voit affleurer l’idéologie politique, dans le choix de certaines scènes à illustrer, dans des interprétations différentes d’un même épisode. L’illustration de la bataille de Crécy est significative. Le récit que fait Froissart de la bataille de Crécy, (reprenant celui de Jean le Bel en le développant), est construit sur un jeu d’oppositions qui tourne toujours à l’avantage des Anglais. Les Anglais sont calmes et disciplinés, les Français indisciplinés et désordonnés. La lenteur des arbalètes gênoises ne résiste pas aux arcs anglais. Et surtout Dieu est du côté anglais et abandonne les Français. A l’issue de la bataille, on

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ne saurait davantage souligner l’étendue du désastre français: la fuite de Philippe VI, le dénombrement des morts français. Pourtant, dans l’illustration, d’un manuscrit à l’autre, la défaite française est plus ou moins accentuée. Deux miniatures illustrent la bataille de Crécy dans le manuscrit de Breslau. La première (folio 144v) montre les préparatifs de la bataille en suivant scrupuleusement le texte de Froissart; les deux scènes s’y lisent de droite à gauche: Edouard III soupe avec ses hommes la veille de l’affrontement, et le lendemain à l’aube, reçoit la communion.16 La bataille elle-même (folio 146v) est présentée comme un engagement d’infanterie, en l’absence des rois: les Français sont à gauche de l’image, les Anglais à droite; la bannière aux fleurs de lis est à terre, au premier plan, du côté gauche, à côté d’un soldat mort, alors que la bannière anglaise demeure brandie. Ce procédé est constamment utilisé dans le manuscrit pour indiquer l’issue des combats. Dans le manuscrit 2643 (folio 165v), les Français sont encore à gauche à Crécy; aux bannières anglaises s’opposent la bannière aux fleurs de lis et l’oriflamme. Arbalétriers gênois et archers anglais s’affrontent également, et c’est encore un arbalétrier mort, à gauche, qui traduit la défaite française. A l’arrière-plan, les chevaliers français fuient devant les chevaliers anglais. Mais certains manuscrits parisiens donnent de la bataille une vision différente. Le peintre du manuscrit BnF. 2662, qui semble être sorti de l’atelier du Maître de Rohan vers 1405 (Porcher 1955: 106-7), utilise la valeur symbolique de l’oriflamme pour magnifier le camp français. Au XIVe siècle en effet, le roi de France vient lever l’oriflamme à Saint-Denis lorsque des ennemis, même chrétiens, menacent le royaume: Philippe VI et Jean II ont effectivement levé l’oriflamme en 1346 et en 1356, avant les batailles de Crécy et de Poitiers (Contamine 1973: 179-244). Dans le manuscrit 2662 (folio 150v), on voit toujours les deux armées s’affronter à Crécy, les Français à gauche et les Anglais à droite. L’infanterie est au premier plan, la cavalerie au fond. Trois bannières françaises à gauche contre trois bannières anglaises à droite; elles portent les armes des princes mentionnés par Froissart: celles du roi de France Philippe VI, du roi de Bohême Jean de Luxembourg et de Charles, comte d’Alençon (le frère du roi). Les trois bannières anglaises et les cottes des trois princes portent les léopards. Mais l’élément qui domine l’image, c’est l’oriflamme gigantesque qui s’envole bien au-dessus des bannières, au-delà même du

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cadre de l’image. En outre, on voit au premier plan, au milieu de l’image, un amoncellement de morts sanglants dont ne sait à quel camp ils appartiennent: l’issue de la bataille est encore douteuse et l’oriflamme à la taille disproportionnée domine la scène, comme si le peintre avait refusé de peindre la défaite française.17 Enfin dans le portrait presque uniformément élogieux que brosse Froissart du roi d’Angleterre Edouard III (qui, pour lui, incarne l’idéal chevaleresque), certains détails détonent: d’un manuscrit à l’autre, ces détails seront retenus ou écartés par les illustrateurs selon leur idéologie. Le premier concerne les fameux bourgeois de Calais: en 1348, après de longs mois d’un siège terrible, désespérant du secours du roi Philippe VI, les habitants de Calais décident de se rendre à Edouard III. Celui-ci exige que les clefs lui soient remises par six bourgeois de la ville, en chemise et la corde au cou. Six grands bourgeois consentent au sacrifice. Malgré toutes les suppliques, le roi se montre intraitable et ne cède qu’à l’intervention de la reine Philippa, ‘durement enceinte’, qui se jette à ses pieds pour obtenir le pardon des six bourgeois.18 Cet épisode que Froissart a repris à Jean le Bel et que Michelet a repris à Froissart, est tout à la gloire de la bonne reine Philippa et beaucoup moins à celle du roi Edouard, qui fait preuve, ici, de cruauté et d’obstination. D’ailleurs Froissart ajoute au texte de Jean le Bel les noms des six bourgeois, que ce dernier ne mentionnait pas. Or les manuscrits flamands (Breslau, BnF 2643) illustrent le siège de Calais, mais pas l’épisode des bourgeois, que l’on trouve en revanche dans deux manuscrits parisiens, BnF français 2642 (fol. 179) et BnF français 2663 (fol. 164). Pour François Avril, ‘L’origine du manuscrit 2642 est sûrement parisienne et le style de la décoration et des peintures permet de le situer vers 1410-1415. C’est, avec le Français 6474, un des rares manuscrits rattachables à l’activité d’atelier du Maître de Boucicaut, qui ait échappé à M. Meiss dans sa monographie sur l’artiste’ (Lettre d’avril 1996). Quant au BnF 2663, qui contient le livre I des Chroniques, il a été commandé dans les années 1410 au libraire Pierre de Liffol par un seigneur qui, selon une hypothèse récente, pourrait avoir été Louis I d’Anjou ou son serviteur Tanguy I du Châtel.19 Une cinquantaine d’années plus tard, ce livre, ainsi qu’un second (BnF 2664, contenant le livre II) était en la possession d’un autre Tanguy du Châtel, prévôt de Paris, qui les offrit à Jean de Derval, dont on voit les armes. Il a été illustré par deux peintres, le

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Maître du Harvard Hannibal et le Maître de Boèce (Croenen / Rouse 2002: 271). Dans les deux peintures, les six bourgeois, agenouillés, à deminus dans leur chemise blanche, la corde au cou, font figure de martyrs, devant un roi d’Angleterre tout-puissant, entouré de ses hommes, avec la rubrique suivante dans le manuscrit 2642: ‘Comment les .VI. bourgois partirent de Calais tous nudz en leurs chemises, la hart ou col et les clefz de la ville en leurs mains, et comment la royne d’Angleterre leur sauva les vies’.20 Dans ce manuscrit, le roi donne l’ordre au bourreau, debout à ses côtés, de décapiter les bourgeois. Il n’est question, dans le texte, que d’appeler ‘le cope teste’.21 La présence, sur l’image, du roi aux côtés du bourreau ne peut que dévaloriser l’image d’Edouard III. Il est enfin une scène mineure, assez ambiguë, de laquelle l’illustration tire parti dans le livre I. Elle illustre le débarquement anglais en Normandie, en 1346, et contraste avec la représentation iconographique habituelle d’Edouard III en chef de guerre prestigieux: lors de ce débarquement, Edouard III fait un faux pas en mettant le pied sur le sol français et tombe si brutalement que le sang jaillit de son nez: Quant la navie dou roy d’Engleterre eut pris terre en la Hoge et elle fu toute arestee et ancree sus le sablon, li dis rois issi de son vaissiel; et dou premier piet qu’il mist sus terre, il cheï si roidement que li sans li vola hors dou nés.22

Le roi s’empresse de donner à cette chute une interprétation favorable en disant que la terre de France a ainsi montré combien elle le désirait. Il n’en demeure pas moins que ce minuscule détail n’est pas à l’avantage du roi d’Angleterre. C’est vraisemblablement pour cette raison qu’au même titre que l’épisode des bourgeois de Calais, il est intégré au programme iconographique du manuscrit 2663. Edouard III y est représenté dans une posture ridicule, très peu royale, le visage égaré, en complet déséquilibre (fol. 133, frontispiece). On voit que, loin de se contenter d’illustrer les rubriques, les peintres cherchent souvent à traduire les subtilités du texte dans le langage iconographique On peut se faire une idée, à travers ces quelques exemples, des rapports complexes qu’entretiennent, dans les manuscrits des Chroniques de Froissart, le texte et l’image, et de l’apport

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précieux que constitue, pour l’interprétation du texte, l’analyse de l’image. Notes 1

Pour une description détaillée des manuscrits illustrés du livre IV, voir Le Guay (1998 : 27-43; pp. 31-38 pour le manuscrit Harley). 2 Le manuscrit B.L. Royal 14 D 6 n’offre que 4 miniatures (Le Guay 1998 : 40). 3 Harf-Lancner / Le Guay (1990: 93-112); Le Guay (1998: 80-83); Harf-Lancner (2000: 377-88). 4 On trouve les miniatures de ce manuscrit sur le site de la BnF, dans la base Mandragore. 5 Froissart, Chroniques, livre IV (éd. Kervyn de Lettenhove), XV, 87. 6 Ibid., p. 88. 7 Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Dépôt Breslau I, Rhediger 4, fol. 156 (Le Guay 1998: ill. 13); Londres, B.L. Harley 4380, fol. 1 (Le Guay 1998: ill. 18); Londres, B.L. Royal 18 E 2, fol. 206 (Le Guay 1998: ill. 17); Paris, Arsenal 5190, fols. 164v. et 165 (Le Guay 1998: ill. 14 et 15); Paris, BNF fr. 2646, fol. 176 (Le Guay 1998: ill. 16 et site BnF Mandragore). 8 Sur le macabre dans l’iconographie, voir Harf-Lancner / Le Guay (1990: 103-7) et Le Guay (1998: 145-47). 9 Le Religieux de St Denis, Chronique de Charles VI. Livre XIII, chap. 16, et livre XIV, chap. 1 (tome 1, 64-75). 10 Sur la représentation iconographique du charivari dans le BnF 146, voir Regalado (1988: 111-26); Schmitt (1994: 191-96 et ill. 11-14); Le Roman de Fauvel, Fac simile Edition. 11 Froissart, Chroniques, livre III (éd. Mirot), tome 12, § 47, p. 178; Chroniques, livres III et IV (éd. Ainsworth et Varvaro), pp. 278-87. 12 Froissart, Chroniques, livre III (éd. Mirot), tome 12, § 47, p. 179. 13 Froissart, Chroniques, livre III (éd. Mirot), tome 12, § 48, p. 180. 14 Voir la reproduction de cette miniature dans Harf-Lancner (2005: 260). 15 Cf. Varvaro (1994: 3-36); Harf-Lancner (1998: 219-50). Sur les manuscrits parisiens des années 1410, voir les découvertes récentes de Croenen / Rouse (2002). 16 Jean Froissart, Chroniques (éd. S. Luce), livre I, tome 3, p. 168: ‘Si donna li dis rois a souper les contes et les barons de son host, et leur fist moult grant ciere; ... et se leva l’endemain assés matin par raison, et oy messe, et li princes de Galles ses filz; et se acumenierent, et en tel maniere la plus grant partie de ses gens: si se confesserent et misent en bon estat.’ (aussi éd. Ainsworth / Diller, § 274, p. 570). 17 Voir la reproduction de cette miniature dans Harf-Lancner (2005: 261). 18 Chroniques (éd. Luce), I, tome 4, pp. 53-63; éd. Ainsworth / Diller, § 312, p. 645. 19 Sur ce manuscrit, voir Croenen / Rouse (2002). 20 BnF. 2663: ‘Comment Calais fut rendu au roy d’Angleterre et le meschief que ceulx de la ville souffrirent ainçois qu’ilz se rendissent.’ 21 Chroniques (éd. Luce), I, tome 4, p. 62; éd. Ainsworth / Diller, p. 645. 22 Chroniques (éd. Luce), I, tome 3, p. 133; éd. Ainsworth / Diller, p.540.

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Bibliographie Sources Froissart, Jean. Chroniques. Éd. Kervyn de Lettenhove. Bruxelles, 1871. ––– . Chroniques. Livre III. Éd. L. et A. Mirot. Paris: Société de l’Histoire de France. ––– . Chroniques. Livre I, tome 3. Éd. S. Luce. Société de l’Histoire de france.HF. ––– . Chroniques. Livres I et II. Éd. Peter F. Ainsworth et George T. Diller, Paris, Le Livre de poche, 2001 ––– . Chroniques. Livres III et IV. Extraits édités par Peter F. Ainsworth et A. Varvaro. Paris: Le Livre de poche, 2004. Le Religieux de St Denis, Chronique de Charles VI, éd. et trad. Bellaguet, 6 vol., Paris 1839-1852. Rééd. en 3 vol. avec une introduction de B. Guenée. Paris: Éd. du Comité des travaux historiques et scientifiques, 1994. Gervais du Bus, Chaillou du Pestain. Le Roman de Fauvel. Éd. et trad. ital. de M. Lecco. Milano: Luni Editrice, 1998. Le Roman de Fauvel. Ed. N. Freeman Regalado, E. Roesner, F. Avril. Facsimile Edition of the Bibliothèque Nationale Ms Fr. 146. New York: Broude Brothers, 1990. Études Baschet, J. (1996). ‘Inventivité et sérialité des images médiévales: pour une approche iconographique élargie.’ Annales 51: 93-133. Contamine, P. (1973). ‘L’oriflamme de Saint-Denis aux XIVe et XVe siècles.’ Annales de l’est 25: 179-244. Croenen, G., M. et R. Rouse (2002). ‘Pierre de Liffol and the manuscripts of Froissart’s Chronicle.’ Viator. Medieval and Renaissance Studies 33: 26193. Le Guay, L. (1998). Les princes de Bourgogne lecteurs de Froissart: les rapports entre le texte et l’image dans les manuscrits enluminés du livre IV des Chroniques. CNRS Editions. Turnhout:, Brepols. 27-43. Harf-Lancner, L., et L. Le Guay (1990). ‘L’illustration du livre IV des Chroniques de Froissart.’ Le Moyen Age 96: 93-112. Harf-Lancner, L. (1998). ‘Image and Propaganda: The Illustration of Book I of Froissart’s Chroniques.’ Dans Froissart across the Genres. Ed. D. and S. Maddox. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. 219-50. ––– (1999). ‘Un conte mélusinien dans les Chroniques de Froissart: l’histoire du seigneur de Coarraze et de son serviteur Horton.’ Dans Mélusines insulaires et continentales. Éd. J. M. Boivin et P. MacCana. Paris: Champion. 205-21. ––– (2000). ‘Le masque de l’homme sauvage: le bal des Ardents dans les chroniques médiévales.’ Dans Masca, maschera, masque, mask, Testi e iconografia nelle culture medievali. Éd. R. Brusegan, M. Lecco, A. Zironi. L’Immagine riflessa, NS anno IX (1-2). Alessandria: Ed. dell’Orso. 377-88. ––– (2005). ‘Le dialogue entre texte et image.’ Dans Perspectives médiévales. Trente ans de recherches en langues et en littératures médiévales. Textes réunis par J. R. Valette. Numéro jubilaire. 239-63.

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––– (2006a). ‘La tragédie du roi Richard II.’ Perspectives médiévales, 2006, sous presse (actes du colloque sur Froissart tenu à Lille et Valenciennes en septembre 2004). ––– (2006b). ‘Froissart, les Anglais et leurs rois.’ Actes du colloque sur Froissart tenu au Collège de France en novembre 2004. Paris: Collège de France (sous presse). Porcher, J. (1955). Les Manuscrits à peintures en France du XIIIe au XVIe siècle. Paris. Regalado, N. F. (1998). ‘Masques réels dans le monde de l’imaginaire: le rite et l’écrit dans le charivari du Roman de Fauvel.’ Dans Masques et déguisements dans la littérature médiévale. Éd. M. L. Ollier. Montréal. 111-26. Schapiro, M. (2000). Les Mots et les images. Littéralité et symbolisme dans l’illustration d’un texte. Trad. française. Paris: Macula. Schmitt, J. C. (1994). Les revenants. Paris: Gallimard. ––– (1999). ‘Images.’ Dans Dictionnaire raisonné de l’Occident médiéval. Paris: Fayard. 497-511. Varvaro, A. (1994). ‘Il libro I delle Chroniques di Jean Froissart. Per una filologia integrata dei testi e delle immagini.’ Medioevo Romanzo 19: 3-36.

ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 1. Paris, BnF fr. 2648, fol. 308: ‘Le bal des Ardents’

FICTION AS RHETORIC: A STUDY OF FERNÃO LOPES’ CRÓNICA DE D. JOÃO I

Teresa Amado

Abstract Modern studies of medieval chronicles show an increasing awareness of the actual purpose of their authors to tell the truth, the limits that can be found to the carrying out of this intent being usually more circumstantial than deliberate. The chronicler’s idea of truth and of how to make it effective in their writing, however, is not the same as that of modern historians. The three chronicles composed by the fifteenth century Portuguese chronicler Fernão Lopes, of John I and his two predecessors, display an elaborate use of literary art as well as a passionate expression of both reproval and praise and a scholarly concern to use reliable sources as faithfully as possible. Rhetoric being the extensive branch of knowledge and practical guidance always available to writers, the close reading of two examples from the Chronicle of John I suggests, in each case, that the narrative of a scene created through conspicuous rhetorical devices was intended to demonstrate the truthfulness of an idea.

Medieval chronicles have been read and such features as historical value and mastering of literary expression have been assessed over the last decades very differently from what used to be the case in most previous studies. The fact that our perception of medieval history has become both wider and more subtle and that we also know more about medieval theories of writing and their relation to practice has enabled us to be more aware of the purpose of the chronicler as he wrote his narrative and the means he found suitable to achieve it, as well as of the kind of impact that his text might have had on his contemporary readers. An impact that would certainly derive from a combination of what they expected from it and the meanings that the writing would be able to

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convey. By mentioning one purpose and one kind of impact as if implying they could be singular I am of course oversimplifying these issues, but the idea is merely to set them as boundaries, virtual boundaries, of the text-producing process when this genre is the object of investigation. The change in the critical appraisal of the chronicle has on the whole evolved towards a growing belief in the writer’s wish to tell the truth and to tell it as thoroughly as possible and in his awareness of the technical intricacies involved in writing a story, which must have led him to try to make sure that what he wrote produced exactly the effects he sought. In short, the chroniclers’ stated intentions and their professional skills as writers are now given full credit on the sole basis of their work. It is not that praise was not offered to them before, but more often than not it singled out either the skilful writer or the truthful historian. A remark by J. Dubournet, made in his book on Villehardouin et Clari, will perhaps illustrate this idea best: ‘Villehardouin … ne manque pas d’habileté pour présenter son dossier, ce qui ne veut pas dire qu’on doive automatiquement le tenir pour suspect et négliger son témoignage’ (1973: 172), the adverb ‘automatiquement’ being particularly significant of the author’s awarenesss of the prejudice I just mentioned. The text to which he is referring goes back to the beginning of the thirteenth century. Another French chronicler, Joinville, the author of the Vie de saint Louis, writing one century later, is said by Jacques Monfrin to have been accused of being ‘naïf’, of ‘ne pas avoir de vues d’ensemble, de ne pas réfléchir sur les événements et de ne pas rechercher leurs causes’, of having a style that is both devoid of art and obscure; he refutes these accusations stating quite the opposite opinion, that Joinville’s text is rich, simple and precise, that his repetitions, ‘plutôt que des négligences, sont … le résultat d’un parti pris conscient’, that what he wrote is ‘clair et l’on voit bien ce qu’il a voulu faire’, which was, as he explains it, to give an account of what he has seen and heard (Introduction, i-v). One third and last example of modern criticism on the chronicle may be chosen from Barbara Harvey’s Introduction to The Westminster Chronicle (1982), written in the Abbey at the end of the fourteenth century. Commenting on the part written by the Monk of Westminster, although allowing for the uneven quality of the information he provides and after reminding us of his generally-awarded

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reputation of being responsible for a ‘well-informed political narrative’ (1982: 34), she owns she specially admires – a feeling that I share warmly – ‘the most ambitious and lively piece of composition in the entire chronicle’, meaning the pages about the peasants’ revolt, and puts forward her appreciation of the fact that his ‘insight, like the art of these pages considered as a whole, reflects the distance of several years separating him from the events he described: there had been time for reflection’ (1982: 69-70). Going back to the author’s purpose and his work’s impact on the readers and to how they can be entrusted with a special significance in the text-producing process, it is hardly necessary to point out that the aim of those remarks was to bring over to the study of the chronicle the two main predicaments of the art of rhetoric, thus stressing the genre’s proper category as literary work. In the course of a research into the methods used by the chronicler Fernão Lopes in his writing of history, they have indeed, as I will try to show, proved to be crucial points. In royal service from 1418, he was secretary to the king and to two of his sons, and was made the first Portuguese official royal chronicler in 1434 by King Duarte, the eldest son and successor to John I, who was greatly responsible for many important cultural changes brought about by the new dynasty that began with his father. Also from as early as 1418, having been entrusted with governing responsibilities by his father while still a prince, Duarte appointed him keeper of the royal archive. Lopes’ qualifications as a notary no doubt weighed upon this choice which was to have considerable impact on the quality of his history writing. We know that he began by writing on the first seven Portuguese kings, those before Peter, but no existing manuscript copies can be safely identified with that part of his work. His known chronicles are the Crónica de D. Pedro (1357-67), the Crónica de D. Fernando (1367-83) and the Crónica de D. João I (Part I, 1383-85, a kingless period, and Part II, 1385-1433), written in chronological order. Although the chronicles are as different in composition and ideas as are the kings in character and deeds, a sort of symbolic thread pervades the three narratives the basis for which is allowed by the kings’ kinship: John is Peter’s bastard and Fernando’s half-brother. As has happened with many medieval chronicles, Lopes’ work has acquired an enormous importance to modern historians who re-

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cognize in it the chief authoritative source, or at least one of the major sources, for the three reigns he worked upon throughout the fourth and fifth decades of the fifteenth century. His ability to create living characters of all kinds and to give us the feeling of their clear distinctiveness, his unexpected granting of full human presence and speech to the small people, his sense of humour, the keen way in which he can focus a detail as well as deal with highly speculative or even transcendent matters have, as motives to please, joined the circumstantial fact that a good part of his work covers a particularly exciting period of Portuguese history. A long war between Portugal and Castile followed King Fernando’s death, his only heiress being married to the Castilian king. Fernão Lopes narrates the laborious victory then won by John I, the Portuguese king who married Philippa of Lancaster in 1387, in his chronicle and it is indeed not surprising that it should have made him what we could call a popular author Nevertheless the historians’ and critics’ judgement of his historical credibility has been far from unanimous. The way it has varied over the years has been closely related to the value they attach to his literary merit, the relative degree of one being obviously opposite to the other. Thus the supporters of his sophisticated art, seeing him rather like the author of historical novels, tend to emphasize his imagination, his dramatic power and the vividness of his descriptions and the way they end up distorting or at least minimizing the strictly historical value of his writings. This was the typical position of nineteenth-century criticism, very much after the romantic scholars who had written about him and brought him to public attention after two centuries of an almost general oblivion. But about one hundred years later, in the last century, there were still critics, no doubt very fast readers, treading the same path. The first attempts at asserting his truthfulness, set forth more as a moral value than as an intellectual property, associated it with his naïveté, the idea being that, because he was unable to understand the political and social complexities pervading the events he tells in his works, he could not possibly have lied. Still another approach, more seldom taken, has led a few authors to claim that he took sides in order to unduly put some people down and praise others for reasons of either economic or sentimental personal dependence, striving to show that he did it all the more wickedly since he was such a cunning writer. In the fifties, however, one critic, António José Saraiva, began

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a long series of essays dedicated to restoring him to his natural place of major Portuguese historian and writer in his time. A good synthesis and final version of his view of the chronicler’s work can be found in his O crepúsculo da Idade Média em Portugal. Other scholars then followed suit and many decidedly new approaches and insights have been produced since. Notably enough some of the most encomiastic and substantial contributions were offered by English scholars. Peter Russell wrote The English Intervention in Spain and Portugal in the Time of Edward III and Richard II, using Lopes as a ‘first quality source’ according to his own words, and Derek Lomax and R. J. Oakley edited The English in Portugal 1367-87, an anthology of translated passages from the Chronicle of King Fernando and that of King João (327 pages), with bilingual text and including a very useful introduction and notes. I quote from the Foreword: ‘Fernão Lopes is one of the greatest chroniclers in medieval Europe’. Truthful and accurate as he is, he is also an excellent story-teller, as a consequence of which he inevitably makes his characters speak in made-up words and he supplies descriptions of their imagined features and gestures, just as he adds all sorts of effective incidents to the historical plot. Besides a certain tendency to see hidden political bias in parts of the narrative where they do not really exist, as the text itself sometimes proves elsewhere, it is, I think, this kind of literary workmanship that entices some modern historians still to regard him with a certain mistrust. They seem to be less disturbed by sheer literary devices that he also uses such as the bold metaphor in which he compares the Master of Avis, the future King John, to Christ, and his faithful and invincible Constable Nuno Álvares Pereira, to Saint Peter, and their military and political action to the preaching of the ‘Portuguese Gospel’. Or again, the elaborately introduced prosopopeia that makes Lisbon stand as a sort of female martyr by John’s side while she announces the names of all the good and the bad Portuguese, meaning the ones who were loyal to both the Master and the city, and those who fought with the enemies against their own fellowcountrymen. The plain rhetorical nature of such odd forms of speech, highly unpredictable in a context of historical writing, has probably been enough to protect them from their scepticism, even though they are instrumental in stressing some key ideas that belong in the general

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frame of thought that gives the Chronicle its meaningful coherence. They are indeed clear enough indications of the exceptional destiny and merit of the two heroes and of the historian’s wish to ensure that right and wrong have their fair share of remembrance. In any case, the fact remains that while it rightly claims the label of true history, a large part of his narrative work cannot but be put down to pure invention. Prompted by the great variety of modes and techniques used in the text by Lopes to produce all the exciting and puzzling effects that continue to strike his readers, I have looked into different aspects of his work in order to try to understand more clearly the system of his mastery of historical narrative and have been led to think that the so far neglected part played by rhetoric in it is bound to be crucial. There is no sure way of choosing the most appropriate passages to be examined when the nature of their possible contribution to pursue an issue is still uncertain. Yet a number of interesting cases of the chronicler’s art of writing was provided by an apparently incongruous set of text-parts and matters: composition problems such as those that arise in the prologues and conclusions of the chronicles, topics like the king’s death scene or the ways in which nobles and common people laugh and smile, passages that owe their wider range of meaning to the use of parody and irony. In every instance, their study revealed consistent signs of a much more controlled choice of words, structures and plot elements than it was usually thought wise to ascribe to him. Some of these subjects concerned traditionally typified rhetorical procedures: beginnings and endings, parody, irony. But even concerning an apparently more historical issue like the description of the king’s death, the truth is that some of the objects, acts and words that make it up have at least since the ninth century been used in Iberian chronicles regularly enough to make it possible to presume a kind of rhetorical formula that would thereafter come out in a more or less full version whenever the text required it. Laughs and smiles were a different matter. The question bore upon gender, social position, psychological disposition, narrative situation, all of these being things that may change each time someone laughs or smiles in precisely the same rhythm in which the events and the episodes follow one after the other. As it happens there were repeated details and so some patterns, however fragile, emerged. Patterns in which the primary determinant element was definitely the acting character – for example some

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characters laugh and smile a lot, others more sparingly, some not at all, and yet others laugh or smile only. The meaning of each scene where that motif appeared depended on the way in which circumstances like the specific situation or the behaviour of other characters that were present reflected upon it, or, to use a linguistic technical term, modified it. All this has led me to question further the literary performance of certain parts of the chronicler’s text that upon a light, superficial reading might appear to fall under the name of invention, that comprehensive notion that has so disturbed many readers, due to its problematic relation to history. It does not fit the purpose of this paper to engage in a discussion of the ambiguous value that what we now call fiction would have in a fifteenth-century system of thought according to which telling the truth, past and memory were concepts connected surely not in the same way as they are today. Instead, I shall hold that there are incidents told in the chronicles that are used by the writer as rhetorical topoi serving a purpose of persuasion rather than simple significance and presented under such forms as to be immediately well interpreted by the audience or his readers: they have, after all, been adapted from previously used and widely known plot elements. Two examples will, if not prove utterly convincing that this may be seen as a systematic practice, suffice to show that it may be interesting to consider it among the specific history-narrating devices used by the chronicler. They belong to that part of the narrative that deals with Nuno Álvares Pereira, the supreme hero of the war that Portugal fought against Castile to preserve its independence, a most active man in every sense of the word, seen as a saint in his own time and more so afterwards, a brotherly companion to John of Avis from the beginning of the fight and his loyal Constable right to the end, a man who never lost a battle, who took holy orders in the last years of his life and whom some Portuguese are still hoping to see canonized. With the exception of rare and minor details about his life that were provided by documentary sources, the man who fits this description comes out of the biography that an unknown author wrote very shortly after his death, and from the chronicles written by Fernão Lopes, who wove into the history of the reign most of the contents of the biography, at times through sheer copying of the text, on other occasions openly deviating from its presentation of facts. It may be noted that subsequent history as it is known to us confirmed most of the

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probabilities created by this character, even in the way the man was remembered later in the words of those who knew him. The following comments will bear upon two scenes from the Chronicle of John I that do not come from the biography and about the origin of which we know nothing. The first one takes place in 1384, immediately after the Castilian king put an end to his five-month siege of Lisbon, his troops devastated by the plague, and departed back to his kingdom. Inside the city walls, John of Avis has withstood the siege along with thousands of citizens and peasants from the surrounding area and in the end they all lived through a desperate situation lacking food and water and with death all around. Nuno Álvares has been fighting Castilians and ‘bad’ Portuguese in various parts of the country and finally reaches the city freed from its enemies one early morning. After attending mass, he goes to the palace where the Master is, whom he has not seen for a long time. John has just pulled through the worst ordeal he has had to face as the Portuguese Regent and leader of those who have chosen to resist the invaders. Informed of Nuno Álvares’ arrival, he comes out of the palace and down the steps and they meet in the middle of a courtyard surrounded by their troops who are so happy to meet their friends and relatives that they cannot have enough of embracing one another. Nuno Álvares knelt down before him trying to kiss his hands but the Master did not allow it; he, still on his knees, went on trying to kiss them, and the Master attempted to lift him up saying that he did not deserve to be allowed to kiss anybody’s hands but that instead he should receive a great reward, specially from him who had been kept within those walls and achieved no worthy deed. To that Nuno Álvares answered with such good and courteous words that many of those who were present, watching this affectionate quarrel, kept shedding tears of joy. And in the end Nuno Álvares never wanted to get up until the Master let him kiss his hands. He then got up and they went to the chamber together, where they talked about many things concerning the war. (Part I, chapter 153, p. 283, my translation)

The vassal’s allegiance to his lord is put under so warm a light in this display of kisses and mutual praise that the depth of the one’s loyalty and the other’s acknowledgement and gratitude can be matched only by the strength of the love and partnership they share. It would be difficult to give a better and more enlightening account of

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their rich and many-levelled relationship other than by this visual image of attitudes and gestures. And this is also why it is unlikely that the chronicler should be worried about persuading his public that this scene, with all its indulgence in physically expressed emotion, had taken place. While the event described was portraying in general terms the social and cultural bonds between king and nobility that supported the political reality familiar to all then (and that our imagination is able to grasp today thanks to our knowledge of history and chivalric tales), it was also saying that they both knew what it took to preserve independence and to achieve order again in the kingdom and that they were ready to face those demands together. Furthermore, the specific details of the scene were still meant to show in a more subtle way the kind of link that existed between the two men at the time, by way of explaining that that was the secret of their mostly unexpected success. And it seems to me that all these further meanings were just as easily understood. The other example belongs to the Second Part of the same Chronicle (chapter 57, pp. 140-41). We are told that a strange incident occurred during the battle of Valverde, the hardest battle that the Constable ever had to fight, in 1385, shortly after the royal victory at Aljubarrota. As usual, the enemy has a much larger and betterequipped army, and it starts with the Portuguese losing men and yielding ground. Suddenly his men realize that their commander is missing no one knows where he has gone. The writer interrupts the narrative to express passionately his own bewilderment at such behaviour, most extraordinary and never seen before (that is, in past history as it is told in the texts), in fact preparing us to be struck with the right feelings when we read the scene he is about to describe. Which he then does. He tells us that after a while one of the men found Nuno Álvares ‘kneeling down between two rocks, his hands and his eyes turned upwards … totally unaware of the fears and troubles that were oppressing them’, and that the man was put in a state of total confusion and he did not know what to do. When he did tell him how bad things were going for them [in the battlefield], he answered very quietly that the time had not come yet, that they should await a little longer that he might finish his prayer. And so the man left and he remained still.

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Then came another soldier who ‘asked him to be so kind as to stop praying for the time being and come to them and push his banner onward, because the men were wounded and dying and could not stand it any more. And he did not answer.’ Again, more exclamations from the author, who evokes the Old Testament for a comparison of the Portuguese hero to Moses when he too was praying to God during a battle (Exodus 17. 8-13). The Hebrew leader, he says, did not go as far as Nuno Álvares did to prove his absolute faith in the power of God, since, not having taken part in the fight, he did not have to abandon it in order to pray. Lopes then explains that his hero’s ‘virtuous spirit was with God, to whom he prayed for victory’. At last the Constable finishes his prayer, gets up with a joyful and alert look on his face, joins his men and leads them back to the battle. The Portuguese win and the defeat is all the heavier on the Castilians because their lord commander, the powerful Master of Santiago, dies in battle. This could have been a more or less trivial, although richly scriptural, literary accomplishment if it had consisted only of illustrating once more the hero’s faith and great feats followed by the writer’s enthusiastic comments. But the chronicler preferred to turn it into a real episode, taking his time to let us know gradually about his disappearance, the men’s dismay and desperate search, his retirement to pray temporarily hiding from his troops, their repeated and useless attempts at bringing him back, his quiet obstinate refusal to let his religious rapture be disturbed by the urgency of the battle. A subliminal quotation of the New Testament may be understood (Mark 14. 32-42, and John 2. 4). The slowness of the scene, mainly achieved through the repetition of the men’s acts and the hero’s reactions, is in itself a point of hinted similarity to texts that tell of intimate religious experiences. Nowhere else in the Chronicle is the Constable set in such an unrestrained picture of sainthood. Naturally, that is the way in which it will be interpreted by every reader. However, that does not prevent some readers from raising the question of whether the event is true. The fact that the two men who approach the Constable while he is praying are given names in the text suggests that there must have been a certain amount of truth in the episode, but that amount may have been small. Again, the strong emphasis on the religious outlook that prevails over the war scene suggests that not much importance is given to the

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actual power of ascertaining that he did hide behind the rocks, that each of those two men talked to him in turn, or that he answered them in the way that it is told in the text. The chronicler’s real concern was, instead, to confront people with the fact that only a ‘saint’ would so unguardedly have believed the outcome of the battle to depend on God’s favour to the point of completely stopping man’s action at the most critical moment. A similar effect of bewilderment and almost revolt on the men waiting to engage in a huge fight, caused by their leader’s mysterious disappearance, can be found in the story of Fernán González, the Castilian hero, just before the battle of Fazinas. As it might be expected in a text about three centuries older, the approach is both more naïve and more fantastic, the intervals between the count’s prayers being filled with dreams and visions of saints by whom he is told of his coming victory (the Primera Crónica General inserts the episode in vol. II, chapter 698, pp. 400-2). While this confirms that there is a topical side to Lopes’ episode, even if his use of the Castilian narrative as a source remains doubtful, the contrast with the sophisticated literary quality of his underlying biblical quotation and with the sort of mystic realism he uses to describe the Constable’s attitude stresses the fact that he, unlike his predecessor, is trying to portray a distinct historical character. In both examples from the Crónica de D. João I the recreation of actual scenes seems to serve the transmission of historical meanings in which emotional values played a specially important part, rather than to represent facts with a claim to their existence in the past. In other words, the subject is fictional but the literary process is rhetorical. Very little known abroad due mainly to the language barrier, Fernão Lopes is waiting for that difficulty to be overcome in order to be more widely appreciated as another brilliant European chronicler of the later Middle Ages.

Bibliography Primary sources Fernão Lopes, Crónica de D. Pedro I. Edição crítica, introdução, glossário e índices de Giuliano Macchi. 2nd edn, revista. Lisboa: I.N.C.M., 2007 (1st edn 1966). –––. Crónica de D. Fernando. Edição crítica, introdução e índices de Giuliano Macchi. 2nd edn, revista. Lisboa: I.N.C.M., 2004 (1st edn 1975).

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–––. Crónica de D. João I. Primeira Parte. Reprodução facsimilada da edição de Braamcamp Freire. Prefácio de L. Lindley Cintra. Arquivo Histórico Português, 1915. Lisboa, INCM. Rpt. 1977 (1st edn 1973). –––. Crónica de D. João I. Segunda Parte. Edição de W. Entwistle e L. Lindley Cintra. Lisboa: INCM. Rpt. 1977 (1st edn 1968). Fernão Lopes, The English in Portugal 1367-87. Extracts from the Chronicles of Dom Fernando and Dom João with an introduction, translation and notes by Derek W. Lomax and R. J. Oakley. Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1989. Jean de Joinville, La vie de saint Louis. Texte établi, traduit, présenté et annoté avec variantes par Jacques Monfrin. Paris: Classiques Garnier, 1998 (1st edn 1995). Primera Crónica General de España. 2 vols. Editada por Ramón Menéndez Pidal con un estudio actualizador de Diego Catalán. Madrid: Gredos, 1977. The Westminster Chronicle 1381-1394. Edited and translated by L. C. Hector and Barbara F. Harvey. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982. Secondary literature Dufournet, J. (1973). Les écrivains de la IVe Croisade, Villehardouin et Clari. Paris: Société d’Édition d’Enseignement Supérieur. Russell, Peter (1955). The English Intervention in Spain and Portugal in the Time of Edward III and Richard II. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Saraiva, António J. (1988). O crepúsculo da Idade Média em Portugal. Lisboa: Gradiva.

GATHERING, RANKING AND DENEGATING1 SOURCES IN THIRTEENTH- AND FOURTEENTH-CENTURY IBERIAN CHRONICLES Isabel de Barros Dias

Abstract Alfonso X, sovereign of Castile and Leon, tried to gather all the knowledge in the world. That ambition is apparent in his historiography and other derived texts. Nevertheless, this centripetal encyclopaedism is partly contradicted by the claiming of a distance or by a refusal (even if sometimes purely rhetorical, therefore in denial, a denegation) of some of the used sources and excerpts, most of them of literary types. This attitude is all the more striking as this historiography not only absorbs excerpts of a more fictional tone, but also fully imitates literature to make its accounts more vivid and striking, and uses various rhetorical procedures.

Iberian vernacular historiography from the middle of the thirteenth century onwards was dominated, for the most part, by the work produced in the scriptorium of King Alfonso X, the Wise, sovereign of Castile and Leon. This king is known for his support of culture, having sponsored or produced, either as patron or as so-called author, an impressive number of works in a variety of fields (history, law, astronomy, astrology, poetry etc.). This extensive production reflects an unusual concern for exhaustiveness, as if this sovereign was trying to build the sum of all knowledge. In spite of its proportions, the work in the Alphonsine scriptorium is known to have been rigorously organized, accurate, and, mainly in the fields of history and law, closely supervised by its mentor.2 The encyclopaedic anxiety to gather and to give a final form to all knowledge, as far as concerns the field of history, might have been responsible for both the huge proportions of this king’s historiographical projects and for the lack of satisfaction that explains the continuous reworking of his histories and its remaining unfinished.3

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Alfonso X assumed the authorship of two ambitious history projects. The General Estoria4 would be a Universal history. It remained unfinished, in its sixth volume, still before entering the Christian era. The Estoria de Espanna5 meant to confine itself to the Iberian Peninsula. Its text was successively revised and rewritten, still under Alfonso X’s supervision, when two main incomplete versions were produced (in the 70s and 80s of the thirteenth century). This last chronicle in particular was widely successful in the Peninsula. Its competing versions were mixed, amplified, summarised, reworked to form an extremely complex textual family. Alfonso X used historiography to promote his own social and cultural ideas, as well as his political ideologies and ambitions. Likewise, despite the maintenance of the prestigious reference to the Wise King’s authorship, some of the subsequent chronicles manipulated that heritage, redirecting the historiographical production to serve new priorities, ideas or political agendas. The main trends of this ‘textual warfare’ have been pointed out. For example, the ‘rhetorically amplified version’, written under Sancho IV, son, successor, but also fierce opponent of Alfonso X, proposes a different system of values, namely concerning the relationship between the crown and the powerful magnates who had recovered much influence for their support of the new king.6 Another example is the Portuguese Crónica Geral de Espanha de 1344, whose second version, probably written in the 80s of the fourteenth century, undermines the imperial ideology of Alfonso X and his ideal of a unified Iberia by increasing the attention given to the histories of the more peripheral kingdoms, especially Portugal, among other procedures.7 In spite of these differences, often quite relevant, in ideological terms, this textual family also shares many characteristics. It is precisely one of these features that will be considered here: the evidence, along with the desire for exhaustiveness, for degrees of uneasiness, perceptible in the process of bringing together texts of various origins. This seems to mark the corpus to be examined here, which ranges from the oldest Alphonsine work to the second version of the Portuguese chronicle. Alfonso X tried to be exhaustive in the sources he used.8 That was a common procedure, if not in practice at least in intention. In this specific case, the Alphonsine desire for exhaustiveness, the medieval tradition of the use and expansion of former auctoritas, in a process

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that was intended to be one of gradual improvement through the addition of new materials, as well as the fact that history is a permanently unfinished matter, converged in the opening of the narrative to the absorption of elements from a variety of sources. In particular the increase in the amount of literary sources considered brought emotion and vivacity to historiography, allowing it to captivate a public otherwise alien to it. Also the use of the vernacular was an essential decision to promote a wider diffusion of the histories. The basic Alphonsine sources, the Historia de Rebus Hispanie, by Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada, archbishop of Toledo, and the Chronicon Mundi, by Lucas, bishop of Tuy, already mentioned epics, local legends and traditional stories or even transcribed their plots. Yet, that attention, filled with mistrust, never dreamt of the acceptance these narratives would have in the vernacular subsequent chronicles, a process that only increased in the texts that derived from the Alphonsine corpus.9 Nevertheless, it was with Alfonso X’s works that fiction made its way into historiography, reaching levels until then unknown in the peninsular historiographical production. In this King’s scriptorium not only the Latin sources were translated into vernacular Castilian, but also the epics and other legendary narratives, traditional stories and ballads were turned into prose and the lot was blended to form a new, much more appealing, historiography.10 In fact, we can find traces of many forms of the literary production of the age in these composite historiographical accounts. Epics and other traditional materials play a major role in this process since not only epic narratives were absorbed, but we can also find evidence of the influence of epic style in passages written by chroniclers in order to create vividness and to seduce their public. The belief that epic songs rest on historical events certainly contributed to this infiltration. Narratives that report events of Antiquity were also incorporated. Like the absorption of the histories of Troy or Rome and their heroes by French and English historiography as origin myths, the Iberian Peninsula also had a remote and noble past thanks to the appropriation of the story of Hercules. The ancient corpus is particularly present in the General Estoria, where we can see traces of Ovid (mainly the Metamorphoses), of Lucan (Pharsalia), and of the history of Alexander the Great, among several others.

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We can also detect the influence of hagiographic tales, saints’ lives,11 planctus12 and even passages of lyric tone.13 At the same time, many of the topoi used are common to historiography, hagiography or adventure romances. An example of such elements is the motif of the animal guide.14 Another element of contamination among textual forms in this period is the exemplum.15 The exemplary tone present all over this historiography certainly favoured the inclusion of exempla,16 illustrating good and bad behaviour of important characters. Like the epic songs, the exempla often claimed an historical basis, not always proved, but certainly convincing enough to favour its inclusion in historiography. This form must also be related to the small specula principorum that appear, mainly in later texts.17 The success of the exempla is probably due to the fact that while the more conventional treatisies on kingship dictate, in a normative way, advice that young rulers should respect in their interaction with the social body of the kingdom, the same precepts are conveyed in a much more attractive way by the exempla. The fact that so many genres merged in these chronicles has also led to the suggestion that the slow implantation and expansion, for instance, of romance, in the medieval Iberian Peninsula was due to its integration and diffusion by historiography:18 if the stories were already conveyed in historiography it would be considered useless to write them in any other autonomous way. This confluence of textual forms brings us back to the overall encyclopaedic19 tone that, as Jacques Le Goff stresses, may be considered as a distinctive feature in the thirteenth-century literate production.20 This is quite remarkable in these chronicles. But this process of mingling texts of various sources was complex and difficult. The fact that historiography has not hesitated to absorb sources of a more literary character, nor in using rhetorical tools to elaborate stylistically and to make its reports more attractive, implied some problems. Most of these problems were caused by the integration of texts that revealed more clearly heir fictitious character, thus conflicting with other materials. This is particularly striking in historiography, since it often claims its distance from fiction and its closeness to truth, even if it does not hesitate to use the available composition tools and source materials. The permanent coexistence of attraction and rejection of fiction compelled the chroniclers to engage furthermore in quite

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elaborate and subtle rhetorical procedures in order to justify and legitimise the presence of the conflicting texts. We can therefore quite clearly distinguish between two opposite forces in action. On the one hand we have a centripetal force that aims to build a text in which all the traditions and all knowledge are brought together, even if that means a certain loss of character or dilution of what the historiographical discourse should be; on the other hand we see a centrifugal force, revealing a certain notion of the diversity of the textual forms of the conflicting versions about the same events and the need to justify or to mask some additions. So, historiography casts doubts, criticises and devalues, quite often, some sources of epic and novelistic character, separating them out and declaring their difference from other materials, yet absorbing them nonetheless: Mas commo quier que esta sea la verdat, la estoria del rromançe deste infante [Garcia] diz desta otra guisa …. (Cr20R: 151b) (In spite of this being the truth, the story of the ballad of this young [count Garcia] states otherwise ….)

Here we should perhaps stop and ask ourselves if this strategy derives absolutely and solely from the author’s historical awareness, allied to an acute conscience of the fictional character of those texts, or if that idea is merely the product of our own paradigms that lead us to interpret this undeniable suspicion in our own terms. In fact, this kind of criticism is most often directed at texts that nowadays are classified as fiction. Nevertheless, their use as historiographical sources implies their acceptance if not as absolutely true, at least as carrying a certain degree of truth. To mix things even more, we can find similar objections when the text is interlacing the two main Latin historiographical sources: Et pero que asi sea la verdat commo el arçobispo don Rodrigo dize, cuenta don Lucas de Tuy …. (PCG: II, 357a)21 (In spite of being the truth what the archbishop don Rodrigo says, don Lucas of Tuy tells ….)

Faced with this evidence, we must remember how fluid and alien to our own actual ideas were the boundaries between fact and fiction, as well as the notions of truth and forgery in the Middle Ages.22 So, it

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might be more correct to consider the devaluation of these fictive sources not as the product of a clear-cut and conscious division between truth and fiction, but in terms of the ranking of sources adaptable to specific circumstances and/or the difficulties that arise when chroniclers try to reconcile different or conflicting information or when differences of style are too marked to allow for a harmonious text to be produced without much reworking. To sum up, we can also consider the definition that Alfonso X gives of rhetoric, in the General Estoria, while presenting the seven liberal arts, and where the capacity of discourse to present events with verisimilitude is stressed: La rectorica otrossi es art pora affermosar la razon e mostrar la en tal manera, quela faga tener por uerdadera e por cierta alos que la oyeren, de guisa que sea creyda. Et por ende ouo nombre rectorica, que quiere mostrar tanto como razonamiento fecho por palabras apuestas, e fermosas e bien ordenadas. (GE: I, 194a) (Rhetoric also is an art to make discourse beautiful and to show it in such a way as to make it accepted as true and certain by those who hear it, in such a way as to be believed. And for this it is called rhetoric, because it wants to show a reasoning done by accurate and beautiful words set in good order.)

We can therefore consider a number of possible options concerning rhetorical procedures inherent to the integration of more ‘dubious’ texts, within the general logic of the ranking of sources, as degrees of a large single scale that goes from the Holy Scriptures to the least trustworthy of texts. Among these rhetorical procedures the following three will be considered here: 1. The positive and quite common procedure of interpreting pagan sources in the light of Christian faith in order to make it acceptable to integrate them. 2. The also positive and common justification that claims that the contents integrated are valuable as an example for the public, present and future. 3. The less positive and more complex and subtle procedure of the denegation of the used sources, i.e. by pretending to undervalue what, in fact, it shows or even stresses.

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The first procedure is very common. The fictional character and other possible divergences of the classic, pagan narratives have caused its mistrust by some intellectuals. Others, however, have obviated these features with the argument that those tales only look like fiction and once read in accordance to the right exegetic procedures, the truth they carry inevitably comes to the surface: … non lo tenga ninguno por fabliella, por que es delas razones de Ouidio, ca el que las sus razones bien catare e las entendiere fallara que non ay fabliella ninguna, nin freyres predigadores e los menores que se trabaian de tornarlo en nuestra theologia non lo farien se assi fuesse, mas todo es dicho en figura e en semeiança de al. (GE: I, 163a) 23 (… that no one think that this is a fable, because it is from Ovid’s narratives, because he who looks attentively and understands them will find that there are no fables, neither would the preaching friars and Friars Minor who work to accord it with our theology do this if it were so, on the contrary, everything is said as image and as similarity to other things.)

So, a fable written by a pagan, before Christian revelation, can be accepted and integrated in medieval culture whenever it is possible to interpret it in accordance with religious orthodoxy. Thanks to this argument it was possible to consider works like the Aeneid or the Metamorphoses as historiographical sources. Less common is perhaps the fact that this procedure was used also as an excuse for the introduction of texts from other origins, such as Muslim sources. All this is also justified by the general argument that even evil spirits could say the truth when compelled to it by the ‘spirit of truth’.24 In accordance with this procedure, the classification of a report as ‘true’ or ‘false’ no longer depends on its degree of fiction. It becomes centred on the intentio lectoris which, on a ‘theory of reception’ avant la lettre is superposed on any other possible intentio auctoris or intentio operis.25 The second procedure referred to is also a common and extremely useful one. In fact, when historiography assumes itself to be exemplary, it places itself at the same level as specula and exempla, two narrative forms with which it can mingle. Thanks to the argument according to which the goal of history is to convey models of behaviour, by praising those who have done well and criticising the

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ones that acted wrongly, in order to teach its public the best way to follow,26 the way is wide open for the integration of virtually anything, even the most shocking events. Et fizieron desto muchos libros …; e dixieron la uerdat de todas las cosas e non quisieron nada encobrir, tan bien delos que fueron buenos como delos que fueron malos. (GE: I, 3b) (And they made many books on these matters …; and told the truth of everything and refused to conceal anything, neither about the ones who were good nor of those who were bad.)

Denegation can also be equated with the belief that we can find some truth everywhere. This procedure makes its appearance as an ambivalent reaction before some sources, either when their fabulous or fictional character is too evident or when they report events in a way that is too different from other more valued sources or that, for some reason, are or seem to be less or even totally unacceptable. But, in spite of all this, such historiography, either because of the encyclopaedic wish to transcribe every report, or due to some irresistible attraction for fiction, still conveys them. This wish is then masked by a ‘rhetoric of refusal’ that establishes a distance, often more of words than in fact, and pretends to underestimate matters that were just before considered important enough to be reported: Mas esto non podrie ser. Et por esto, non son de creer todas las cosas que los omnes dizen en sus cantares, ca la verdat es segunt que vos auemos ya dicho, segunt que fallamos en las estorias verdaderas, las que fizieron los omnes sabyos. (Vers.Crit: 461) (But this could not have been. And therefore, we should not believe all the things men say in their songs, because the truth is as we have already said, according to what we have found in the truthful histories, the ones made by the wise men.) Hora vos dissemos o linhagem onde veeo Roy Diaz, o Cide. E alguѺus dizen que o Cide era de barregãa. Esto nõ he verdade. E a maneira por que o cuydam he esta: Diego Laindez, seu padre do Cide, ante que casasse, emprenhou huѺa vilãa de huѺu filho, em dya de Sanctiago, per força. E era casada. E o marido emprenhoua logo em esse dya doutro filho. E, ao tempo do parir, naceu o filho do cavaleiro primeiro; e bautizarõno e poseronlhe Fernã Diaz. E os que nom sabem a estorya dizem que foy o Cide, mas em esto erram. (1344b: II, 480)27

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(We have just told you about the lineage from which descended Ruy Diaz, the Cid. And some say that the Cid was born illegitimate. This is not true And the reason they think this is the following: Diego Laindez, the Cid’s father, before being married, raped a peasant woman and she became pregnant of a son, on Saint Jacobs’s day. And she was married. And that same day, she also became pregnant from her husband of another son. And when the time to give birth came, the son of the knight was born first; and he was baptized and was named Fernã Diaz. And those who don’t know the story say that he was the Cid, but they are wrong in this matter.)

The rhetorical figure of praeteritio pretends to pay no attention to what, in fact, is stated and sometimes even stressed. The same kind of procedure is put into practice here, only applied to large textual blocks. These chronicles, like all the others, can and do make choices. From the analysis of its known sources it is evident that some passages are dismissed while others are accepted. So, why to report, sometimes even at length, versions that are afterwards classified as untrue or valueless? If so, would it not be easier to forget about those versions? This modus operandi can only make sense if we see it as a rhetorical procedure. Apart from the very useful argument that some truth can be found everywhere, we are here looking at versions of events that are marked by a ‘rhetorical asterisk’ that states ‘of course it couldn’t have happened that way’, but also insinuates ‘or could it? What would you think of this preposterous possibility?’ And, by doing this, the text eventually opens the way to further alien voices and the consequent manipulations and deviations of its narrative. Thanks to these techniques, if the Alphonsine and postAlphonsine historiography on the one hand shows an omnivorous wish to include everything in its totalizing discourse, on the other hand it does this also by denying its own reality, in a mixture of attraction and repulsion for some sources, mainly fiction. It becomes a discourse that undermines itself by sometimes stating also the opposite of what it allegedly sustains. From here emerges its duplicity, where the claims for truth and validity coexist with a textuality that, having conquered other discourses, reveals itself, in fact, hopelessly conquered by them.

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Notes 1 The term denegation is here used to signify a textual procedure that works as the rhetorical figure known as praeteritio or denegatio, which pretends to omit or to undervalue what, in fact, it exposes or even stresses. 2 The Alphonsine scriptorium had teams of translators (trasladadores), compilers / redactors (ayuntadores) and of those in charge of dividing the works and of giving titles to parts or chapters (capituladores) (Catalán, reed. of PCG: 852). After the death of the Wise king, the intellectuals that worked under his supervision dispersed. As a consequence, no subsequent chronicler managed to deal with an amount of sources similar to the one dealt with by the royal work teams. Some of the re-elaborations brought new insights on previous sources or some new ones, expanding several accounts, like the Crónica de 1344, but most of the other works limited themselves to the arrangement of textual blocks from the previous versions. On this basis, Diego Catalán proposed a distinction between ‘chronicle’ and ‘version’, where ‘versions’ are valued because they present some kind of active innovation whereas ‘chronicles’ are, for the most part, simply copies of earlier texts. They may select textual blocks from different versions but usually do not show any significant critical or re-elaborative work (Catalán 1962, 1992 and 1997). 3 On these questions, see Catalán (1992: 11-44) or Martin (2000), who also refers to Alfonso X’s ambition to produce a total and final history in the perspective of the accumulation of truth (2000: 16-17). Fernández-Ordóñez (1999: 108-10) equates the lack of satisfaction and the desire of perfecting without limits with the fact that so many of the Alphonsine works were re-done, present various versions and/or remained unfinished. 4 For a list of the edited parts of this history, see Fernández-Ordóñez (2000a: 142-43). 5 Menéndez Pidal’s edition of the Estoria de Espanna (= PCG) used two composit manuscripts where several hands testify to different interventions in distinct epochs. Its first part (up to chapter 616) conveys the Alphonsine ‘royal version’, the text approved by the sovereign as ‘official’, in its first version. Nowadays, critics distinguish two main Alphonsine versions of the Estoria de Espanna, the ‘primitive version’ (around 1270) and the ‘critical version’ (around 1282-84). The ‘critical version’ is conveyed in the so-called Crónica de Veinte Reyes and in the MS Ss. (Versión Crítica (VersCrit), ed. Fernández-Ordóñez, 1993). On these versions and their futher developments and re-elaborations see Catalán (1962, 1997 and 1992), and Fernández-Ordóñez (1993 and 2000b). 6 The ‘rhetorically amplified version’ derives from the oldest Alphonsine version and appears in part of the manuscript E2, used in Menéndez Pidal’s edition of the PCG. On its differences from Alphonsine political and social thought, see Fernández Ordóñez (2000c). 7 For more information, see Dias (2003 Part I, 4). 8 As stated in PCG: I, 4a. Concerning the sources used by Alfonso X, see the studies preceding the textual editions by António G. Solalinde, Ramón Menéndez Pidal / Diego Catalán and Inés Fernández-Ordóñez. See also Pérez de Guzmán (1905) and Rubio García (1985).

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9 Regarding the epics absorbed by Alphonsine historiography, two main groups can be pointed out: the cycle of the counts of Castile and the cycle of the Cid. On the growing novelization in the post-Alphonsine chronicles, see Catalán (1992: 139-56). 10 For more information about epics and other legendary material absorbed by Iberian historiography, see Pattison (1983). The author examines how Latin and vernacular chronicles develop and how they treat epic and legendary materials, noticing similarities and differences between versions and how fiction is often refuted, a question that is further discussed in this article. In Pattison (2003), the author returns to the question of the different (often sceptical) treatment given to some literary and conflicting sources which are nevertheless included and afterwards further developed. 11 This dialogue seems to have been quite common, especially when history was being written by clerics. But the model still kept its influence, even in texts written by laics. Miracles, prayers, reception of divine messages, even if on a smaller scale, continued to be understood as important historiographical material. Much of the passages in Alphonsine historiography where the hagiographical inspiration is stronger are imported from the former Latin historiographical sources, such as the description of the miraculous events that saved the sister of Alfonso V, wrongly given in marriage to a Moor (PCG: II, 452a-b). This passage is already present both in the De Rebus Hispanie, and in the Chronicon Mundi. See also Guenée (1980: 54-55) who refers to many cases of interchanges between saints lives and historiography. 12 As in the lament of the father before the severed heads of his seven sons in the story of the ‘Sete infantes de Salas’ (1344b: III, 144-48). 13 As in the narrative of the misfortune of king Garcia of Galicia and Portugal, in Crónica de 1344 (1344b: III, 362) 14 This motive is extensively used in courtly literature, but is also present in chronicles, as in a passage from the story of Fernán González (PCG: II, 393, ch. 690), or in the story of the repopulating of Palencia by king Sancho of Navarre (PCG: II, 480b-81a). 15 For a discussion whether exempla should be considered a literary genre or a functional procedure, see Bremond (1998: 28) as well as Le Goff (1998) and Schmitt (1998). 16 See Ayerbe-Chaux (1978), who claims that the Estoria de Espanna presents a smaller density of exempla than some of its sources. Nevertheless, Alphonsine historiography does integrate several exempla and often does assume the general tone of exemplary literature. 17 Particularly in the second redaction of the Crónica de 1344 (vol. II, 168-69; III, 346-47 or IV, 215-16). 18 See Gómez Redondo (1989a: 3), who claims that almost every form of medieval literary prose that evolved in the fifteenth century derives from the historiography of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. See also Gómez Redondo (1989b) and Chalon (1971). 19 We must remember that the term ‘encyclopaedic’ was not used in the Middle Ages, even if encyclopaedism was inherent to numerous works, by then called speculum, imago, tesaurus, or summa. On this question, see the articles in Picone (1994).

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20

The ‘encyclopaedic spirit’, according to Le Goff (1994: 25), can be perceived as a wish for order and an aspiration to totality, traits that were preponderant in the thirteenth century. Alfonso X and, above all, his relative, Frederic II are referred to as examples of this attitude (p. 29-30 and 39). It is the fragmentary character of encyclopaedism that allows for its equation with exempla, which Le Goff calls, significantly, ‘encyclopédies «en miettes»’ (1994: 37). See also the article by Berlioz and de Beaulieu (1994). 21 There are still passages where conflicting versions are only referred to, side by side, without criticism: PCG, II, 326 (chapt. 571), 354 (chapt. 619) or 649 (chapt. 966). 22 On this matter, see Guenée (1981: 265-77). Here the author addresses the question of the existence of historical criticism and the distinction between true and false as secondary in relation to the difference between apocryphal and authentic, approved or authorized. On the matter of forgeries, see Dragonetti (1987), where the author stresses the performative aspect of literary composition, namely of historiography. In this kind of text manipulations and inventions are conveyed thanks to strategies that promote their credibility, becoming thus ‘persuasive constructions’ or ‘fictions of truth’. 23 For further examples, see, for instance, GE: I, 155, 162, 276 369 and II, 1/2, 265, 275, 149 or 2/2, 37. 24 This argument is used in PCG: I, 107 and 164. 25 On these three interpretative ‘intentions’, centred either on the author, on the reader or on the work, see Eco (1990). 26 The didactic intentions are important enough to be stated in the prologues of the Alphonsine and post-Alphonsine histories and in various other passages, as well as in its main historiographical sources. 27 These elements are absent from the accounts about this lineage in the PCG: II, 387 (ch. 678). They are nevertheless implicit in the insinuations on the Cid’s villany by the counts of Carrión on the Cantar de mio Cid: vv. 3378-81. For further examples of this denegation process, see VersCrit: 467, 473, Cr20R: 173 or 183.

Bibliography Primary sources Alfonso el Sabio. General Estoria, Primera Parte. Ed. Antonio G. Solalinde. Madrid: Centro de Estudios Históricos, 1930. (= GE: I) Alfonso el Sabio. General Estoria, Segunda Parte. I – II. Ed. António G. Solalinde, Lloyd A. Kasten y Víctor R. B. Oelschläger. Madrid: CSIC, Instituto ‘Miguel de Cervantes’, 1956 and 1961. (= GE: II, 1/2 or 2/2) Cantar de mio Cid. Ed. Ramón Menéndez Pidal, Mod. prosif. Alfonso Reyes, and Introd. Martín de Riquer. Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1976. Chronicon Mvndi Lvcae Tvdensis. Ed. Emma Falque. Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis 74. Turnhout: Brepols, 2003. Crónica de Veinte Reyes. Transcr. José Manuel Ruiz Asencio and Mauricio Herrero Jiménez. Burgos: Ayuntamiento de Burgos, 1991. (=Cr20R)

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Crónica Geral de Espanha de 1344. Ed. Luís Filipe Lindley Cintra. Lisboa: IN-CM, 1951-1990. (=1344b) Historia de Rebus Hispanie sive Historia Gothica Roderici Ximenii de Rada. Ed. Juan Fernández Valverde. Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis 72. Turnhout: Brepols, 1987. Primera Crónica General de España. Ed. Ramón Menéndez Pidal. Reed. Diego Catalán. Madrid: Gredos, 1977. (=PCG) Versión Crítica de la Estoria de España. Ed. Inés Fernández-Ordóñez. Madrid: Fundación Ramón Menéndez Pidal / Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 1993. 355-561. (=VersCrit) Secondary literature Ayerbe-Chaux, Reinaldo (1978). ‘El uso de “exempla” en la Estoria de España de Alfonso X.’ La Coronica 7: 28-33. Berlioz, Jacques, and de Beaulieu, Marie-Anne Polo (1994). ‘Les recueils d’exempla et la diffusion de l’encyclopédisme médiéval.’ In Picone (1994). 179-212. ––– (1998). Les Exempla médiévaux: Nouvelles perspectives. Paris: Champion. Bremond, Claude (1998). ‘L’exemplum médiéval est-il un genre littéraire?’ In Berlioz / de Beaulieu (1998). 21-28. Catalán Menéndez Pidal, Diego (1962). De Alfonso X al conde de Barcelos. Madrid: Gredos. Catalán, Diego (1992). La Estoria de España de Alfonso X – creación y evolución. Madrid: Fundación Ramón Menéndez Pidal / Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. ––– (1997). De la silva textual al taller historiográfico alfonsi – Códices, crónicas, versiones y cuadernos de trabajo. Madrid: Fundación Ramón Menéndez Pidal / Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. Chalon, Louis (1971). ‘De quelques vocables utilisés par la Primera Crónica General de España (Cantar – Crónica – Cuento – Escriptura – Estoria – Fabla – Romanz).’ Le Moyen Âge 77: 79-84. Dias, Isabel de Barros (2003). Metamorfoses de Babel. A historiografia ibérica (sécs. XIII-XIV): Construções e estratégias textuais. Lisboa: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian / Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia – Ministério da Ciência e do Ensino Superior. Dragonetti, Roger (1987). La vie et la lettre au moyen-âge. Le conte du Graal médiéval. Paris: Seuil. Eco, Umberto (1990). I limiti dell’interpretazione. Milano: Bompiani. Fernández-Ordóñez, Inés (1999). ‘El taller historiográfico alfonsí. La Estoria de España y la General estoria en el marco de las obras promovidas por Alfonso el Sabio.’ In El Scriptorium alfonsí: de los libros de astrología a las «Cantigas de Santa María». Ed. Jesús Montoya Martínez and Ana Domínguez Rodríguez. Madrid: Editorial Complutense. 105-26. ––– (2000a). ‘Antes de la collatio. Hacia una edición crítica de la General estoria de Alfonso el Sabio (segunda parte).’ In Teoría y práctica de la historiografía hispánica medieval. Ed. Aengus Ward. Birmingham: University of Birmingham Press. 124-48.

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––– (2000b). ‘La transmisión textual de la “Estoria de España” y de las principales “Crónicas” de ellas derivadas.’ In Alfonso X el Sabio y las Crónicas de España. Valladolid: Fundación Santander Central Hispano / Centro para la Edición de los Clásicos Españoles. 219-60. ––– (2000c). ‘Variación en el modelo en el modelo historiográfico alfonsí en el siglo XIII. Las versiones de la Estoria de España.’ In La historia alfonsí: el modelo y sus destinos (siglos XIII-XV). Ed. Georges Martin. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez. 41-74. Gómez Redondo, Fernando (1989a). ‘Historiografía medieval: constantes evolutivas de un género.’ Anuario de Estudios Medievales 19: 3-15. ––– (1989b). ‘Terminología genérica en la Estoria de España alfonsí.’ Revista de Literatura Medieval I: 53-75. Guenée, Bernard (1980). Histoire et culture historique dans l’Occident médiéval. Paris: Aubier-Montaigne. ––– (1981). Politique et Histoire au Moyen Âge. Recueil d’articles sur l’histoire politique et l’historiographie médiévale (1956-1981). Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Le Goff, Jacques (1994). ‘Pourquoi le XIIIe siècle a-t-il été plus particulièrement un siècle d’encyclopédisme?’ In Picone (1994). 23-40. Le Goff, Jacques (1998). ‘Introduction.’ In Berlioz / de Beaulieu (1998). 11-17. Martin, Georges (2000). ‘El modelo historiográfico alfonsí y sus antecedentes.’ In La historia alfonsí: el modelo y sus destinos (siglos XIII-XV). Ed. Georges Martin. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez. 9-40. Pattison, David G. (1983). From Legend to Chronicle. The Treatment of Epic Material in Alphonsine Historiography. Oxford: The Society for the Study of Mediaeval Languages and Literature. ––– (2003). ‘Los equipos alfonsíes y post-alfonsíes frente a Jiménez de Rada: problemas y soluciones.’ Cahiers de linguistique et de civilisation hispaniques médiévales 26: 259-66. Pérez de Guzmán, Juan (1905). ‘La biblioteca de consulta de Alfonso X.’ La Ilustración Española y Americana 9: 131-34. Picone, Michelangelo, ed. (1994). L’Enciclopedismo Medievale. Ravenna: Longo editore. Rubio García, L. (1985). ‘En torno a la biblioteca de Alfonso X el Sabio.’ In La Lengua y la Literatura en Tiempo de Alfonso X. Ed. Fernando Carmona y Francisco J. Flores. Murcia: Universidad de Murcia. 531-51. Schmitt, Jean-Claude (1998). ‘Conclusion. Éditer, Indexer, Interpréter les exempla.’ In Berlioz / de Beaulieu (1998). 403-11.

L’ESTHETIQUE DES CHRONIQUEURS DE LA IVE CROISADE ET L’EPISTEME GOTHICO-SCOLASTIQUE

Cristian Bratu

Abstract In his book Gothic Architecture and Scholasticism, Erwin Panofsky convincingly argued that medieval buildings and philosophical treatises emerged from a common episteme (or ‘mental habit’, to use his own words). My essay contends that Panofsky’s episteme has literary and historiographical ramifications as well. Although medieval historians such as Robert de Clari, Geoffroy de Villehardouin and Henri de Valenciennes may have had varying degrees of familiarity with contemporary architecture and philosophy, their chronicles belong nonetheless to the gothic-scholastic paradigm. Just like cathedrals and intellectual summae, thirteenth-century historiography is defined by the principles of linearity, repetition, progressive divisibility and synthesis.

Prolégomènes Dans son célèbre essai intitulé ‘Architecture gothique et pensée scolastique’ (1951), Erwin Panofsky présentait d’une manière fort convaincante les liens étroits qui unissent l’architecture gothique et la pensée scolastique (Panofsky 1968). Malgré l’enthousiasme qu’a provoqué l’apparition de cet ouvrage, les ramifications littéraires et historiographiques de l’épistémè gothico-scolastique ont été beaucoup moins étudiées. Les interférences entre architecture, philosophie et historiographie médiévales méritent donc, à notre avis, d’être reconsidérées. Rappelons-nous qu’au XIIe siècle, vers 1165, Benoît de SainteMaure écrivait, en faisant référence à son propre Roman de Troie : Mais Beneeiz de Sainte More L’a contrové e fait e dit E o sa main les moz escrit,

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Mais si les historiens de cette époque utilisent parfois un vocabulaire architectural (tailliez, curez, asis, posez, mesure), quelle langue parlent les architectes eux-mêmes?1 Presque un siècle plus tard, vers 1240, l’architecte Villard de Honnecourt écrira dans son fameux Album qu’il a conçu le plan d’une cathédrale après d’intenses discussions avec son collègue Pierre de Corbie. L’expression utilisée par Villard de Honnecourt dans ce contexte – inter se disputando –, suggère que les désormais célèbres disputationes scolastiques avaient déjà dépassé les limites du domaine académique parisien pour passer dans l’architecture. À mi-distance entre l’époque de Sainte-Maure d’un côté, et de Honnecourt et de Corbie de l’autre, nous retrouvons – au début du XIIIe siècle – Geoffroy de Villehardouin, Robert de Clari et Henri de Valenciennes, les premiers chroniqueurs en prose en langue française et les principaux historiens de la quatrième croisade. Dans cet environnement médiéval défini par la synthèse encyclopédique des différents savoirs, il est donc légitime de nous interroger sur les liens qui se sont établis, consciemment ou inconsciemment, entre l’historiographie et les autres domaines de la culture du temps. N’oublions pas que Villehardouin, Clari et Valenciennes sont issus d’un monde marqué par le ‘scandale’ averroïste et la condamnation d’Abélard au concile de Sens en 1140, l’achèvement de l’abbaye de Vézelay en 1150, le début de la construction de Notre Dame de Paris en 1163 et la naissance de l’Université parisienne vers 1200. Certes, nos historiens auraient pu ignorer certains de ces événements, mais il est néanmoins impossible pour nous d’ignorer ne fût-ce que la co-présence spatiale et temporelle de ces trois aspects culturels: l’architecture gothique, la scolastique et les chroniques de croisade. Dans les pages suivantes, nous montrerons donc que les premières chroniques en prose en langue française participent elles aussi à l’épistémè gothico-scolastique. La géométrie du texte Dans le filigrane de l’écriture en prose de nos trois chroniques,2 le lecteur peut encore apercevoir de nombreuses traces orales. Au Moyen Âge, la notion d’oralité comporte deux aspects majeurs: tout d’abord

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les différents types de formules d’appel au public (‘oyez seigneurs’, ‘sachiez’, etc.) qui indiquent la visée performancielle du texte et, deuxièmement, la versification (en huitains, dizains, etc.) qui facilitait la mémorisation en vue de la performance.3 Ces traces orales encore visibles dessinent sur la surface des chroniques de la quatrième croisade une géométrie particulière qui leur confère un caractère répétitif et systématique. Gérard Jacquin constatait également dans son ouvrage Le style historique dans les récits français et latins de la quatrième croisade (1986) que Clari introduit systématiquement ses digressions narratives par les formules ‘Or vous lairons chi ester’ et ‘si com vos porroiz oir avant’: ‘Or vous lairons chi ester des pelerins et de l’estoire, si vous dirons de chu vaslet et de l’empereur Kyrsaac, sen pere, comment il vinrent avant’ (CCC XVIII, p. 68). Et pour les rappels et les conclusions, l’utilisation du fameux ‘si con vos ai conté’ de la chanson de geste, métamorphosé en ‘si con vos l’avez oi arriere’ sous la plume de Villehardouin, devient également systématique. En outre, les phrases des chroniques ont beau atteindre une longueur parfois considérable – ce qui devrait en principe les éloigner de la taille réduite des huitains ou des dizains –, car les propositions subordonnées coupent le souffle de la phrase, en décomposant la narration en petites unités qui ne sont pas sans rappeler des vers. Il est difficile de lire certains fragments des chroniques sans s’imaginer l’auteur en train de dicter le texte à un scribe avec un rythme saccadé, comme s’il s’agissait d’une chanson de geste: Or vous lairons chi ester des pelerins et de l’histoire, si vous dirons de chu vaslet et de l’empereur Kyrsaac, sen père, comment il vinrent avant. (CCC, p. 68; les césures nous appartiennent)

Ainsi, ce caractère rythmique et répétitif du style des chroniqueurs nous évoque presque un palimpseste en prose dont l’architexte versifié – inexistant en réalité – aurait été effacé. Aux traces orales qui ponctuent de façon régulière le récit des chroniques s’ajoute tout un réseau de connecteurs grammaticaux tels et, si, quant, tant, lors, qui renforcent à travers leur omniprésence cette

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impression de rigueur textuelle, comme dans le passage suivant de la chronique de Villehardouin: Lors prist li marquis congié et s’en ala vers Salenique a toutes ses genz et a toute sa fame. Et chevaucha par ses jornees : einsint conme il vint de chastel en chastel, si li fu rendue la terre de [par] l’empereeur, et la seignorie toute, et vint à Salonique. Et cil qui la gardoient [le rendirent] de par l’empereeur. (CCVil, § 300, p. 200; c’est nous qui soulignons)

Et pourtant, on peut constater que si les traces orales subsistent à l’époque de l’émergence de la prose française, elles sont inscrites dans un cadre narratif différent. À une analyse plus attentive du récit, il est facile de remarquer que nos chroniques inscrivent la narration dès le début dans un cadre chronologique et historique précis, ce qui n’est pas le cas des chansons de geste. Si les chansons de geste se plaçaient sous le signe de l’illo tempore, l’incipit des chroniques comporte, autant chez Villehardouin que chez Clari, trois éléments fixes: – l’indication de la date et la mention des souverains régnants;4 – le fait initial, qui est la prédication de la croisade;5 – la liste des croisés.6 Or, à partir du moment où le récit des chroniques est placé ab initio dans une perspective chronologique, la répétition, tout en demeurant une trace orale encore visible, devient aussi un moyen de souligner le désir de précision séquentielle et chronologique de l’historien. En outre, les indications chronologiques de l’incipit ne restent pas un phénomène isolé, mais elles trouvent des échos tout au long du texte: Il avint à une Pentecouste, che dist Henris, ke li empereres ert à sejour en Constantinoble …. (CCVal, § 504, p. 306) Après, quant tout chou fu fait, si fu li Noeux passés, si fu pres de l’entrée du Quaresme …. (CCC, § LXIX, p. 54)

Lorsque les dates du calendrier liturgique font défaut, les quant, les lors et les autres connecteurs grammaticaux font (ou donnent l’impression de faire) la liaison rythmique entre les indications proprement chronologiques. Il semblerait donc que ces répétitions deviennent insensiblement des instruments de mesure narrative du temps chronologique. Les récits des chroniques se transforment ainsi d’un discours ‘dérimé’ dans un texte où les répétitions et les enchaînements stéréotypés des phrases se présentent comme une ponctuation du texte, à une

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époque où l’orthographe française n’en est qu’à ses débuts.7 Ces répétitions dessinent également une géométrie ordonnatrice de la prose; une géométrie sans laquelle la prose, dans une mentalité médiévale habituée à la versification, aurait pu être perçue comme un discours dépourvu d’ordre. Nous allons donc appeler ce type de prose, défini par la recherche de l’ordre et de la cohérence du récit, une prose géométrique. Mais ce désir de rigueur quasiment géométrique se retrouve, sous une forme ou l’autre, dans la plupart des textes de l’époque. Nous citerons ici Erwin Panofsky qui remarquait le même phénomène dans toute la culture écrite de la période comprise entre 1130 et 1270: Whether we read a treatise on medicine, a handbook of classical mythology such as Ridewall’s Fulgentius Metaforalis, a political propaganda sheet, the eulogy of a ruler, or a biography of Ovid, we always find the same obsession with systematic division and subdivision, methodical demonstration, terminology, paralellismus membrorum, and rhyme. (1968: 36)

La géométrie de l’architecture La redécouverte – à la fin du XIe siècle et au début du XIIe siècle – des écrits de Vitruve, qui mettent un accent particulier sur les idées de mesure, d’ordinatio et dispositio, fait comprendre aux architectes de l’époque l’importance capitale de la maîtrise de la géométrie et de la physique.8 Les architectes partageront désormais avec les chroniqueurs cette préoccupation pour la géométrie et la rigueur. Mais tout en reprenant certains éléments de la pensée de Vitruve, l’architecture médiévale les a développés dans un style personnel, que nous connaissons sous le nom d’architecture gothique. Le gothique se définit d’abord par le passage de la ligne courbe à la ligne droite, et même là où l’architecture romane avait utilisé la ligne droite, le gothique la rallonge et la multiplie, en faisant des structures rectilignes l’un de ses éléments de base. Ce passage de la ligne courbe romane à la ligne droite rallongée correspond en littérature au passage de l’écriture épique versifiée à l’écriture en prose des chroniques. Deuxièmement, l’architecture gothique se définit par la répétitivité structurale. En analysant le plan d’une cathédrale gothique, on remarquera qu’il est défini par la répétition de certaines structures de base situées à des intervalles équidistantes. Ainsi, les colonnes des cathédrales sont divisées en général en deux ou quatre séries de

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colonnes parallèles qui font écho, à l’intérieur du bâtiment, aux séries doubles ou triples de piliers des arcs-boutants. La littérature des chroniques présente la même caractéristique au niveau des paragraphes et de la phrase, où un même mot, fût-il connecteur ou pas, peut se répéter parfois ad infinitum. Un lecteur attentif des chroniques aurait du mal à oublier certains passages, comme le chapitre XCV de la chronique de Clari, où presque chaque phrase indépendante commence par le mot quant: Quant il furent si acordé ensanle et leur consaus dut departir, si carkierent le parole a dire au vesque de Sessons. Quant il furent departi, si s’asanlerent tout chil de l’ost pour oïr et pour escouter qui on nommeroit a empereeur. Quant il furent assanlé, si furent tout coi …. (CCC, § XCV, p. 186; c’est nous qui soulignons)

Le mot quant est précisément l’un des piliers de la linéarité chronologique du récit, et ce n’est donc pas par hasard qu’il apparaît aussi fréquemment dans les chroniques. Troisièmement, comme le souligne Panofsky, la subdivision progressive est l’un des éléments définitoires de l’architecture de l’époque: supports were divided and subdivided into main piers, major shafts, minor shafts, and still minor shafts; the tracery of windows, triforia, and blind arcades into primary, secondary, and tertiary mullions and profiles; ribs and arches into a series of moldings. (1968: 48)

La structure du macrocosme de la cathédrale se répète donc dans le microcosme des éléments qui composent la cathédrale. À Saint-Denis et à Amiens, par exemple, les colonnes principales de la cathédrale se subdivisent au niveau supérieur de la nef en colonnes secondaires qui soutiennent les fenêtres ou l’étage supérieur. Très souvent, les fenêtres se subdivisent elles aussi en fenêtres secondaires – structurellement identiques à la fenêtre principale –, créant de la sorte un effet de mise en abyme d’une même structure architecturale. Dans les textes des chroniques, les propositions qui commencent par les mêmes mots que la phrase dont elles font partie relèvent du même aspect de l’esthétique gothique, qui est la subdivision progressive d’une seule unité d’expression. Et quatrièmement, l’architecture gothique se présente, tout comme le style des chroniques, comme une texture homogène, cette

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homogénéité étant essentiellement le résultat de la répétition et de la subdivision progressive. Certes, les chroniques ne sont pas des cathédrales et les cathédrales ne sont non plus des chroniques, mais il faut néanmoins souligner les similitudes structurelles qui existent entre l’architecture gothique et l’écriture des chroniques. Nous aurons d’ailleurs l’occasion de remarquer dans quelques instants que ces similitudes structurelles ne s’arrêtent pas là. La logique du texte Comme nous l’avons souligné précédemment, ce qui interpelle le lecteur dans les chroniques est cette sensation de rigueur extrême du style. Cette rigueur est d’abord chronologique, mais elle se veut en même temps extrêmement minutieuse et logique, à travers l’enchaînement stéréotypé des propositions et des phrases. Lorsque l’on lit certains passages des chroniques, les événements semblent découler l’un de l’autre, à travers une relation de cause à effet : … si commenchierent a dire l’uns a l’autre: ‘Chist est vaillans et hardis, quant si grand hardement entreprist a faire.’ Tant que li Griu disent entr’aus: ‘Faisons le bien! faisons de chest vaslet empereur!’ Tant qu’il s’i acorderent tout entr’aus. (CCC, § XXII, pp. 78-80; c’est nous qui soulignons)

L’enchaînement logico-narratif peut également être créé par ce que Gérard Jacquin appelle un enchaînement par reprise, qui consiste à répéter dans une phrase un ou plusieurs mots qui avaient apparu dans la phrase précédente: Par le consel des haus hommes fu chele tours assise, et tant que ele fu prise par forche, et de kief en kief de le caaine avoit galies de Grijois qui aidoient le caaine a deffendre. Et quant le tours fu prise et le caaine fu route, si entrerent li waissel dedens le port …. (CCC, § XLIV, p. 112; c’est nous qui soulignons)

Ainsi, à l’aide des enchaînements par juxtaposition et par reprise, la phrase linéaire des chroniques devient un long enchaînement logique rectiligne. Et tout comme la ligne droite de l’architecture gothique, l’enchaînement logique rectiligne est aussi marqué par la répétition et la subdivision progressive.

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Plus encore, les événements sont annoncés, dans de nombreux chapitres et paragraphes des trois chroniques, par des formules du type ‘comme vos porroiz oïr avant’. L’historien continue le récit en multipliant les si qui suggèrent une relation de cause à effet, et en concluant la narration d’un épisode par des formules finales telles ‘ensi’ ou ‘com vos avez oï’, ce qui transforme ces unités narratives quasiment dans des démonstrations logiques. Voici, comme exemple, un passage où Clari présente la vengeance de Dieu contre la rapacité et les injustices des hauts barons croisés : Si fu perdus li empereres, que on ne sut onques que il devient, et li cuens Loeis et molt d’autres haus hommes …; et qui escaper peut, si s’en vint fuiant en Coustantinoble, si que li dux de Venice s’en vint fuiant et assés gens avec lui, et laissierent leurs tentes et leur harnas, tout si comme il seoient a chele chité, que onques n’oserent vertir a chele part, si i fu la desconfiture grans. Ensi faitement se venja Damedieus d’aus pour leur orguel et pour la male foi qu’il avoient portee a le povre gen de l’ost, et les oribles pekiés qu’il avoient fais en la chité, après chou qu’il l’eurent prise. (CCC, § CXII, p. 208; c’est nous qui soulignons)

De toute évidence, comme le prouve la citation précédente, les chroniques ne sont pas de véritables démonstrations logiques, mais il faut néanmoins remarquer cette tendance à l’argumentation qui se veut, sur le plan formel du moins (même si ce n’est pas toujours sur le plan du contenu), aussi convaincante que possible. Et pourtant, le moment est venu de parler également des incohérences de contenu des chroniques. Car si le récit chrono-logique est le mot d’ordre des chroniques au niveau des paragraphes, la situation est bien plus complexe au niveau de la macrostructure narrative. Surtout chez Villehardouin, les lecteurs pourront remarquer un clivage profond entre la première partie de la chronique, placée sous le signe de l’unité de l’armée croisée et de la narration, et la deuxième partie, marquée par les discordes au sein de l’armée et par la multiplicité des plans narratifs. Ce problème paraît moins aigu pour Clari qui adopte, dès le début, la perspective des menuz genz, en se désolidarisant partiellement des grands barons, et encore moins chez Valenciennes qui ne relate que la deuxième partie de la croisade, mais il est extrêmement important pour Villehardouin, qui fut l’un des principaux commandants de cette quatrième croisade. Nous croyons, de concert avec Gérard Jacquin, qu’ ‘[a]près ses efforts de diplomate et de militaire, l’écriture constitue pour Villehardouin la dernière arme qui

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lui permît de retrouver une certaine cohérence’ des événements, mais à la fin il semblerait que même l’écriture s’avère incapable de refaire cette cohérence (Jacquin 1986: 6). Après l’arrivée des croisés à Constantinople et le couronnement de Baudouin de Flandres comme empereur, le partage du butin et des conquêtes divise les croisés, et la narration risque également de s’effriter. Robert de Clari peut dès lors faire des digressions sur les merveilles de Constantinople non seulement parce que ces descriptions pouvaient intéresser les lecteurs, mais aussi parce que cette dispersion de l’action narrative lui permet, d’un point de vue narratologique, d’introduire des anecdotes dans son récit. Chez Villehardouin, on remarquera qu’après le paragraphe §303, au début duquel il affirme que ‘[l]ors comença l’on les terres à départir’, les expressions qui marquent la transition d’un épisode à l’autre se multiplient considérablement, même à l’intérieur d’un seul chapitre: En cel termine si avint que l’emperieres Morchufles qui avoit les eulz trez …, s’en foï outre le Braz coiement a pou de gent. (CCVil, § 306, p. 204; c’est nous qui soulignons) En icel termine autresi avint que li marchis Bonifaces de Monferrat … prist l’empereeur Alexis …, et l’empereriz sa feme avoit avec. (CCVil, § 309, p. 206; c’est nous qui soulignons)

Certes, on peut penser que la fin abrupte du récit de Villehardouin est motivée par la mort de Boniface de Montferrat, un ami très proche de Villehardouin, mais elle a aussi des raisons narratologiques, puisque le maréchal de Champagne ne semble plus retrouver un dénominateur commun pour toutes ces actions parallèles et incohérentes. Bien évidemment, cette impossibilité de la synthèse finale du récit demeure toujours implicite, puisque Villehardouin ne fera jamais référence d’une manière claire à cette contradiction flagrante (qui n’est d’ailleurs pas la seule) dans sa chronique. Et pourtant, ce désir de logique – malgré les vicissitudes de l’Histoire – que l’on rencontre dans toutes les chroniques de la quatrième croisade, relève d’une tendance plus générale de la culture gothique vers l’analyse et, là où elle reste faisable, la synthèse des objets du savoir. La logique de la scolastique La scolastique représente dans l’histoire médiévale une tentative permanente – une queste, comme on dirait en littérature – de réconcilier

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la foi et la raison. Quelques décennies après la rédaction des chroniques de la quatrième croisade, Thomas d’Aquin affirmera dans sa Summa Theologica (qui reflète néanmoins des préoccupations philosophiques qui avaient hanté la scolastique depuis le XIIe siècle) que la raison se doit de s’exprimer d’une manière aussi claire et édifiante que possible si elle veut éclaircir les articles de la foi: ‘La doctrine sacrée fait usage de la raison non pas pour prouver le contenu de la foi, mais pour élucider (manifestare) la foi.’9 Et pourtant, même si la raison ne peut pas pénétrer le noyau dur de la foi, elle doit du moins, selon l’Aquinat, essayer d’éclaircir les articles de la foi afin de s’éclaircir (manifestare) soi-même. Loin d’être donc affaiblie par ce conflit avec la foi, la raison n’en sortira que plus forte, douée des instruments analytiques qui lui faisaient défaut auparavant. Ce disant, Thomas d’Aquin affirme, consciemment ou inconsciemment, le principe qui a sous-tendu toute l’histoire de la scolastique: la nécessité, pour la raison, de s’expliquer en permanence et de se créer des outils de plus en plus complexes qui puissent l’aider à appréhender le monde. Selon Erwin Panofsky, this could be done only by a scheme of literary presentation that would elucidate the very processes of reasoning to the reader’s imagination just as reasoning was supposed to elucidate the very nature of faith to his intellect. Hence the much derided schematism of formalism of Scholastic writing which reached its climax in the classic Summa with its three requirements of (1) totality (sufficient enumeration), (2) arrangement according to a system of homologous parts and parts of parts (sufficient articulation), and (3) distinctness and deductive cogency (sufficient interrelation) – all this enhanced by the literary equivalent of Thomas Aquinas’s similitudines: suggestive terminology, parallelismus membrorum and rhyme. (Panofsky 1968: 31; c’est nous qui soulignons)

Les phrases longues des chroniques, avec leurs enchaînements rectilignes, ainsi que les indications des dates et les énumérations des participants à la croisade, correspondent donc au principe scolastique de l’énumération suffisante, et en architecture à la ligne droite. Ensuite, les propositions qui composent les longues phrases sont en quelque sorte l’équivalent littéraire des syllogismes philosophiques. Le découpage des propositions dans les chroniques correspond ainsi au principe d’articulation suffisante de la philosophie de l’époque. Sur ce point, Panofsky nous apporte encore une précision intéressante sur la structure des ouvrages scolastiques, qui n’est pas sans rapport avec

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l’organisation d’ensemble des chroniques et avec l’architecture gothique: We take it for granted that major works of scholarship, especially systems of philosophy and doctoral theses, are organized according to a scheme of division and subdivision, condensable into a table of contents or synopsis, where all parts denoted by numbers or letters of the same class are on the same logical level; so that the same relation of subordination obtains between, say, sub-section (a), section (1), chapter (I) and book (A) as does between, say, sub-section (b), section (5), chapter (IV) and book (C). However, this kind of systematic articulation was quite unknown until the advent of Scholasticism. (Panofsky 1968: 32)

Bien qu’il n’y ait pas de division en chapitres, livres, sections et soussections dans les chroniques, les différents types d’enchaînements syntaxiques (rectilignes ou par reprise) que nous avons pu constater précédemment constituent, à leur manière, une réponse littéraire à l’exigence de cohérence suffisante qu’avait formulée la scolastique. On pourrait donc conclure que les chroniques partagent mutatis mutandis avec les ouvrages d’Abélard, Albert le Grand, Alexandre de Hale, Saint Bonaventure et Saint Thomas d’Aquin des modus operandi assez semblables, même si les modus essendi de la littérature et de la philosophie demeurent néanmoins très différents. Même l’échec de la synthèse finale des chroniques a quelque chose de scolastique en soi. Les lecteurs se rappellent sans doute les disputationes de quolibet, les duels philosophiques publiques qui commençaient par l’exposition d’un point de vue personnel soutenu par les opinions des auctoritates, ce qui représentait le videtur quod ou la thèse. À la thèse initiale on répliquait par le sed contra ou l’antithèse. Les divergences philosophiques devaient être dépassées dans le respondeo dicendum, c’est-à-dire la synthèse. Pour reprendre le titre d’un fameux ouvrage d’Abélard, Sic et Non, on peut dire que la première partie des chroniques représente le sic, la thèse de l’unité inébranlable de l’armée croisée et aussi de la narration de cette partie de l’expeditio. Mais la défection d’une partie du corps de l’armée introduit insensiblement le non, qui se manifestera pleinement dans la deuxième partie du récit. Contrairement à la scolastique pourtant, Villehardouin et Clari ne produiront pas une vraie synthèse de l’unité et de la multiplicité, mais ils se contenteront de mettre un terme au récit, ce qui équivaut en quelque sorte à un respondeo non dicendum.

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Synthèse finale Nos recherches nous ont donc amené à constater qu’il y a, dans différents domaines de la culture de l’époque comprise approximativement entre 1130 et 1270, une logique culturelle commune ou, pour reprendre l’expression de Michel Foucault que nous avions utilisée au début de notre essai, une épistémè. Cette épistémè gothico-scolastique, dont Panofsky avait déjà pressenti les contours sans pour autant les développer dans un système, se définit par les traits suivants: 1) un principe de linéarité (qui se manifeste par la narration chronologique à travers des phrases longues et enchaînées dans les chroniques, la ligne droite en architecture et l’énumération suffisante en philosophie); 2) un principe de répétitivité (les formules et les connecteurs grammaticaux dans les chroniques, les lignes droites et les motifs en architecture, les points principaux de l’argumentation en philosophie); 3) un principe de subdivision interne progressive (les paragraphes, les phrases et les propositions en littérature, les lignes droites et les motifs en architecture, les arguments et les ouvrages scolastiques en philosophie); 4) un principe de synthèse des contraires (échoué dans les chroniques pour la première et la deuxième partie des récits, mais réussi en architecture – l’extérieur et l’intérieur des cathédrales, le haut et le bas, etc. – et également en philosophie). Certes, notre liste est loin d’être exhaustive, et elle peut toujours être complétée par des recherches ultérieures. En outre, cette recherche pourrait s’étendre à des domaines plus variés, comme la musique, la médecine, la peinture, la sculpture, etc. Nous n’avons donc pas fait une énumération suffisante des domaines de cette épistémè, mais nous nous sommes contentés de faire l’inventaire des articulations suffisantes et des cohérences suffisantes des domaines qui participent à l’épistémè gothico-scolastique.

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Notes 1

Vers la fin du roman on trouvera aussi le mot ‘mesure’: ‘Ci ferons fin, bien est mesure :/Auques tient nostre livre e dure’ (vv. 30301-2 ; c’est nous qui soulignons). Les éditions utilisées ici sont: Robert de Clari. La Conquête de Constantinople. Ed. Jean Dufournet. Paris: Honoré Champion, 2004. La référence ‘CCC’, suivi du numéro du paragraphe et/ou de la page citée. Benoît de Sainte-Maure. Roman de Troie. Eds. Emmanuèle Baumgartner et Françoise Vielliard. Collection Lettres Gothiques. Paris: Librairie générale française, 1998. Henri de Valenciennes. L’histoire de l’Empereur Henri. Dans Geoffroi de VilleHardouin, Conquête de la Constantinople, avec la constinuation de Henri de Valenciennes. Ed. Natalis de Wailly. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1882. La référence ‘CCVal’, suivi du numéro du paragraphe et/ou de la page citée. Geoffroy de Villehardouin. La Conquête de Constantinople. Ed. Jean Dufournet. Paris: GF Flammarion, 2004. La référence ‘CCVil’, suivi du numéro du paragraphe et/ou de la page citée. 3 Sur la question de l’oralité, on pourra consulter avec profit l’ouvrage de Paul Zumthor (1987), ainsi que Vitz (1999). 4 ‘Il avint, en ichel temps que li papes Innocens estoit apostoiles de Roume, et Phelippes rois de Franche, uns autres Phelippes ert qui estoit empereres d’Alemaingne, et le incarnations estoit de m. et .cc. et .iij. ou .iiij. …’ (CCC, § I, p. 44); ‘sachiez que mil anz et cent et quantre vinz et .XVII. anz aprés l’incarnacion Jhesucrist, au tans Innocent apostele de Ronme, et Phelippe, roy de France, et Richart roy d’Engleterre …’ (CCVil, § 1, p.40). 5 … uns prestres estoit, maistres Foukes avoit a non, qui estoit de Nuelli, une paroisse qui est en l’evesquié de Paris. Ichis prestres estoit molt preudons et molt boins clers, et aloit preeschant par les teres des crois, et molt de gent le sivoient, pour chou qu’il estoit si preudons que Damediex faisoit molt grans miracles pour lui ; et molt conquist chis prestres d’avoir a porter en le sainte tere d’outre mer’ (CCC, § I, p. 44); ‘… ot .I. saint home qui ot non Forques de Nuelli. Ce Nuelli siet entre Laigni sur Marne et Pari. Et il iert prestres et tenoit la paroisse de la vile. Et cil Fourques dont je vous di comença a parler de Dieu par France et par les autres pais d’entour ; et sachiez que Nostre Sires fist maintes miracles pour lui’ (CCVil, § 1, p. 40). 6 ‘Adont si fu croisiés li cuens Thiebaus de Champaingne et Bauduins, li cuens de Flandres, et Henris ses freres …’ (CCC, § I, p. 44); ‘En la terre le conte de Champaigne se croisierent l’evesques de Troies, le conte Gautier de Briene, Josfroi de Gienvile qui estoit seneschal de la terre, Robert son frere, Gautier de Gaignonrin, Gautier de Montbeliart, Huitace de Conflans …’ (CCVil, § 5, p. 42). 7 Cf. Saenger (1997). Voir aussi Marchello-Nizia (1978), et Martin (1977). 8 ‘At Monte Cassino in Italy one of the monks had made a compendium of Vitruvius in 1100, and it cannot be a coincidence that “ordinatio” and “dispositio”, the two primary components of architecture described by the Roman writer, were used throughout the Middle Ages to describe the work done by the chief building masters who had charge of works of architecture. … As examples of technical devices contained in Vitruvius, and put into practice by the Gothic builders, may be instanced: 2

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the use of bond-timbers, and of bond-stones (parpeyns in medieval parlance) running from face to face of a wall; the use of alder-wood or oak for piles; the relationship of the human body and of numbers to the proportions of buildings; acoustic vases (in Classic theatres, and Gothic choirs); the structural idea of piers and arches, requiring end abutment; methods of levelling’ (Harvey 1950: 26); il faut également remarquer que ordinatio et dispositio sont des concepts qui appartiennent aussi à la rhétorique et au vocabulaire scolastique. 9 Cf. Panofsky 1968: 29; Thomas d’Aquin, Summa theologica, qu. I, art. 8, ad. 2; notre traduction.

Bibliographie Sources Robert de Clari. La Conquête de Constantinople. Ed. Jean Dufournet. Paris: Honoré Champion, 2004. Benoît de Sainte-Maure. Roman de Troie. Eds. Emmanuèle Baumgartner et Françoise Vielliard. Collection Lettres Gothiques. Paris: Librairie générale française, 1998. Henri de Valenciennes. L’histoire de l’Empereur Henri. Dans Geoffroi de VilleHardouin, Conquête de la Constantinople, avec la continuation de Henri de Valenciennes. Ed. Natalis de Wailly. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1882. Geoffroy de Villehardouin. La Conquête de Constantinople. Ed. Jean Dufournet. Paris: GF Flammarion, 2004. Études Archambault, Paul (1974). Seven French Chroniclers. Witnesses to History. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press. Beer, Jeanette M. A. (1992). Early Prose in France: Contexts of Bilingualism and Authority. Medieval Institute Publications. Kalamazoo: Western Michigan University. —— (1968). Villehardouin. Epic historian. Genève: Droz. Chieffo Raguin, Virginia, Kathryn Brush, Peter Draper, éds. (1995). Artistic Integration in Gothic Buildings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Dembowski, P. (1963). La Chronique de Robert de Clari. Etude de la langue et du style. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Dufournet, Jean (1973). Villehardouin et Clari. Les écrivains de la IVe croisade. 2 vols. Paris: SEDES. Fleischmann, Suzanne (1983). ‘On the Representation of History and Fiction in the Middle Ages.’ History and Theory 22: 278-310. —— (1990). ‘Philology, Linguistics, and the Discourse of the Medieval Text.’ Speculum 65: 19-37. Gilson, Etienne (1952). La Philosophie au Moyen Age. Paris: Payot. Gimpel, Jean (1975). La révolution industrielle du Moyen Âge. Paris: Seuil. ––– (1966). Les Bâtisseurs de cathédrales. Paris: Seuil. Godzich, Wlad, Jeffrey Kittay (1987). The Emergence of Prose: An Essay in Prosaics. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

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Guenée, Bernard (1992). Histoire et culture historique dans l’Occident médiéval. Paris: Aubier Montaigne. Harvey, John (1950). The Gothic World, 1100-1600. A Survey of Architecture and Art. London: Batsford. Jacquin, Gérard (1986). Le style historique dans les récits français de la quatrième croisade. Paris/Genève : Champion-Slatkine. —— (1993). ‘Robert de Clari, témoin et conteur.’ Et c’est la fin pour quoi sommes ensemble: hommage à Jean Dufournet: littérature, histoire et langue du Moyen Age. Jean Dufournet et Jean-Claude Aubailly, éds. 2 vols. Paris: Champion. I, 747-57. Kooper, Erik, éd. (1999). The Medieval Chronicle. Costerus New Series 120. Amsterdam: Roropi. Lacroix, Benoît (1971). L’historien au Moyen Age. Montréal: Institut d’Etudes Médiévales / Paris: Librairie J. Vrin. Longnon, Jean (1939). Recherches sur la vie de Geoffroy de Villehardouin. Paris: Champion. McInerny, Ralph (1981). Rhyme and Reason. St. Thomas and Modes of Discourse. Milwaukee: Marquette University Press. Marchello-Nizia, Christiane (1978). ‘Ponctuation et “unités de lecture” dans les manuscrits médiévaux ou: je ponctue, tu lis, il théorise.’ Langue française 40: 32-44. Marnette, Sophie (1998). Narrateur et points de vue dans la littérature française médiévale: une approche linguistique. Bern/New York: P. Lang. —— (1999). ‘Narrateur et point de vue dans les chroniques médiévales: une approche linguistique.’ Dans Kooper (1999). 174-90. Martin, Henri-Jean (1977). ‘Pour une histoire de la lecture.’ Revue Française d’Histoire du Livre 16: 583-609. Noble, Peter (1999). ‘Villehardouin, Robert de Clari and Henri de Valenciennes: Their Different Approaches to the Fourth Crusade.’ Dans Kooper (1999). 20211. Panofsky, Erwin (1968). Gothic Architecture and Scholasticism. New York: Meridian. Poirion, Daniel (1978). ‘Les paragraphes et le pré-texte de Villehardouin.’ Langue Française 40: 45-59. –––, éd. (1984). La Chronique et l’histoire au Moyen Age. Colloque des 24-25 mai 1982. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Saenger, Paul Henry (1997). Space Between Words: The Origins of Silent Reading. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Schon, Peter M. (1960). Studien zum Stil der frühen französischen Prosa: Robert de Clari, Geoffroy de Villehardouin, Henri de Valenciennes. Frankfurt am Main: V. Klostermann. Spiegel, Gabrielle M. (1993). Romancing the Past: the Rise of Vernacular Prose Historiography in Thirteenth-Century France. Berkeley: University of California Press. ––– (1997). The Past as Text: the Theory and Practice of Medieval Historiography. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

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Vitz, Evelyn Birge (1999). Orality and Performance in Early French Romance. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer. Worringer, Wilhelm (1927). Form in Gothic. London: Putnam. Zumthor, Paul (1984). La poésie et la voix dans la civilisation médiévale. Paris: PUF. ––– (1987). La Lettre et la voix de la « littérature » médiévale. Paris: Seuil.

ON THE FUNCTION OF THE DISPUTATIONS IN THE KAISERCHRONIK

Graeme Dunphy

Abstract The Kaiserchronik is generically puzzling. In essence it is a spiritual world chronicle, but it lacks the usual historiographical systematisations of its theological content. However it does have three disputations, an unusual feature in a chronicle which has to date not been adequately explained. This essay argues, on the basis of comparisons with works in other literary forms, that these passages function as key expressions of the controlling idea of the entire work, namely the progress of the Gospel from the heathen to the Christian Empire, and that they are strategically located within the chronicle at the turning points in the success of Christian mission.

The Middle High German Kaiserchronik is a twelfth-century verse chronicle of emperors, apparently written in Regensburg, possibly by a monk but for a secular readership, presumably in the 1140s or 50s. Generically it is a peculiar work. It runs from the beginning of the Roman Empire to the poet’s own time, and is in effect structured as a series of imperial biographies. It is often described as a world chronicle, partly because it can so easily be seen as the beginning of a tradition which flowered in the great German verse world chronicles of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. However, a world chronicle starts with the creation of the world, and hence the absence of Old Testament material has led scholars to speak of this as not being the ‘full form of the genre’. That this lack was felt in the Middle Ages can be seen from the fact that in the Vorau manuscript it is combined with the Vorau Books of Moses and other works in such a way that together they present the whole history of the world from the creation to the last judgment,1 while in a slightly different way the adaptation in the thirteenth-century Prosa-Kaiserchronik attempts a similar compensation. The genre question is therefore problematic (see Dunphy 2004).

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An unusual feature of the Kaiserchronik is the insertion of three disputations in which the church fathers do intellectual battle with various kinds of error.2 Two of these come almost together in the Faustinianus legend: the disputation with Simon Magus, the magician from the Book of Acts whom the apostle Peter defeats with the help of divine revelation (vv 2155-590), and the disputation with Faustinianus himself, the Greek philosopher with whom Peter’s disciples debate astrology (vv 3029-930). Somewhat later in the chronicle, in the Constantine story, a third disputation is enacted, this time against the Jews, whom Silvester ultimately confounds by the miraculous resurrection of an ox (vv 8200-10380). These are formal debates according to the rules of rhetorical exchange, conducted before an assembled crowd so that a public within the text reacts on hearing the debate as the author hopes the public outwith the text will react on reading it or hearing it read. The debates against the necromancer and the Jews become very bitter, in places reminiscent of Jesus’ clashes with the Pharisees in John’s Gospel, but in the case of the wîlsælde (astrology) disputation against Faustinianus, the honest doubting scholar, both sides conduct themselves with great dignity. In order to give a flavour of the formalised rhetorical conventions, we might cite the passage, where Peter’s young disciple Niceta begins his part of the disputation: Then he turned to the old man and said, ‘Father, I hope you won’t think it presumptuous that a foolish youth should argue such great things with an old gentleman. I can be no match for you. I do it not out of mischief, but like a son addressing his father. If you defeat me with your words, I will gladly learn from you.’ Then the old man spoke: ‘Child, in whatever you excel, choose from the seven liberal arts the one in which you are strongest, I will be happy with it. But if you should get into difficulties, if you have any peers who wish to help you, they will find me prepared. I do not wish to oppose the truth, but rather to argue in all appropriate moderation; we should seek a consensus, so that our conclusions may be pleasing to both sides.’ Then Niceta said: ‘Father, let me tell you that I was raised an Epicurean, as was one of my brothers here. The third was raised in the tradition of Plato and Aristotle. Now you choose which of us please you. In whichever direction your wisdom leads you, you will find us ready, and the people who are listening will judge whether we answer you well. And we will not be disgraced if a man of such experience can persuade us.’ (3189-226)

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What stands out here is the meticulous politeness and mutual respect, the modesty topos and the adherence to well-understood conventions of debate. As the disputation progresses, we observe careful listening, compliments for the skilful argumentation of the opponent, and a great discipline in the order and structure of the exchange. The result is a very dramatic spectacle, and the victory of the Christian world-view is an extravagant affirmation of the Gospel. But what are these disputations doing in a chronicle? In itself, the disputation is familiar enough as set-piece in certain kinds of literature, or indeed as a communicative form in its own right. However their use in chronicles is very rare; there is nothing comparable anywhere else in the German chronicle tradition. While many chronicles reproduce important speeches verbatim and some enliven their narratives with various kinds of dialogue, disputations in the strict sense are harder to find. A passage in Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica may be seen as analogous, and William of Rubruck reproduces informal theological discussions with Saracen theologians but in Western historiography such passages are few and far between.3 In his seminal study of the Kaiserchronik, Friedrich Ohly mentions parallels in Byzantine chronicles, but the Byzantine experts of the Medieval Chronicle Society suspect a confusion with works in other genres.4 Disputations are found in Byzantine apologetics and polemics, or for example in the Acts of the Synods of the Eastern Church, which of course is a kind of historical writing, but not in chronicles as such. The chronicle of Theophanes does at one point recount in dialogue form a clash of words between the two factions in the so-called Nika revolt, but without the intellectual aspirations of the disputations we are interested in here (Chronicle of Theophanes, pp. 276-78). There are of course many chronicles in both East and West which make mention in passing that a disputation took place, but clearly it is not a normal part of the generic thinking behind a chronicle to present these as entire dialogues in direct speech. Kaiserchronik research to date, in so far as it has addressed this question at all, has concluded with a shrug of the shoulders that the chronicle is adapting material from other genres. We know the Latin sources for these disputations, and can observe that they were borrowed along with the surrounding narrative material; the sources are legends, and to a great extent the Kaiserchronik is made up, as

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Ohly put it, of Sage und Legende. Besides, it is suspected that sections of the Kaiserchronik, including the Faustinianus legend, existed as short units in German before they were assembled into the work we know today. It could be, then, that these disputations simply found their way into a chronicle by accident. However, I would like to suggest that this may have been more carefully planned than this borrowing mechanism suggests, and that these exchanges may serve a more specific function in the structure of the final work. To test this, I should like to examine briefly some examples of disputations in other forms of writing to observe their structural rôle. Obviously, the texts from which the Kaiserchronik borrowed this material provide a useful point of reference. The two disputations in the Faustinianus legend come directly from the fourth-century PseudoClementine Recognitiones, but adapted, as I have shown elsewhere, to meet the theological needs of twelfth-century Germany.5 This prose work – it has been described, perhaps anachronistically, as a novel – is conceived as the story of Faustinianus and his family, but the actual narrative is kept short and may be regarded merely as a framework into which the extensive dialogues are built. There can be no doubt that the author’s main purpose in writing was to communicate the theological content of the disputations. Here arguments for the Christian world view are laboriously constructed and systematically defended against carefully reasoned opposition. The Pseudo-Clementine work itself stands at the point where two older traditions flow together. On the one hand it clearly shows the influence of the intellectual, rhetorical tradition of classical Greece. A work like Plato’s Symposium has a somewhat similar structure, and the same honest quest for truth, but of course without any missionary zeal in its rhetorical meanderings. Plato has members of learned circles of Athenian society meet to discuss philosophy over dinner, and the bulk of the work is taken up with their monologues. Like the Recognitiones, the Symposium is a philosophical work contextualised in a fairly superficial narrative. On the other hand, the Recognitiones have a generic model in the Bible, namely the book of Job, which for Christian Europe is the archetype of all disputations between truth and error. This is particularly relevant here since there is evidence that the Pseudo-Clementine authors drew directly on Job for the structuring of their plot and also for the theology of suffering, and that the Kaiserchronik poet drew on it independently when he reworked the

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material.6 Indeed, I have argued elsewhere that the Faustinianus legend is less rational and more emotional in the Kaiserchronik than in the fourth-century works, and this is possibly to be explained at least in part by the different Jobs on which they drew – the Septuagint as opposed to the Hebraica.7 In the Christian tradition, the sequence of speeches in which Job and his adversaries wrestle with the problem of suffering is possibly the profoundest and certainly the most influential example of writing in this form. All of these pre-mediaeval works place the principle focus on the disputations themselves, which fill the bulk of the text. Job’s disputatio – if we count his final dialogue with God – fills 39½ of the 42 chapters of the biblical book, and the Symposium and the Recognitiones have comparable proportions. One might say that these works are structured as disputations with a narrative frame, and the centrality of the intellectual battle is beyond question. As we move into the Middle Ages, we find works which contain dialogues much in the same tradition, but with the weighting reversed: they are primarily narrative works adorned with disputations. Nevertheless, although the bulk of the text is now narrative, the disputations still appear to contain the key ideas which the author wishes to communicate. Most obviously we are thinking here of legends, the mediaeval biographies of saints which arguably evolved out of works such as the Recognitiones. A set-piece in many legends is a scene where the saint, having lived a life of spectacular holiness, is called upon to give account of himself before a tyrant’s throne, acquits himself well and goes to his martyr’s death. Catherine of Alexandria is good example. The legendaries tell how she chastises the Emperor Maximinus II for his cruelty to the Christians. Maximinus calls scholars to debate with her, but her superior intellect combined with the superiority of Christian truth lead to the conversion of the Emperor’s sages, who are promptly executed. Only the stubborn despot cannot be touched by Catherine’s testimony, and he condemns her to torture and death. In legends, disputations come at the climax, creating suspense as we wait for the violent ending, and demonstrating that the tyrant may have earthly power but is already defeated before he wields it. The theological content of the disputation puts the drama of martyrdom in the context of the specific Christian doctrines at stake. The disputation may be relatively short compared to those in Job, Plato or the Recognitiones, but it defines the

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central scene around which the entire work revolves. It is the lens through which the legend is to be understood, and for this reason it stands precisely at the most critical juncture in the narrative. It is possible that the model of the legend had some influence on Bede when around 731 he built a disputation into the account of the Synod of Whitby (664) in his Ecclesiastical History. At any rate, the pattern appears here for the first time in a historical work. Usually a sober narrative text, the Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum takes on the same dramatic tone as Job or the Catherine legend, as on this one occasion only it not only describes a disputation but recounts it complete in dialogue form. The central conflict running throughout Bede’s work is the dispute between Celtic and Roman Christianity which for him was epitomised by the divergent dates of Easter. At Whitby, a decisive turning point was reached. The leading theologians of each side gathered before the royal throne to thrash the matter out once and for all, and the King judged the Roman side had argued most convincingly. The schism was not yet healed, but Northumbria had declared itself for Rome. For England at least the matter was settled, and the independence of the Celtic Church was in decline. This theological victory is celebrated with a solemn disputation, which Bede uses as a mechanism to place key theological ideas at the most significant point in the narrative. As in the legends, this strategically placed disputatio helps the reader to locate both the issues and the episode within an implicit metanarrative. Turning back, now, to the Kaiserchronik, it seems legitimate to ask whether the disputations might have a comparable function in the narrative strategy of this work too. It certainly is undeniable that these passages contain important doctrinal statements which in this chronicle are otherwise oddly lacking. One of the problems which scholarship has had with the Kaiserchronik is the absence of the theological structuring principles we expect to find in a Christian world chronicle. The sex aetates mundi, which traditionally are used to align the structure of a world chronicle with the grand design of God in history, are completely absent, as are both Augustine’s two-cities idea, which was used so effectively by Otto of Freising, and the competing threeworlds pattern from Johannes Scotus Eriugena, which is the structural key to the Annolied. The pattern of four empires from Daniel’s dream, though mentioned, is not operable as a controlling motif.8 Biblical narrative, as we have seen, is not included, nor is any systematic

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account of the Heilsgeschichte, even though the birth of Jesus falls within the period the chronicle attempts to cover. Some world chronicles open with a lengthy theological prologue – the later German Christherre-Chronik is a very striking example with over a thousand lines of introductory discourse – or end with an eschatological epilogue, thus framing the whole historical account with the greater history of the almighty. The Kaiserchronik opens with a short proforma prologue (vv 1-42), and ends abruptly without reflection. And yet, this is in no sense a secularising chronicle as we find them from the thirteenth century onwards (Jans der Enikel etc.); its overall tone is pious. It is packed with theologically significant cameos, legends, conversions, moral stories and episodes from the history of the Church, and it is obviously the desire of the poet to communicate sacred truth. The biographies of the emperors are exempla, epitomising either right or wrong conduct on the road to Heaven or Hell, almost like a spiritual Fürstenspiegel. What is absent is not a kerygmatic intention but the systematic expression of this intention. All in all, this is generically a very peculiar chronicle. But it does have these three disputations in which the Christian world view is expounded at length and defended against all comers, the only passages in the chronicle in which complex ideas are worked out in detail. It is therefore perhaps not implausible to suggest that the poet who shaped the work into its final form may have intended these to serve precisely the purpose that the more familiar narrative control systems usually do. Their absence becomes explicable if the disputations take over their rôle. This thesis becomes particularly attractive when we note that – as with Bede’s Whitby disputation – the content of the Kaiserchronik’s oratorical dramas can be interpreted as the key concerns of the author in the context of the overall thrust of the work. As we have seen, the internal structure of the chronicle is simply a succession of imperial biographies, and most commentators have been content to leave it at that. More precisely, however, it is a succession of imperial biographies leading from the heathen ancient empire to the Holy Christian one. The narrative opens with a cry of revulsion at the abgot diu unrainen, the impure idols, which were worshipped in Rome before its conversion (vv 43-48 – the first words after the prologue), and the entire subsequent momentum of the chronicle is the triumph of the Gospel. It is this which defines the big picture into which all the

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narrative episodes are incorporated, and significantly it is this which is thematised in the disputations. On its path to victory the Church had to overcome three obstacles: the seduction of the devil, the cynicism of the heathen world, and the recalcitrance of the Jews. In the eyes of the twelfth-century Regensburg monk there was no need for a greater complexity. And so we have a disputation which tackles necromancy and the allure of the demonic, a second which provides a rebuttal of astronomy and pagan deities, and a third in which the Jews are exposed and routed. Here in the disputations we find the fundamental religious conflicts which underlie the whole progression of the work. And in each case the Christian truth defeats all error. If this is correct, we may go one further step and conjecture that the positioning of the disputations within the chronicle is not coincidental. In so far as the sequence of imperial biographies permits a subdivision of the text into a small number of main sections, it is possible to argue that the Kaiserchronik divides neatly into three parts. First there is the history of the heathen empire, ignorant of God’s greatness but mostly honest and honourable in its ignorance. Then there is the period of mission to the Empire, as the first disciples bring the Christian message, and a series of Emperors respond to it in a variety of ways, some open, some rejecting, some converting, some persecuting the faithful. This is a slow process, with partial successes but also setbacks, until eventually the faith becomes the state religion. Thirdly there is the history of the Christian Empire after the Church has become established. If we now look at the disputations in the light of this pattern, it emerges that they lie precisely at the turning points. The Faustinianus legend with its two disputations is associated with Peter, the very beginning of Christian mission, while Sylvester’s disputation with the Jews is instrumental in Constantine’s establishment of the Church in Rome. The dramas of these great doctrinal battles serve as the hinges which join the triptych of the chronicle, forming it into an exposition of the progress of the Church triumphant. This, I would suggest, is the organising principle which has evaded scholars for so long.

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Notes 1

Vorau, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. 276; see Gärtner (1999). These are discussed in Fromm (1995); Dunphy (2005). The passage in question, the account of the Synod of Whitby, will be discussed shortly (Historia ecclesiastica III, 25). For examples of theological discussions in Rubruck, see, e.g., Jackson’s edition, pp. 155, 232-35. 4 Ohly (1940). I am particularly grateful to Dion Smythe (Belfast) for his advice here, and also to Jan van Ginkel (Leiden). 5 See Dunphy (2005: note 3). There are in fact two Pseuto-Clementine versions of this work, the Latin Recognitiones and the Greek Homilies. The relationship between these is not entirely clear: possibly they are both based on an earlier Greek source. The text claims Pope Clement I as its author, and the Latin version is ascribed to Rufinus of Aquileja. On the disputations in the Recognitiones, see Voss (1970). 6 The narrative similarities between the Job and Faustinianus stories are striking. In both, the eponymous disputant has suffered a series of blows which lead to a state of depressed resignation. Both are kings reduced to beggar’s rags, both have lost their sons. Each then encounters a series of three disputants, then later a more competent fourth, with whom they debate – among other things – God’s justice. Ultimately they are persuaded only by an act of God. That the Pseudo-Clementine books use Job as a model seems beyond question. The suspicion that the Kaiserchronik poet is independently influenced by Job is raised by the way in which the theodicy question is woven into this version of the story. 7 On the shift from rationality to emotionality when the material from the Recognitiones was reworked in the Kaiserchronik, see Dunphy (2005: note 3). Different Job traditions will not be the sole reason for this, but may have contributed. The Job in the Septuagint is quite a different work from that in the Hebrew Bible. The Septuagint’s Job is more a Greek than an oriental figure, is more philosophical and less rebellious. The motif of the patience of Job comes from this Hellenic incarnation. The Job who informed the Homilies and the Recognitiones was Septuagint, whereas the Vulgate, and hence the Kaiserchronik, knew the plaintiff, emotional Job of the Hebraica. 8 See Fiebig (1995: 48): ‘Die vier Tiere sind nur ein Bild und stellen keine grundlegende schematische Einteilung dar.’ 2 3

Bibliography Primary texts Die Kaiserchronik eines Regensburger Geistlichen. Ed. Edward Schröder. Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Deutsche Chroniken, Bd 1,1. Hanover, 1892; rpt. Munich, 1984. Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Ed. / trans. Bertram Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979. The Mission of Friar William of Rubruck. Ed. / trans. Peter Jackson. London: The Hakluyt Society, 1990. The Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor: Byzantine and Near Eastern History AD 284-813. Ed. Cyril Mango and Roger Scott. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997.

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Die Pseudoklementinen. Vol. I: Homilien. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte, vol. 42. Ed. Bernhard Rehm. Berlin, 1953; 3rd edn by Georg Strecker, 1992 Die Pseudoklementinen. Vol. II: Rekognitionen in Rufins Übersetzung. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte, vol. 51. Ed. Bernhard Rehm. Berlin, 1965; 2nd edn by Georg Strecker, 1994. Secondary literature Dunphy, Graeme (2004). ‘Historical Writing in and after the Old High German Period.’ In German Literature of the Early Middle Ages. Ed. Brian Murdoch. Camden House history of German Literature, vol. 2. Camden. 201-26. ––– (2005). ‘Die wîlsælde-Disputation: Zur Auseinandersetzung mit der Astrologie in der Kaiserchronik.’ Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 124: 1-22. Fiebig, Annegret, and Hans-Jochen Schiewer, eds. (1995). Deutsche Literatur und Sprache von 1050-1200: Festschrift für Ursula Henning zum 65. Geburtstag. Berlin. Fiebig (1995). ‘Vier tier wilde: Weltdeutung nach Daniel in der Kaiserchronik.’ In Fiebig / Schiewer (1995). 28-49. Fromm, Hans (1995). ‘Die Disputationen in der Faustinianlegende der Kaiserchronik: Zum literarischen Dialog im 12. Jahrhundert.’ In: Fiebig / Schiewer (1995). 5170. Gärtner, Kurt (1999). ‘Vorauer Handschrift 276.’ In 2Verfasserslexikon 10. Sp. 51621. Ohly, Friedrich (1940). Sage und Legende in der Kaiserchronik: Untersuchungen über Quellen und Aufbau der Dichtung. Forschungen zur deutschen Sprache und Dichtung, Heft 10. Münster. Rpt. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1968. Voss, Bernd Reiner (1970). Der Dialog in der frühchristlichen Literatur. Studia et testimonia antiqua IX. Munich. 60-78.

LE MIROIR HISTORIAL DE JEAN DE NOYAL OU L’ART DE COMPILER

Per Förnegård

Abstract Jean de Noyal’s Miroir historial is a world chronicle composed in Laon in Northern France in the 1380s of which only the three final books, X, XI and XII, have been preserved for posterity. Like other world chronicles, the Miroir is a compilation. In book X, the original passages are particularly few and quite brief – the original material in the chronicle is generally limited to explanatory subclauses. The remaining material is borrowed from other French or Latin works. The events are retold only partly in chronological order, and the Miroir sometimes gives two or three different versions of the same event. The fact that these repetitions are, without doubt, a deliberate method of compilation is proven by the references inserted by the Abbot in these instances. This method provides the reader with several interpretations of the same event. This article investigates the sources used in book X and describes its method of compilation.

Histoire universelle en français, le Miroir historial de Jean de Noyal (mort en 1396), abbé bénédictin de Saint-Vincent de Laon, fut rédigé à la fin du XIVe siècle. Lors de sa création, l’ouvrage retraçait, en douze livres répartis en trois ou quatre volumes, l’histoire du monde depuis la Création jusqu’en 1380. Aujourd’hui ne subsistent que les trois derniers livres (X à XII), qui couvrent les années 1223 à 1380 et qui sont conservés dans un manuscrit unique de la Bibliothèque nationale de France (ms. fr. 10138). En 2005, nous avons édité le livre X (les années 1223 à 1328). À l’instar des autres histoires universelles médiévales, le Miroir historial est une compilation. Le nombre de passages originaux du livre X est, de fait, infime : ils ne représentent que 0,4 % des mots.1 La présente communication portera donc sur la méthode de compilation de Jean de Noyal ainsi que sur ses sources.

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L’œuvre de Jean de Noyal a été traitée avec beaucoup de mépris par les éditeurs du XIXe siècle : on a critiqué son manque d’originalité, ses redites, ses ruptures de chronologie. On l’a qualifié de ‘fatras indigeste’ (Molinier 1883: 246) dû à une ‘étourderie inexplicable’ (Molinier & Molinier 1882: lxii) de la part de ‘quelque copiste peu intelligent’ (Guigniaut & de Wailly 1855: 182). Le manque d’originalité, s’il n’est pas dénué de fondement, n’est pas pour autant un reproche très judicieux : les histoires universelles médiévales constituent justement un genre caractérisé par son manque d’originalité. Pour décrire la période dont ils n’avaient pu être témoins oculaires, les chroniqueurs se devaient de s’appuyer sur les œuvres de leurs prédécesseurs. Ainsi, nombreux étaient ceux qui en reproduisaient littéralement les mots. L’originalité n’était donc guère méritoire pour les chroniqueurs médiévaux et l’appellation de compilateur n’avait alors aucunement la nuance péjorative qu’elle a eue plus tard. Bien au contraire, de nombreux chroniqueurs avouaient volontiers être compilateurs, voire s’en vantaient (cf. Melville 1991: 25).2 Les redites, quant à elles, semblent être le fruit d’une méthode de compilation tout à fait consciente. Ceci se manifeste par des subordonnées telles que ‘si comme nous avons dit cy dessus’3 (ch. 38) ajoutées par le compilateur, lorsqu’il raconte une nouvelle fois – mais d’après une source différente – un événement déjà décrit. Quand il sait qu’il va revenir sur un sujet, il le précise souvent en insérant par exemple ‘duquel nous parlerons cy aprés plus declairiement’ (ch. 14722). Il est en outre à remarquer que les épisodes qui reviennent plusieurs fois dans le miroir ne sont pas décrits de la même façon. Ceci permet au lecteur de connaître plusieurs aspects et versions d’un même événement. Un exemple de cela est l’accident qui se produisit à Lyon lors du couronnement de Clément V : l’éboulement d’une muraille sur laquelle des spectateurs étaient montés pour regarder le cortège. Cet événement est décrit à trois reprises : la première d’après la Chronique normande du XIVe siècle (ch. 147-18), la deuxième d’après les Flores chronicorum de Bernard Gui (ch. 213) et la troisième d’après la Chronique amplifiée des rois de France de Guillaume de Nangis (ch. 215). Dans le premier passage périssent le duc de Bretagne, vingt chevaliers et quatre-vingts hommes ‘et plus d’aultre gens’. Dans le deuxième ‘jusques a XII personnes’ sont mortes, dont le duc de Bretagne, et Charles de Valois fait partie des

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blessés. Dans le troisième, on ne mentionne aucune autre victime que le duc de Bretagne. Les ruptures de chronologie, enfin, sont elles aussi dans une certaine mesure préméditées : l’approche de Jean de Noyal est parfois plus thématique que chronologique. Voilà sans doute pourquoi notre compilateur a qualifié son ouvrage de ‘miroir’ et non pas de ‘chronique’.4 La première appellation lui aurait permis d’échapper aux contraintes chronologiques auxquelles les chroniques, au moins en théorie, étaient soumises. Le manque d’originalité, les répétitions et les ruptures de chronologie ne doivent donc pas être considérés comme des défauts, ni comme l’œuvre d’un compilateur gauche et étourdi, mais comme une méthode intentionnelle dont le produit mérite d’être étudié abstraction faite de toute considération esthétique. Comme l’a montré Gert Melville (1991: 27–30), il existe deux techniques de compilation. La première consiste en un entrecroisement des emprunts, où le compilateur revient aux mêmes sources plusieurs fois. La deuxième est un enchaînement des emprunts, chaque source ne fournissant souvent qu’un seul extrait, qui peut être assez long.5 Jean de Noyal utilise la première technique, l’entrecroisement. Elle lui permet de compléter son ‘thème historique par des extraits – voire même par une reprise intégrale – de textes qui, dépassant le strict cadre chronologique, fournissent des informations dans des domaines donnés’ (Melville 1991: 28). Le Miroir historial a pour thème l’histoire du monde, quand bien même celle de la France et de ses rois occupe une place privilégiée. Tout au long du livre X, elle alterne néanmoins avec celles du SaintSiège et du Saint Empire. Ces histoires sont complétées par des éléments reflétant le lieu de rédaction du miroir, à savoir la relation fort détaillée des guerres en Flandre et les courts paragraphes consacrés à l’histoire locale de Laon et aux prédécesseurs de Jean de Noyal à Saint-Vincent. Si l’abbé favorise ainsi des faits s’étant déroulés à proximité de la Picardie, il intègre tout de même quelques extraits qui traitent de l’Orient : une description de la Terre sainte et une présentation des Mongols. Rois de France Pour écrire l’histoire de la France et de ses rois, l’abbé de SaintVincent s’appuie, au livre X, sur la Chronique amplifiée des rois de

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France de Guillaume de Nangis et de ses continuateurs. En effet, non moins de 74 % du livre X provient de cette chronique. Ces très importants emprunts sont textuels, le lexique et la morphosyntaxe étant peu ou prou identiques à ceux de certains manuscrits de la Chronique amplifiée. On peut le constater en mettant en regard le texte d’un chapitre des deux chroniques. Guillaume de Nangis Chronique amplifiée des rois de France

Jean de Noyal Miroir historial (éd. Förnegård 2005, ch. 2)

(ms. Paris, BnF, fr. 10132, fol. 362b–va)

Apres le roy phelippe dit auguste qui conquist normendie regna en france loys son filz quil auoit engendre en la royne ysabel fille le conte baudouin de henaut qui estoit descendue de la lignie charlemainne le grant iadis roy de france et emperiere de romme si comme nous auons dit desus. et commenca a regner icil roy looys lan de lincarnacion nostre seingneur ihesucrist M et IIC et XXIIII. Icil roy looys fu hardis et bataillereus et uainqui et chaca du chastel qui a nom la roche au moine le roy iehan dengleterre quil auoit assiegie au temps que son pere le roy phelippe se combatoit a bouuines contre le roy [sic] ferrant de flandres et lemperiere othe et destruit la cite dangiers sicomme ie vous ai dit desus. puis passa en engleterre et eust tout pris le royaume se englois li eussent fet tel loyaute comme il auoient promise sicomme vous auez oi devant. or vous veil ie dire les fes de son tans et les choses qui auindrent aucunes puis que il commenca a regner iusques en sa fin.

[A]prés le roy Phillippe, dit Auguste, qui conquist Normendie, regna en France Loys, son fil, que il avoit engenré en la royne Ysabel, fille le conte Balduin de Haynnault, qui estoit descendue de la lignie Charlemaigne le Grant, jadiz roy de France et empereur de Romme, si comme nous avons dit dessus. Et commença a regner icilz roy Lois l’an de l’incarnacion nostre seigneur Jhesu Crist mil IIC XXIIII. Icilz roy Lois fut hardis et batilleres et vainqui et chassa dou chastel qui a a nom la Roche au Moinsne le roy Jehan de Angleterre, qu’il avoit assigié au temps que le roy Philippe, son pere, se combatoit a Bouvines contre le conte de Flandres Ferrant et l’empereur Octhe, et destruist la cité d’Angiers, si comme je vous ay dit cy dessus. Puis passa en Angleterre et eust tout prins le royaume, se les Anglés ly eussent fait telle loyaulté comme il ly avoient promise, si comme vous avéz oy devant. Or vous vueil je dire les fais de son temps et les choses qui y advinrent puis que il commença a regner jusques en sa fin.

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La Chronique amplifiée des rois de France est, elle aussi, une compilation : Guillaume de Nangis y a notamment intégré le texte de sa Chronique abrégée des rois de France et une traduction de sa chronique en latin. Ainsi, dans la Chronique amplifiée, le même événement est souvent raconté deux fois. Suivant fidèlement sa source, Jean de Noyal reproduit les répétitions de la Chronique des rois de France. Les redites que l’on a reprochées à l’abbé laonnois proviennent donc bien souvent de l’historiographe dionysien (Förnegård 2005: xviii–xx). Papes et empereurs Pour chaque année correspondant à l’avènement d’un nouveau pape ou d’un souverain de l’Empire, le compilateur suspend le récit de Guillaume de Nangis et enchâsse un chapitre consacré à la vie du pape ou du souverain en question ainsi que certains faits survenus sous son règne. Pour ce faire, il utilise deux chroniques qu’il traduit en français : le Chronicon pontificum et imperatorum de Martin de Troppau (la Chronique martinienne) et les Flores chronicorum de Bernard Gui. La Chronique martinienne fournit, jusqu’en 1277 (au milieu du chapitre sur Nicolas III), le texte de tous les chapitres consacrés aux papes et aux empereurs. Ni la source que l’abbé de Saint-Vincent a utilisée pour la fin du chapitre sur ce pape ni celle qui a servi de base aux courts chapitres sur les trois papes suivants (Martin IV, Honorius IV et Nicolas IV) n’a pu être identifiée (cf. infra). C’est avec l’avènement de Célestin V, en 1294, que notre compilateur s’attaque à l’œuvre de Bernard Gui. Jean de Noyal traduit des Flores chronicorum des passages relatifs à la papauté et à l’Empire pour les années 1294 à 1328. Mais même avant cette date, les deux chroniques ont de nombreux traits communs. Ceci est dû au fait qu’elles puisent toutes les deux dans la Chronique martinienne avant l’année 1277. Or, tandis que l’abbé laonnois traduit fidèlement le texte de Martin de Troppau, l’inquisiteur toulousain le complète et le retravaille (cf. Lamarrigue 2001: 101, n.). Le procédé de Jean de Noyal consiste à raconter, du début à la fin, l’œuvre de chaque pape ou empereur dans un seul chapitre. Retournant ensuite à Guillaume de Nangis, il doit souvent remonter plusieurs années en arrière, ce qui produit d’inévitables ruptures de chronologie. De plus, certains événements ayant un rapport avec

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l’Empire ou avec l’Église sont également racontés d’après la chronique de Guillaume, ce qui entraîne également des redites. Flandre et Picardie Au livre X du Miroir historial, l’histoire des papes et des empereurs occupe en fait une place moins importante que celle des guerres ayant eu lieu en Flandre sous le règne de Philippe le Bel. La source utilisée pour la description de ces combats est un ouvrage anonyme retraçant essentiellement l’histoire de la Flandre et de la Normandie entre 1294 et 1372, laquelle s’intitule Chronique normande du XIVe siècle. L’emprunt qu’y fait Jean de Noyal pour le livre X du Miroir historial est textuel : il reproduit scrupuleusement un long extrait, quasiment sans ajout ni omission volontaire sur le fond. Vers la fin de cet important emprunt, qui s’étend sur dix folios du manuscrit, Philippe le Bel meurt dans la forêt de Fontainebleau, pour ressusciter à Compiègne quelques lignes plus bas, lorsque Jean de Noyal reprend la chronique de Guillaume de Nangis et remonte dix-sept ans en arrière sans prévenir son lecteur : [1314] Et ses gens qui le trouverent le porterent a Fontainbliaut et la morut et fu enterrés en l’abbeye de Barbel. En celle sepmaine que li rois trespassa, li pappes Clemens et li archevesques de Reins trespasserent6. Et pour ceste cause, Loys, l’ainsné fil du biau roy Philippe, detria a aler au sacre a Reins, jusques a tant qu’il y eust I pappe par qui li archevesques fut ordenéz. En ce temps fit morir li rois Enguerran de Marigny, gouverneur du roy Philippe le Biau, pour la hayne des guerres de Flandres, duquel nous parlerons cy aprés plus declairiement. [1297] Et en icest an, Henry conte de Bar, qui la fille au roy Edouard avoit espousee, a grant multitude de gens armés, en la terre de la conté de Champaigne, qui appartenoit par droit heritage a tenir a Jehanne, la roine de France, comme anemi entra et occit moult de hommes et une ville dou tout embrasa et ardi. Auxquelx folz efforcemens reprimer et redarguer fut envoyé au roy de France Gaultier de Crecy, seigneur de Chastillons, qui avoit en sa compaignie les Champenois, qui par fer et par feu la terre au conte de Bar degasta, et ainssy le fit retourner pour sa terre garder. Et en icest an ensement, Philippes le Biau, roy de France, contre Guy, le conte de Flandres, qui de la feaulté s’estoit departis, assambla a Compiengne moult grant ost, et ilec, en la feste de la Penthecouste, son frere

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Loys, conte d’Ebvreux, et l’autre Loys, l’ainsné filz Robert, le conte de Clermont, avec VIXX aultres fist nouviaulx chevaliers. (ch. 147-22–149)

Cette transition est si brusque qu’il y a lieu de se demander si le manuscrit qui subsiste n’est pas une version préliminaire qui devait être retravaillée. De plus, toute la portion du texte empruntée à la Chronique normande est omise dans la table des chapitres. Ceci laisse penser que Jean de Noyal n’avait pas, au départ, l’intention de s’en servir, mais qu’il a eu cette idée après avoir entamé le travail. Il existe en outre d’autres traits qui témoignent de l’aspect préliminaire du manuscrit qui subsiste (Förnegård 2005: x–xi). Comme il a été dit ci-dessus, l’importance que l’auteur du Miroir historial attache dans sa chronique aux campagnes militaires en Flandre est vraisemblablement due au fait qu’elles ont eu lieu à proximité de Laon et de la Picardie. Cet aspect est encore plus manifeste dans un petit nombre de brefs passages relatant des incidents laonnois. Jean de Noyal fournit alors des renseignements sur ses prédécesseurs, même s’ils se limitent souvent à l’année d’entrée en fonction des abbés.7 À part quelques propositions subordonnées, telles que ‘comme nous avons dit dessus’, ces parenthèses sur l’histoire locale sont les seules parties du texte que nous avons pu classer comme originales.8 Musulmans et Mongols Lorsque Jean de Noyal, au livre X de sa chronique, relate des événements survenus hors d’Europe, ceux-ci ont souvent partie liée avec l’histoire du continent. C’est le cas par exemple de la prise de Damiette par les croisés (ch. 10) ou la tentative d’assassinat de saint Louis par la secte des Assassins (ch. 24). À deux reprises, l’Orient est toutefois traité en dehors du contexte européen : il s’agit d’un passage sur la Terre sainte et les souverains musulmans (ch. 38) et d’un autre sur les Mongols (ch. 191). Les sources ayant fourni le texte du premier sont l’Epistola patriarchae Iherusalem ad papam Innocentium III, attribuée à Aymar le Moine, et l’Historia Damiatina d’Olivier de Paderborn. Ces deux textes sont utilisés au chapitre 38, qui court sur environ deux feuillets du manuscrit. Ce chapitre s’ouvre sur la mention de l’élection de l’empereur germanique Guillaume de Hollande (1247–1256) ; puis Jean de Noyal passe à l’énumération des membres de la dynastie Ayyoubide, qui est suivie de la description de

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la Terre sainte et ‘d’autres incidences’. Après cette très longue digression, il clôt tout de même son propos sur l’empereur Guillaume avec les mots ‘Cils Willammes dessus dis …’, mais le lecteur a alors, et depuis longtemps, oublié qu’il en était vaguement question au début du chapitre. Le deuxième passage sur l’Orient, la description peu flatteuse des Mongols, est lui aussi compilé à partir de deux sources : l’Historia Mongalorum de Jean de Plancarpin et un autre texte dont l’auteur est anonyme : ‘Source inconnue des Tartaribus’.9 À la question de savoir si ces quatre textes sont des sources directes du Miroir historial et si Jean de Noyal a eu accès à ces ouvrages assez spécialisés et sans doute peu diffusés, on peut selon toute vraisemblance répondre par la négative. Il ne s’agit sans doute que de sources indirectes, transmises par l’intermédiaire de quelque compilation. Notre compilateur précise certes, à propos de son extrait de l’Epistola d’Aymar le Moine, qu’il l’a tiré ‘dou livre que li patriaches envoya au pappe Innocent le IIIIe’ (ch. 38).10 Mais, cela ne signifie pas qu’il ait vraiment eu le texte d’Aymar sous les yeux. Comme le précise Bernard Guenée (1980: 116), les ouvrages intermédiaires auxquels les compilateurs faisaient réellement leurs emprunts n’étaient pas toujours cités. Ainsi, il est souvent difficile de déterminer si un texte cité est une source directe ou indirecte.11 Il existe en effet un ouvrage fort répandu dans l’Occident médiéval qui renferme chacun de ces quatre textes : le Speculum historiale de Vincent de Beauvais.12 Étant donné l’énorme diffusion de cet ouvrage (cf. Guenée 1980: 306), il est probable que le Speculum est le truchement par lequel Jean de Noyal a connu ces quatre textes.13 Le titre de la compilation de Jean de Noyal, le Miroir historial, indique d’ailleurs l’influence de l’ouvrage de Vincent. Répartition des sources Comme on l’a déjà signalé, presque les trois quarts du livre X du Miroir historial sont empruntés à une seule et même source, la Chronique amplifiée de Guillaume de Nangis. Les autres sources se distribuent selon le tableau ci-dessous. À quelques exceptions près, les passages pour lesquels nous n’avons pas identifié de source se trouvent dans les chapitres relatifs aux papes (cf. supra). Certains détails sur les papes décrits dans ces chapitres sont d’ailleurs particulièrement intéressants, car ils ne semblent pas se rencontrer dans d’autres chro-

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niques (voir Förnegård 2005: xxix).14 C’est sans doute la raison pour laquelle des extraits de ces chapitres sont les seuls du Miroir historial à avoir été publiés par Guigniaut et de Wailly (1855) dans le Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France.15 Répartition des sources du livre X du Miroir historial. % des mots 74

12,5 4,8

3,3

2,9

2,1 0,4

Source directe - Chronique amplifiée des rois de France de Guillaume de Nangis (et ses continuateurs)

Source indirecte - Chronicon de Guillaume de Nangis - Chronique abrégée des rois de France de Guillaume de Nangis

- Chronique normande du XIVe siècle - Flores chronicorum Chronicon pontificum et imperade Bernard Gui torum de Martin de Troppau - Chronicon pontificum et imperatorum de Martin de Troppau - Speculum historiale - Epistola patriarchae Iherusade Vincent de Beauvais lem ad papam Innocentium III d’Aymar le Moine - Historia Damiatina d’Olivier de Paderborn - Historia Mongalorum de Jean de Plancarpin - ‘Source inconnue des Tartaribus’ Source(s) non identifiée(s) Passages originaux

Les compilations médiévales ont été assez peu étudiées ou appréciées par les linguistes, les éditeurs et les historiens. On a longtemps estimé que ‘l’importance d’une œuvre tenait à l’originalité de son contenu’ (Guenée 1980: 248). Les ouvrages qui présentent peu d’éléments originaux ou qui sont écrits d’une façon considérée comme peu élégante sont depuis des siècles négligés, sinon critiqués selon des

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critères modernes. Certains de ces textes aujourd’hui dénigrés ont pourtant eu un très grand succès au Moyen Âge. C’est le cas de la Chronique martinienne qui, à cette époque, se trouvait dans ‘toute bibliothèque un peu sérieuse’ (Guenée 1980: 306). Pourtant, on n’a cessé depuis de porter des jugements négatifs sur l’œuvre de Martin de Troppau (cf. Embree 1999: 2). Les critères selon lesquels on juge la qualité d’une œuvre historique ou littéraire aujourd’hui ne sont tout simplement pas les mêmes que ceux du Moyen Âge.

Notes 1

Mot employé dans un sens statistique, c’est-à-dire chaque unité de texte inscrite entre deux blancs graphiques ou séparée d’une autre unité par une apostrophe. Le comptage a été effectué à partir de notre édition et non pas à partir du texte tel qu’il se présente dans le manuscrit. 2 Comme en témoignent de nombreux prologues, par exemple celui de la seconde rédaction du Manuel d’histoire de Philippe VI de Valois : ‘Et sachent tous … que le compilleur n’y a riens adjousté’ (Paris, BnF, fr. 2607, fol. 12v). 3 Il y a d’autres commentaires de ce type que Jean de Noyal a tout simplement copiés de l’une des compilations qu’il a utilisées, voir par exemple ‘si comme nous avons dit dessus’ au chapitre 2, reproduit ci-dessous. 4 Ce titre n’apparaît pas dans le manuscrit qui a subsisté. Il se rencontre cependant trois fois dans des extraits du XVIIe siècle tirés d’un manuscrit disparu (Förnegård 2005: vi, xii–xvi). 5 Par exemple, le Speculum historiale de Vincent de Beauvais. 6 Clément v mourut plusieurs mois avant Philippe le Bel et l’archevêque de Reims ne décéda que dix ans plus tard. 7 Au livre XII du Miroir, les passages originaux qui racontent l’histoire locale sont plus nombreux. Il s’agit ici d’incidents dont Jean de Noyal a pu être un témoin oculaire. Voir Molinier (1883), qui a édité ces passages. 8 Un repérage qui recense les sources, extrait par extrait, se trouve en annexe de notre édition du Miroir historial (Förnegård 2005: 234–38). 9 Appelée ainsi dans l’édition électronique du Speculum historiale faite par l’Atelier Vincent de Beauvais (http://atilf.atilf.fr/bichard/). L’auteur de cette description des Mongols semble en fait avoir puisé dans l’Historia Mongalorum de Jean de Plancarpin, tant les deux textes se ressemblent (Förnegård 2005: xxviii). 10 Jean de Noyal confond Innocent III et Innocent IV (voir ci-dessous). 11 Selon Guenée (1980: 116), les compilateurs préféraient souvent citer uniquement les emprunts faits aux auteurs anciens, les seuls ayant ‘l’autorité nécessaire’. 12 Cf. livres XXIX–XXXI, de l’édition de Douai de 1624. 13 Vraisemblablement, Jean de Noyal a lui-même traduit ces passages en français. Quoi qu’il en soit, il n’a manifestement pas employé la traduction du Speculum historiale par Jean de Vignay.

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14 Dans une thèse de Bernhard Pawlicki (1896: 10), le chapitre sur Honorius IV (ch. 101) est d’ailleurs cité d’après l’édition partielle du Miroir historial par Guigniaut et de Wailly (1855). Par étourderie, Pawlicki l’attribue cependant à tort à Guillaume de Nangis. Dans son article sur Honorius dans l’Enciclopedia dei papi, Marco Vendittelli (2000: 454) cite le même chapitre, en donnant les références de l’édition de Guigniaut et de Wailly. Vendittelli a cependant dû le copier de la thèse de Pawlicki, car il reproduit la même erreur. 15 Malgré le titre ‘Chronique attribuée à Jean Desnouelles’ dans le Recueil des historiens de France, l’édition du Miroir historial ne couvre même pas les deux premières pages de cette section, le reste étant une édition de la Chronique normande du XIVe siècle, pour laquelle on a tiré quelques variantes de l’œuvre de Jean de Noyal (1855: 183, n. ; cf. Förnegård 2005: viii).

Bibliographie Sources The Chronicles of Rome. An Edition of the Middle English Chronicle of Popes and Emperors and the Lollard Chronicle. Ed. Dan Embree. Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1999. Chronique normande du XIVe siècle. Ed. Auguste Molinier et Emile Molinier. Paris: Renouard, 1882. [Jean de Noyal] Le Miroir historial de Jean de Noyal. Livre X. Édition du ms. Paris, BnF, fr. 10138 avec introduction, notes et index par Per Förnegård. Stockholm: Stockholms universitet, 2005. Vincent de Beauvais. Speculum historiale. Douai: Balthazar Bellère, 1624. Études Förnegård, Per (2005). Voir Jean de Noyal. Guenée, Bernard (1980). Histoire et culture historique dans l’Occident médiéval. Paris: Aubier-Montaigne. Guigniaut, Joseph-Daniel, et Natalis de Wailly (1855). ‘La chronique attribuée à Jean de Noyal.’ Dans Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, t. XXI. Paris: Imprimerie impériale. 181–98. Lamarrigue, Anne-Marie (2000). Bernard Gui 1261–1331: un historien et sa méthode. Paris: Honoré Champion. Melville, Gert (1991). ‘Le problème des connaissances historiques au Moyen Âge. Compilation et transmission des textes.’ Dans L’historiographie médiévale en Europe. Actes du colloque organisé par la Fondation Européenne de la Science au Centre de Recherches Historiques et Juridiques de l’Université Paris I du 29 mars au 1er avril 1989. Paris : CNRS. 21–41. Molinier et Molinier (1882). Voir Chronique normande du XIVe siècle. Molinier, Auguste (1883). ‘Fragments inédits de la chronique de Jean de Noyal.’ Dans Annuaire-Bulletin de la Société de l’histoire de France 1883. Paris: Renouard. Pawlicki, Bernhard (1896). ‘Papst Honorius IV.’ Inaugural-Dissertation. Münster: Heinrich Schöning.

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Vendittelli, Marco (2000). ‘Onorio IV.’ Dans Enciclopedia dei papi, t. II. Rome: Istituto della enciclopedia italiana. 449–59.

TAKING SIDES: SOME THEORETICAL REMARKS ON THE (AB)USE OF HISTORIOGRAPHY

Wojtek Jezierski

Abstract This article should be seen as an attempt to put the early medieval chronicles in a more theoretical frame concerning identity formation and creation of historical tradition. The empirical examples are provided by two tenth-century chronicles: Chronicon Æthelweardi by Æthelweard of Wessex, and Res gestae Saxonicae by Widukind of Corvey. As the theoretical frame serve the conclusions and ideas taken from the research on collective memory, discourse analysis, and a more general reasoning about the affinity between knowledge and power. In effect, the article illustrates not only those mechanisms and literary strategies, but also, more broadly, demonstrates the pointlessness of common accusations of medieval historiography’s failure in its pursuit of objectivity. Partiality was the raison d’être of medieval chronicles, and, it is argued, our research should focus more on its appearances.

The purpose of this article is, once again, to discuss the problem of the objectivity in medieval historiography.1 However, if hitherto it was often said that medieval authors simply failed to reach the expected standards of neutrality, it is my contention that conscious choices underlay the whole concept of history writing in the early Middle Ages, which fulfilled many important social and cultural functions. In this respect medieval historiography stands closer to the modern phenomenon of heritage than to professional historical research of our days. In order to illustrate this I will test this claim against two tenthcentury chronicles. First I will characterize the phenomenon of heritage, and then introduce the analyzed chronicles and the institutional context in which they were written. The analysis of the texts and their authors’ motives comes in third place.

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Until recently it was quite popular to accuse medieval historiography of a broad use of stereotypes, bias, a lack of sense of evidence etc. A few years ago, Gabrielle Spiegel summed up these allegations. What she found was: ‘propagandistic intentions, vulnerability to invasion by fiction, forgery, myth, and miracle’. Furthermore, medieval historiography’s literary alliance with rhetoric, … made it inimical to the pursuit of truth; its exemplarist and stereotypical use of historical events and persons for moral teaching, denying them what a modern historian would consider their historicity…. In short, medieval historiography, by all critical odds, is inauthentic, unscientific, unreliable, ahistorical, irrational, borderline illiterate, and worse yet, unprofessional. (Spiegel 1999: 100)

This critique was based on the assumption that historiography should provide us with historically accurate facts. What this account missed was that historicity and rationality are modern inventions, valid neither universally nor eternally, and to require these standards from medieval authors is absurd, at any rate. Yet there is something to these accusations that actually says more about our understanding of the historian’s craft and medieval historiography, and how our presuppositions obscure our view of the sources. What is striking about the Spiegel’s collection of remarks is that similar allegations are substantiated by professional scholarship against the modern phenomenon of heritage. By the term heritage I mean the kind of historical knowledge delivered by schoolbooks, theme-museums, memorial parades or national monuments. Heritage is meant to be exclusive; it is ‘ours’ as it is to attest the distinctiveness of ‘our past’. It is, and is supposed to be, selective in the presentation of historical data, exposing the victories and successes of ‘our’ ancestors and keeping the shames and defeats hidden. Any accusations of irrationality or bias are completely pointless, as bias is the very essence of heritage, and it is faith and not reason on which it is based. There is hardly any distinction between fact and its evaluation in the logic of heritage – ‘it is not a testable or even a reasonably plausible account of some past, but a declaration of faith in that past’ (Lowenthal 1996: 121). The distinction between history, understood as narratio rerum gestarum, and heritage is vital. As David Lowenthal writes:

Some Theoretical Remarks on the (Ab)Use of Historiography 101 History differs from heritage not, as people generally suppose, in telling the truth, but in trying to do so despite being aware that truth is a chameleon and its chroniclers fallible beings. The most crucial distinction is that truth in heritage commits us to some present creed; truth in history is a flawed effort to understand the past on its own terms. (Lowenthal 1996: 119)

Even if heritage mimics qualified historiography there is something it gives us that history cannot. Belonging to the toolbox of nationalism more than professional scholarship,2 heritage gives us material for the construction of identity and this is per se part of the sphere of emotions, not reason (Connor 1993). Heritage is anchored in collective memory, whose aim is to create a politically usable past, where some things have to be forgotten or silenced. Only in that way can a coherent community, carrying these memories, be constructed (Misztal 2003: 14, 17, 52-53). Because of its professionalism, historiography (pursued in academia) distances itself from such attempts, although it cannot be claimed that it does not have a political dimension. It does, but the divide between its aims and methods is much bigger and of a different character making it impractical for heritage’s purposes.3 Thirdly, in heritage there is an instilled belief that ‘our’ past has to be right, which empowers the authority that creates this image within the community (Lowenthal 1996: 90; Misztal 2003: 20-22). Knowledge is power, but only certain knowledge, which is hallmarked and issued by relevant authorities. We shall see now how these conclusions drawn from the studies on heritage work in the context of early medieval historiography. A more elaborate example that I would like to present here focuses on two tenth-century chronicles i.e. Chronicon Æthelweardi by Æthelweard of Wessex, and Res gestae Saxonicae by Widukind of Corvey. Both were written in the second half of the tenth century and had powerful German abbesses as addressees. In the Ottonian Reichskirche, abbesses such as Mathilda of Quedlinburg and Mathilda of Essen, for whom the chronicles were written, were responsible for preserving the memory of their families. Inspiring historiographical works that could praise their forebears was one of the main issues of this caretaking. Since memory and history were a form of social capital in the early Middle Ages, we can speak of these nunneries as power resources in Ottonian politics. These chronicles played a part in

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a larger process of identity-making, which was taking place in those monasteries, as one of their most important goals was to educate the female members of the Ottonian nobility (Althoff 1991; Althoff 2000; van Houts 1992). The author of the Res gestae Saxonicae was Widukind (c.925c.971), a monk of Corvey, an old and powerful monastery, which was originally a Carolingian foundation, established in order to christianize Saxony. A hundred and fifty years later Corvey stood in the very center of the Ottonian Reich, producing vitae of important saints, collecting relics and trying to win eminence for its patron, St. Vitus, one of the most important saints of Saxony of that time. Widukind himself also took part in this manufacturing of tradition, writing lives of saints, contacting other monasteries, abbesses etc. (Beumann 1950: 1-6). What distinguishes Æthelweard (d. c.998) is that he was a layman, holding the office of ealdorman of Wessex, and a stalwart of King Æthelred the Unready. As he states in the prologue to his chronicle, he was a distant relative of Mathilda of Essen, King Æthelstan being their first common ancestor.4 As stated above in the context of heritage, both authors are highly possessive about the histories they write. There is no general, objective and impersonal history, the past has to belong to someone in order to be identified with that person. In the very first words of the first book Widukind writes: Post operum nostrorum primordia, quibus summi imperatoris militum triumphos declaravi, nemo me miretur principum nostrorum res gestas litteris velle commendare. (After my first works, in which I have presented the victory of the greatest leader of the army, no one should wonder that I want to put down the great deeds in writing.)5

And adds: quia in illo opere professioni meae, ut potui, quod debui exolvi, modo generis gentisque meae devotioni, ut queo, elaborare non effugio. (Res gestae Saxonicae I, 20) (I do not want to neglect my pledge, my vigor and loyalty towards my house and my people, so I will praise them with all my powers.)

Some Theoretical Remarks on the (Ab)Use of Historiography 103 No striving for objectivity, no traces, not even slight, of accurateness, nor claims to a representative account: Nec tamen omnia eorum gesta nos posse comprehendere fatemur, sed strictim et per partes scribimus, ut sermo sit legentibus planus, non fastidiosus. (Res gestae Saxonicae I, 16) (However, I have to confess that it is not my intention to describe all their deeds but only a brief selection, in order to make my presentation legible for the reader, not to fatigue her.)

And, indeed, he does what he declares. History is something that belongs either to ‘them’ or ‘us’, and bears evidence of a struggle between these groups (Bagge 2002: 84-85). No wonder, that ‘they’, for example Hungarians, are seen as barbaric sons of Satan and savage malefactors of all kinds (Res gestae Saxonicae: I, 70).6 However, the ‘us’ in Widukind's account may be misleading to a modern reader, because the pronoun was no clear-cut category but denoted many different groups, and its meaning implied by the context only. The category of the ‘ours’ many times seems to connote all Saxons and all Saxony (Res gestae Saxonicae III, 154, 168), the Saxon army (Res gestae Saxonicae II, 104; III, 176), sometimes everyone speaking Saxonian (Res gestae Saxonicae I, 46), or Christian Saxons and Franks (Res gestae Saxonicae I, 44), sometimes a group narrowed to him and Mathilda, extended to their monasteries (Res gestae Saxonicae I, 16; II, 82; III, 168), sometimes only his own monastery and brothers (Res gestae Saxonicae III, 130). As we see, ‘us’ was a politically heavy laden term indicating diverse identities and referring to numerous loyalties that the author wanted his readers to feel connected to. It is no wonder that in Widukind’s account the whole past is subjugated to the ruling family and Saxon patriotism – his work opens with the coming of the Saxons, the first book ends with the death of Henry I. The second book starts with Otto the Great’s enthronement and concludes with Queen Edith’s burial. The advance installation of Liudolf, Otto’s son, initiates the third and last book, which ends with the bereavement of leonine Otto the Great. Time and the past are colonized totally and framed in dynastical and national themes (Beumann 1972: 84-86; Misztal 2003: 52). Æthelweard’s vision of the past is not very different from Widukind’s. In his opening letter to Mathilda of Essen, he states frankly and without any haziness:

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De notitia equidem communis prosapiae, generis quoque et migratione, ut ante breviter per epistolam insinuauimus tibi, nunc cooperante deo ab ipsius principio mundi annalem sumentes ritum, dilucidius explicare oportet… .(Chronicon: 1) (Just as we have previously informed you by letter about what is known of our common family and also about the migration of our nation, it is now desirable, with the help of God, employing the annalists from the beginning of the world, to offer a clearer exposition… .)

And, again, you get what is promised. Even though the chronicle shows some characteristics of a universal chronicle, beginning with the creation of the world, an interesting account on sex aetates mundi with recurring references to universal dating, these elements have primarily functional importance but bring ideological message as well. When it comes to functionality, they make some order in a complicated and repeatedly confused timing of Æthelweard, acting as a more fixed chronological framework (Jezierski 2005: 171-76). Although the author himself comments that this ‘historiographing’ would be a digression from the main theme of his work (Chronicon 3), he feels obliged to include it for ideological reasons, implying that his local, semi-national account is part of a bigger vision of universal history. Æthelweard, just like Widukind, provides his readers with a careful selection of facts, using his sources only for his own purposes (Chronicon 15, 26). For him the ‘we’-community is either the family he has in common with Mathilda (Chronicon 1, 34, 38-39), or their people, that is, Saxons and Anglo-Saxons (Chronicon 1, 15). Obviously the ealdorman aims at a combination of a dynastical history with a national one. History reaches its climax where these two overlap, as he writes in the prologue to the fourth book: ‘the presence of profit is greater [in this book], and the origin of those descended from our family is indicated more clearly’ (Chronicon 34). His source, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, is read from dynastical and family angles, what is indicated both in the titles of chapters (Jezierski 2005: 17677), comments on genealogical data,7 and in direct references: ‘Our task is to reveal one by one the names of the leaders, who were killed there’ (Chronicon 37), ‘This was the end: here ended his name and his perseverance’ (Chronicon 54). Only history and the memory attached

Some Theoretical Remarks on the (Ab)Use of Historiography 105 to the actual names of people and kinship relations are worth transmitting, because only such information can be collectively memorized and collectively commemorated (Misztal 2003: 12, 16, 53).8 The book division of Æthelweard’s Chronicle attests to this view: the first book opens with the beginning of the world, the second with the arrival of St Augustine in England and the baptism of Kentishmen, the third with the Viking attack on Lindisfarne. The fourth starts with the reign of King Æthelwulf, the first common ancestor of Mathilda and Æthelweard. The nation and the ruling dynasty, exactly as in Widukind’s work, constitute the key events of the past (Kersken 1995: 168-69; Jezierski: 168-71). The question of knowledge which establishes collective memory and identity is not only about what is included and remembered, but also about what is left out. Power is not only about decisions and actual issues, but also about suppressing some issues that could have been included. In the two-dimensional view of power, it is not the observable conflicts that are important but rather the control exercised over the agenda, which prevents certain topics from becoming the issues discussed. In such situations, power is executed over two groups: firstly over those who find these topics vital for their interests, but those in charge of decision-making are also denied full knowledge and hence manipulated. The point of compliance in such situations is not doing something that could have been done (Lukes 1977: 16-20). In the case of the chronicles analyzed, we should concentrate on topics and issues that were deliberately omitted from the sources. The characteristics of manipulative silences in contrast to other types of textual silences (for example: genre-based), ‘is that they intentionally mislead or deceive reader or listener in a way that is advantageous to the writer/speaker’ (Huckin 2002: 354). We can naturally ponder upon the question whether at least some of theses omissions were profitable for the readers as well or not, but generally speaking these silences seem to be manipulative. At this specific moment of Ottonian Reich, Widukind was preoccupied with the creation of history for an extended empire, a history in which the Saxon and Frankish people could be united (Beumann 1972: 91-94). But to write such an integrative version of the FrankishSaxon past in the middle of the tenth century was to remain blind to the ferocity of this past. On the bloodshed, which was an integral part

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of Charlemagne’s christianization of Saxony, he comments laconically: Et nunc blanda suasione, nunc bellorum inpetu ad id cogebat, tandemque tricesimo imperii sui anno obtinuit… facta est. (Res gestae Saxonicae I, 44) (Partly by gentle persuasion, partly by martial force he enforced it [Christianity] and reached his goal finally in the thirtieth year of his empire.)

Could Widukind have known better? Doubtlessly. Corvey, as we said above, stood in the centre of the Frankish ecclesiastical mission, and it is impossible that Widukind could have been unaware of the atrocities of this campaign. Also the Translatio Sancti Viti Martyris written in Corvey at that time preserves a more elaborate picture in this regard, showing more closely the cruelty of Charlemagne’s mission (Translatio Sancti Viti Martyris 35-36). Also the role of St Vitus is much extended in Res gestae as a patron of the Ottonian Empire and personal protector of Saxonian rulers (Res gestae Saxonicae I, 64; III, 130, 166; Oberste 2003: 96-97). However, St Mauritius, who was the patron of archbishopric of Magdeburg, and who was definitely the most important saint at that time with very strong royal support, is not mentioned even once (Beumann 1972: 99-105). Turning to Æthelweard, we can see that his account of the coming of the Saxons to England was taken from Bede’s Historia ecclesiastica. Bede writes: Tunc Anglorum sive Saxonum gens, invitata a rege praefato, Brittaniam tribus longis navibus advehitur et in orientali parte insulae… suscepit. (Historia ecclesiastica I, 58). (In this time the Angles or Saxons came to Britain at the invitation of King Vortigern in three long-ships, and acquired lands in the eastern part of the island)

But the ‘eastern part of the island’ vanishes from the ealdorman’s account, and in a moment the whole Kentish tradition becomes extinct (Chronicon 25). Saxon arrival turns out to be a part of Wessex’s past. Also, notice of a monument at the burial place of Horsa in Kent is missing (Jezierski: 165-66).

Some Theoretical Remarks on the (Ab)Use of Historiography 107 Another textual silence to be found in Æthelweard’s text regards the church. In the translation and redaction of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle ‘A’ MS for his own purposes, the author erased entries that contained records of the deaths of bishops and abbots,9 consecrations and elections of bishops and archbishops,10 the erection of churches,11 or baptisms of kings other than from Wessex.12 Ecclesiastical information also evaporates from the entries that are actually partially transcribed from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.13 Generally speaking, more than fifty percent of the presumably intentionally omitted entries regard the church, its servants, and their involvement in political life. We can explain each of these silences separately. As mentioned above, Widukind had a conciliatory vision of Frankish-Saxon coexistence. In a world where families from both nations were closely related, but the political unity was not entirely secured, stressing mutual cruelty and discord would not help to converge populus Francorum atque Saxonum into one political organism (Beumann 1950: 224-28; Beumann 1972: 95-97, 99). The cooperation of Mathilda of Quedlinburg and Widukind in the context of the cult of St Vitus in order to undercut the competition from Magdeburg has already been mentioned. On the other hand, Æthelweard’s shaping of Wessex’s past can be seen against a broader background of the invention of West Saxon tradition that had been taking place at least since the times of Alfred the Great. The account of the history of Wessex embodied in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle was issued and spread over the country to be commemorated, names for the English political entity such as Anglecynn and new royal titles were introduced, and new elites were educated in a more institutionalized way (Foot 1999: 197-200; Smyth 1998: 39-43, 47-48). The ealdorman’s historiography is on the one hand a part of this process, on the other its effect, and bears evidence of a growing identification and patriotism among the Anglo-Saxon elite. When it comes to the expunging of the Church from the record, it may be explained that in the Æthelweardian vision the rule of Wessex was meant to be independent from the sanction of the Church, a vision that he shared with Widukind, although the latter developed it more thoroughly, not only expunging the data. Also the abbesses’ interests seemed to be more focused on dynastical and genealogical

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records than on ecclesiastical ones. Their religious duties and loyalties were most often subordinated to family relations (Althoff 1991: 134). Yet, there are some more fundamental, more theoretical explanations pertaining to these issues, which also pinpoint the differences between modern and early medieval historiography. On the one hand, the mechanism of collective memory which contains images of the past with which people identify themselves is highly selective and has a tendency to update constantly. Only memories and facts useful currently are preserved. The whole past is not known and simply cannot be (Misztal 2003: 24). But in the case of institutions responsible for the preservation of memory and the shaping of identity, such as national museums or early medieval nunneries, the selectivity regarding material and the bias are the purpose of their existence. As these manipulative components are at the core of the phenomenon, it is worth asking whether they should be negatively stigmatized or maybe seen as characteristic of the genre convention (Huckin 2002: 351-52). Collective memory should not contain elements that impugn either the authority of these institutions or the positive picture of the imagined community. Furthermore, complete knowledge is rather an obstacle in enterprises of this kind. Full knowledge kills action, because it hinders decision-making and the free exercising of power. Abbesses, in order to impart and act as deputies or heads of important centres of power and tradition, needed only a specific, limited type of knowledge. So, ironically, power seeks ignorance in certain areas, especially when its dominance is unstable, such as the relatively weak position of Saxony in the Reich. Deception is sometimes more useful for institutions striving for power than accuracy. On the other hand, power is also exercised over knowledge, so eventually power defines what counts as knowledge or ‘reality’ (Flyvbjerg 1998: 27, 37-38, 193-94, 227-34; Foucault 1981: 131). No wonder that for Widukind and his readers the Saxons could be the descendants of Alexander the Great and German warriors from the north at the same time. Summing up, what I was trying to show here was the usefulness of research and theories of modern phenomena such as heritage or newer concepts of power, for the analysis of early medieval historiography. Both these modern enterprises and those from the tenth century are concerned with the legitimization of power through knowledge, and

Some Theoretical Remarks on the (Ab)Use of Historiography 109 the production of specific knowledge by institutions of power. On the other hand, I attempted to present how historiography met the expectations of the institutions supporting their interrelated educational and political aims. Partisanship and overt bias were means deliberately applied to achieve these goals. The theorized approaches to medieval historiography I presented here are of course not the only possible ones, but facing the needs for fresh questions and modes of explanation my intent was to demonstrate the potential profits we can gain from opening our research to different theories and other areas of study.

Notes

 1

A slightly shorter version of this text was presented at the Medieval Chronicle Conference in Reading, UK (15-19 July 2005). I should also like to express my gratitude to the anonymous reader of the earlier version of this article for the insightful comments and helpful suggestions. Gray Gatehouse from Örebro University also deserves my thanks for his critical proofreading of the text. 2 Of course, it is a rather simplistic view to claim that historical scholarship has never served nationalistic purposes (Geary 2002; Iggers 1999). 3 Patrick J. Geary in his Phantoms of Remembrance (New Jersey 1994: 8-13) falsifies the dichotomy between (professional) history and collective memory, arguing convincingly that both are political (in a broad sense) enterprises with their purposes, target groups etc. I do not deny this, but rather attempt to show that they have very different ways to achieve their political goals and that the features of the modern are not only untranslatable into medieval terms, but that also it is simply absurd to prompt them as these two are ruled by almost exactly opposite standards. 4 For the identification of Mathilda, the activity of Æthelweard, and the emergence of the chronicle see: Poole (1934: 115-22); Campbell (1962: xii-xvi); Miller (2001: 18). 5 The translations of Widukind's text are my own, those of Æthelweard are from Campbell (1962), those of Bede are from Sherley-Pierce (1990). 6 Hungarians are called hostes antiqui (Res gestae Saxonicae I, 75), which is an evocation of Gregory the Great’s word for the devil as the old enemy of mankind, and the eternal struggle between evil and good (Eggert, Pätzold 1984: 83; Gregory the Great: II, chapters 1, 4, 8, 11, 16, 30). 7 See for example an extended account on the beginning of the reign of King Ecgbyrht under annal 800, and my comments (Chronicon: 38; Jezierski 2005: 171-72). 8 As Halbwachs states: ‘Nothing serves us better than the first names to indicate this kind of recollection, which is based neither on general notions nor on individual images, but which nevertheless refers to a kinship link and to a specific person simultaneously’ (Halbwachs 2003: 71). 9 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle ‘A’ MS 1960, e.g. entries 644, 651, 703, 758.



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10

ASC ‘A’, e.g. 625, 731, 763, 830. ASC ‘A’, e.g. 643. ASC ‘A’, e.g. 672, 632, 646. 13 ASC ‘A’, e.g. 709, 794, 828, 833. 11 12

Bibliography Primary sources Æthelweard. Chronicon Æthelweardi. Ed. and trans. Alistair Campbell. London, 1962. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Trans. G. N. Garmonsway, London, 1960. Beda Venerabilis. Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum / Kirchengeschichte des englischen Volkes. 2 vols. Ed. and trans. G. Spitzbart. Darmstadt, 1982. Bede. Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Trans. Leo Sherley-Pierce. London, 1990. Gregory the Great, Dialogues. Bk. II. http://www.tertullian.org/fathers/gregory_02_ dialogues_book2.htm. Translatio Sancti Viti Martyris / Übertragung des hl. Märtyrers Vitus. Ed. and trans. Irene Schmale-Ott. Münster, 1979. Widukind. Res gestae Saxonicae. Quellen zur Geschichte der sächsischen Kaiserzeit. Ed. and trans. Albert Bauer, Reinhold Rau. Darmstadt, 1971. Secondary literature Althoff, Gerd (1991). ‘Gandersheim und Quedlinburg. Ottonische Frauenklöster als Herrschafts- und Überlieferungszentren.’ Frühmittelalterliche Studien 25: 12344. ––– (2000). Die Ottonen. Königsherrschaft ohne Staat. Stuttgart. Bagge, Sverre (2002). Kings, Politics, and the Right Order of the World in German Historiography c. 950-1150. Leiden. Beumann, Helmut (1972). ‘Historiographische Konzeption und politische Ziele Widukinds von Corvey’ Wissenschaft vom Mittelalter. Köln / Wien. 71-108. ––– (1950). Widukind von Korvei. Untersuchungen zur Geschichtsschreibung und Ideengeschichte des 10. Jahrhunderts. Weimar. Campbell, Alistair (1962). ‘Introduction.’ See Æthelweard, Chronicon Æthelweardi. Connor, Walker (1993). ‘Beyond reason: the nature of the ethnonational bond.’ Ethnic and Racial Studies 16: 373-89. Eggert, Wolfgang and Barbara Pätzold (1984). Wir-Gefühl und Regnum Saxonum bei frühmittelalterlichen Geschichtsschreibern. Weimar. Flyvbjerg, Bent (1998). Rationality and Power. Democracy in Practice. Trans. Steven Sampson. Chicago. Foot, Sarah (1999). ‘Remembering, Forgetting and Inventing: Attitudes to the Past in England at the End of the First Viking Age.’ Transactions of the Royal Historical Society IX: 185-200. Foucault, Michel (1981). Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews & Other Writings 1972-1977. Ed. Colin Gordon. New York.



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 Geary, Patrick J. (1994). Phantoms of Remembrance. Memory and Oblivion at the End of the First Millenium. New Jersey. ––– (2002). Myth of Nations. The Medieval Origins of Europe. New Jersey. Halbwachs, Maurice (2003). On Collective Memory. Ed. and trans. Lewis A. Coser. Chicago. Houts, Elisabeth van (1992). ‘Women and the writing of history in the early Middle Ages: the case of Abbess Matilda of Essen and Aethelweard.’ Early Medieval Europe 1: 53-68. Huckin, Thomas (2002). ‘Textual silence and the discourse of homelessness.’ Discourse and Society 13: 347-72. Iggers, Georg G. (1999). ‘The Role of Professional Historical Scholarship in the Creation and Distortion of Memory.’ In Historical Perspectives on Memory. Ed. Anne Ollila. Helsinki. 49-67. Jezierski, Wojtek (2005). ‘Æthelweardus redivivus.’ Early Medieval Europe 13: 15978. Kersken, Norbert (1995). Geschichtsschreibung im Europa der „nationes”. Nationalgeschichtliche Gesamtdarstellungen im Mittelalter. Köln. Lowenthal, David (1996). Possessed by the Past. The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History. New York. Lukes, Steven (1977). Power: A Radical View. London. Miller, Sean (2001). ‘Æthelweard.’ In The Blackwell Encyclopaedia of Anglo-Saxon England. Ed. M. Lapidge, J. Blair, S. Keynes, D. Scragg. Oxford. 18. Misztal, Barbara A. (2003). Theories of Social Remembering. Buckingham. Oberste, Jörg (2003). ‘Heilige und ihre Reliquien in der politischen Kultur der früheren Ottonenzeit.’ Frühmittelalterliche Studien 37: 73-98. Poole, Reginald L. (1934). ‘The Alpine Son-in-Law of Edward the Elder.’ In Studies in Chronology and History. Ed. A. L. Poole. Oxford. 115–22. Smyth, Alfred P. (1998). ‘The Emergence of English Identity, 700-1000.’ In Medieval Europeans: Studies in Ethnic Identity and National Perspectives in Medieval Europe. Ed. Alfred P. Smyth. Basingstoke. 24-52. Spiegel, Gabrielle M. (1999). The Past as Text. The Theory and Practice of Medieval Historiography. Baltimore.

WAITING FOR THE BARBARIANS: RECONSTRUCTION OF OTHERNESS IN THE SAXON MISSIONARY AND CRUSADING CHRONICLES, 11th –13th CENTURIES1

Linda Kaljundi

Abstract The article discusses the use of the rhetoric of Otherness during the expansion of Latin Christianity into the North from the ninth to the early thirteenth centuries. Arguing that the European encounters with the Other worlds have always been mediated by representations and images, it explores the transition from the classical image of the barbarian to the Christian understanding of pagan barbarians, and examines the role of textual authorities and intertextuality in the new discourse of Otherness. In addition, it discusses the role of that imagery in linking the local realm to the universal Christian history and geography, and in establishing the concept of identity and unity, the Christianitas at the Northern frontier. The study is based on four episcopal chronicles from the diocese of Hamburg-Bremen: Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum (written around I075-76), Helmold of Bosau’s Chronica Slavorum (around 1167-68, 1172), Arnold of Lübeck’s Chronica Slavorum (around 1200/1211), and Henry of Livonia’s Chronicon Livoniae (around 1224-27).

The Other has always had a place in the European imagination, inseparable from its function in the semiotic system and the language itself (Todorov 1982: 199-200). European encounters with the Other worlds have indeed always been mediated by representations and images. At first there were the Greeks who developed their concept of uncivilized barbarians, opposed to the urban culture of their own world (Hartog 2001: 57-67); and later those models were taken over by the Romans for describing the peoples living at the frontiers of their expanding empire. There is, however, no clear transition from

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the classical image of the barbarian to the Christian one (Greenblatt 2003: 128). As the collapse of the Roman Empire and the consolidation of Christian kingdoms transformed profoundly the relationship with the old barbarian world, from the seventh century onwards the ‘new barbarians’ came to signify not only an uncivilised foreigner, but also a non-Christian (Geary 2002: 141-150). Thereafter this representational practice formed and established itself along with the high medieval expansion of the Latin Christendom. The new image of Otherness is closely bound to the formation of a medieval concept of unity and identity, the Christianitas. Understood above all as a defensive term (Berend 2003), it opposed the Latin Christians to the peoples who lived at the Northern and Eastern frontiers of expanding Europe, as well as to the Saracens they confronted in the Iberian Peninsula and the Holy Land. At the heart of medieval Europe, it also excluded and marginalised the Jews, heretics and several other groups. This identity discourse was above all developed by expanding royal and ecclesiastical institutions, as well as military orders and the papacy. Even though cross-cultural interaction and alliances brought along a flexibility of identities and loyalties especially at the frontier areas,2 this did not alter the rhetoric of saving Christianity from its enemies, when hegemonies were at stake. In this article I will discuss the rhetoric of Otherness as used in the European expansion to the North, where, as Adam of Bremen has put it, ‘opens up another world’ (GHEP IV.21), and ‘much may be seen that is entirely strange and different to our people’ (GHEP IV.31). In this short examination of how this image of peoples and lands so utterly different from the Christian European world was exploited and expanded by the Saxon chroniclers, I claim that familiarity and authentification are the central issues for the construction of alterity. In the first section, I shall briefly introduce my source material as well as the Northern missions and crusades. After this I will look at the key objectives in the historical writing of the northern mission and religious warfare; and finally I will examine how the images of the Slavic, Nordic and Baltic peoples and lands were to answer to those concerns.

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I My textual corpus consists of four chronicles that were written by the clerics of the archdiocese of Hamburg-Bremen, and present the Saxon secular and ecclesiastical expansion to the North from the ninth until the early fourteenth century. The period the chronicles cover starts with the missionary wars that Charlemagne (742-814) held against the Saxons at the end of the eighth century (772-804). It is followed by the establishment of the new archdioceses (Hamburg-Bremen (831, 848/864) and Magdeburg (967/968)) at the frontier and their mission in the Slav areas in the ninth and the tenth centuries. These developments were paralleled by the gradual Christianisation and Europeanization of Scandinavia from the ninth until eleventh centuries, where the process of conversion resulted in a profound transformation of the social institutions. From the Second Crusade (1147-49) onwards, the campaigns held around the Baltic Sea became part of the crusading movement, and continued with the successful colonisation of the Western Slav areas by the Saxons and the Danes in the second half of the twelfth century, as well as the German and Danish crusades to Livonia and Estonia in the late twelfth and the early thirteenth century. Adam (d. before 1085), canon of Bremen, wrote his ‘History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen’ (Gestae Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum) in around 1075-76. The chronicle records the history of the archdiocese from its origins, and covers the spread of Christianity in the North from the ninth until the eleventh century from a clearly Saxon angle. Full of vivid and detailed descriptions of the Northern and Slavic peoples and lands, it marks the start of a more systematic representation of pagan barbarians in medieval historical writing. Around one hundred years later (in around 1167-72) the missionary and parish priest Helmold of Bosau (d. after 1177) continued Adam’s work with his ‘Chronicle of the Slavs’ (Chronica Slavorum). Relying heavily on Adam’s model, he records the history of the mission to the North until his own time and focuses on his experiences in the mission, conquest and colonisation of the Slavs in the frontier bishopric of Lübeck (Oldenburg).

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At the turn of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, Arnold (d. in around 1211-1214), abbot of the Benedictine monastery in Lübeck (since 1177), continued Helmold’s undertaking with his own ‘Chronicle of the Slavs’ (Chronica Slavorum). The central aim of the text is to legimise the deeds of Duke Henry the Lion of Saxony (1142-1180) by presenting him as the sole protector of the Saxon mission. Yet, the chronicle also deals with a much wider range of topics: the politics of the German Holy Roman Empire as well as the Third (1189-1192) and Fourth (1202-1204) Crusade to the Holy Land. At the turn of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries another suffragane of Hamburg-Bremen, Riga, was established on the eastern coast of the Baltic Sea (1186/1201). In around 1225-27, yet another missionary and parish priest, Henry (d. after 1259) wrote his ‘Chronicle of Livonia’ (Chronicon Livoniae) there, covering the first forty years of the mission and crusading in Livonia and Estonia from a strictly Rigan (German) angle. All four chronicles hence describe a similar situation: the Christians invade, conquer, and convert a world perceived and represented as different. Therefore, their task is that of mapping, defining, and naming the Other world, and linking the story of its conversion to the Christian history and geography.

II The crucial task of those founding narratives is to establish the history and identity of those young missionary bishoprics, to give authority to their claims, and to fix the boundaries of their territories. As these were the times of struggle over lands, peoples, and taxes between the sees, the Saxon and the Danish rulers (Lotter 1989, Jensen 1989), as well as of ecclesiastical rivalry between the Saxon and Northern churches (Ahrén 2004, Nyberg 1998), it is not surprising that legitimacy and authority are the central issues of those chronicles. These texts vividly show that medieval historical writing should be considered a genre that most often serves fundamental political issues (Bagge 1996), and that those issues largely determine as well as bring coherence into the selection and representation of events. In medieval historiography authority relies greatly on an understanding of history as the fulfilment of Divine Providence, where

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historical facts can achieve spiritual meaning if typologically related to the sacred past (Bagge 1996: 345-48) and treated as different manifestations of the same eternal truth, Sacred history (Mégier 2000: 625-29). Here the Scripture, writings of the Church Fathers, saints’ lives, Early Christian and Roman authors provided the main models for historical writing. Moreover, while establishing an intertextual contact with the tradition, also the new text can gain authority and become a part of the sacred discourse (Mortensen 2005). As Adam of Bremen was the first to link Northern history and geography to the Christian discourse, the text reveals his anxiety to cover it all with textual authorities. In his careful network of references and images he has combined the Bible, the Roman historians and geographers (Sallust, Solinus, Martian Capella et al.) and classical poets (Vergil, Horace, Lucan et al.) with the Early Christian (Orosios, Bede Venerabilis) and Frankish authors (Einhard, Gregory of Tours), the annals of monasteries (the Annales Fuldenses and Annales Corbienses) and saints’ lives (the ninth-century vitae of Ansgar, Willehad, Rimbert et al.) (see Schmeidler 1933, Trillmich 1961). These are accompanied by references to documents and letters, and for the periods for which he has no written records to present, Adam claims to have relied on eyewitnesses' testimonies (see GHEP Praef., I.49-50, I.54, II.24, 60, 63, III.63). Helmold of Bosau relied to a great extent on the authority of Adam and followed many of his ‘worthy-to-be-imitated’ (HCS Praef.) predecessor’s own and intertextual patterns. The chronicle also includes modest indirect quotations from the Roman poets (Vergil, Ovid et al.) and historians (Sallust, Julius Valerius), Early Christian authors (Boethius, Sulpicius Severus, Paul the Deacon), and Eckehard of Aura (see Schmeidler 1911), yet Helmold’s style is most significantly influenced by the Vulgata. A similarly heavy reliance on the Vulgata as well as liturgical texts, and fewer and fewer borrowings from the classical and Christian authors, is visible in Arnold’s and Henry’s texts (Arbusow 1951, Bilkins 1928). Besides Helmold very little is known about Arnold’s historiographical sources (Scior 2002: 226, 282), and almost nothing of Henry’s (Arbusow 1950). However, for those two authors a new type of authoritative model was provided by crusading rhetoric. Furthermore, the mission and crusading themselves were understood as an imitation of the past. Missionary ideals were based on the

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imitatio of Christ’s earthly life, the Prophets, Apostles and saints (Constable 1995: 148-49). Likewise the milites Christi were seen as pilgrims (Tyerman 1998: 55-56); and the crusading ideology also relied greatly on the idea of following the great deeds of the army of Israel in their wars against the infidels. All this results in a high level of intertextuality that gives authority to the histories of those new and expanding institutions, as well as to their descriptions of peoples and landscapes, which so far have not been part of the Christian discourse.

III However, what is the relationship between the above-mentioned key concerns and the images of Otherness, that is the chroniclers’ colourful descriptions of faraway lands and peoples, demonic creatures, marvels and wonders? While previously those accounts have been explained in terms of interest in ethnology and exoticism (e.g. Smalley 1974), recently more interest has been paid to their functions in those founding narratives (Scior 2002). They illustrate not only how the authors have solved the problem of describing the un-described, but also, and even more so, how they have used Otherness as a rhetorical tool, or how and why they have come to tell the difference in the first place. The Other is obviously the sine quo non for a mission and a crusade. When it comes to legitimising conquest, the first and foremost issue is that of establishing a radical difference between the conquerors and the conquered and, needless to say, here the first dividing line goes between Christians and non-Christians. Henceforth above all analogy and comparison are used to define the different, relying on textual authorities that provide not only a tool to explain the unknown through the known, but also a link to the Biblical, Early Christian, as well as Roman histories about encounters with the pagan and barbarian world. The genealogy of the Northern pagan barbarians goes back to the tradition about the Saxon wars. It draws on the hagiographic sources about the early missions to Germania and Scandinavia, and on the annals of monasteries that tell about the persecution of Christians during the Viking assaults, which relied on biblical tradition and gave

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many models for depicting the ferocity and cruelty of our enemies. Thence the chronicles present the wars of the German emperors against the pagan barbarians, relying on the image of Christian kings as the imitators of Christ in His royal role on earth, and the Christianisation of Scandinavian kingdoms, also with an emphasis on the saintly kings. Adapting these overall structures, slowly a local tradition emerges, employing the image of the cold and dark idolatrous North. From the beginning the Christian understanding of paganism is accompanied by the Roman notion of barbarianism. The multiple use of the Roman legacy is most clearly manifested in Adam’s chronicle, especially in his account of heathen Saxony (GHEP I.3-8), which relies greatly on Einhard and the hagiographical sources that were modelled after Tacitus’ Germania. On the one hand, Adam presents the Roman model of uncivilised world, emphasising the primitiveness of the Saxon society and religion alike (GHEP I.7-8). On the other hand, he compares the Saxon gods, rituals and temples with the pagan Roman ones (GHEP I.7).3 The classical pattern for describing barbarian religions as animism contributes also to the representation of the pagan barbarian space, which is dominantly characterised not only as uncultivated, but abounding with pagan gods and demons.4 The classical tradition slowly amalgamates into an overall Nordic model of writing about pagans and barbarians, together with its most prominent notions of difference, like the lack of social order, practice of human sacrifice and violent rites, and cannibalism, so that later authors can often use them as signifiers of the pagan barbarians without any longer references. Adam, however, still carefully refers to both traditions. When he speaks of the Norwegian magicians, who are ‘so superior in the magic arts or incantations that they profess to know what everyone is doing the world over’ (Vergil Aeneid xi.344-5, Juvenal Satires vi.402), and they ‘also draw great sea monsters to shore with a powerful mumbling of words and do much else which one reads in the Scriptures about magicians’ (Gen 1: 21; GHEP IV.31). The Biblical models are present in all four texts, functioning as a link between the present history and the eternal Sacred history, as well as the universal model of fall, penance and redemption. To explain the misfortunes of wars and revolts, the most authoritative model was provided by the verse about the heathens coming into the Lord’s

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inheritance, i.e. Jerusalem (Ps 79), which the authors have used in their lamentations about either Jerusalem itself or Christian frontier settlements.5 A similar model for describing the fall of the pagans is provided by the prophecy over the fall of Babylon (Ier 50). Moreover, mission and crusade in a place signified as wilderness and a vast solitude refers to the imitation of Christ, the Apostles, desert dwellers and saints, as well as the Exodus of the people of Israel.6 On the other hand, these models also indicate that the history of paganism is not opposed to, but it has always been a part of the sacred discourse, as the comparisons with the pagans of the Scriptures do not only give authority to the images of the pagans but also link the history of the Hamburg-Bremen church to the universal history of the faith. These patterns are closely bound to yet another notable source, the hagiographic tradition, which gave a canonical model for representing encounters with the pagan world, based on the imitation of earlier saints, Apostles and Christ. Here the martyrdoms and miracles as well as the apostolic religious valour of the founding fathers of the bishoprics contribute significantly to the authority of their new sees, which are ‘established amid so much danger from the heathens’ that they are worthy of ‘being honoured everywhere by all the churches’ (GHEP II.5). This gives a clear role for the Others, who are to provide either a proper persecutor or neophyte for missionaries and martyrs, thus becoming an integral part of those sacred stories. The pilgrimage tradition’s focus on the symbolic elements of landscape (deserts, woods and seas) also brought coherence to the representation of the spatial scenery; it is best represented by Arnold’s carefully structured pilgrimage and crusading landscape for his account of Duke Henry of Saxony’s pilgrimage to Jerusalem, including all the key-elements of the symbolic space (sea, woods, and deserts) (ACS I.1-12; see also Scior 2004: 291-92). By the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries many of the earlier models were amalgamated into the crusading rhetoric, which is more visible in Arnold’s and Henry’s chronicles. The representation of the knights of Christ as defenders of Christianitas being the central issue, the authors’ most marked patterns relied on the wars that the Maccabees and great kings of Israel fought in the name of the Lord against the unbelievers (Riley-Smith 1987: 8). Henry describes a liturgical drama that took place in Riga in around 1204 as ‘a prelude

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and prophecy for the future, for in the same play there were the wars, namely those of David, Gideon, and Herod’ (HCL IX.14). Adapting the representation to an overall scheme, the texts focus on the main legitimising signs of campaigns, and here the rhetoric of a just war undertaken for a just cause also unifies the images of the enemies of the Lord. Moreover, these biblical models gave a pattern for enemies as well, who were compared to the Amorhites, Phlistines and other pagan tribes from the Old Testament.7 The call to defend a small number of Christians from the threat of hostile barbarians, and the emphasis on a victory over a vast multitude through the hands of the few, is especially prominent in passages influenced by crusading sermons and proclamations, or reveal the rhetoric of the military orders (see Kaljundi 2005: 165-69, 181-87). The Others, however, are again divided between two functions, as among them there are neophytes, in whose defence the crusade is undertaken, as well as pagans and apostates from whom the new congregation needs to be defended. All three later authors also emphasise the equality of the crusades to the Holy Land, Iberian Peninsula, and Baltic Sea region (e.g. HCS 59, ACS V.30, HCL XIX.7). As the expansion took place in a long line of conquests, withdrawals and reconquests, the model of Christian reconquest could be used for the newly Christianised territories of the North, which gave a universal just cause for a just war, i.e. saving the Christian lands from the heathens. This reveals yet another feature eminent in all those texts, namely that the images of lands(capes) tend to overshadow those of people, often accompanied by an opposition between the fertility of the conquered and/or colonised land and the barbarian character of its inhabitants. Especially since lands are depicted as Christian far earlier than the people living on it, this reduction of the original inhabitants to the level of beast-like pagan barbarians is closely linked to the claims of the new rulers (see also Greenblatt 2003: 66-70). Here the Israelian Exodus to the Promised Land of Canaan provided the most eminent legitimising model for colonial activities, developed most significantly by Helmold. Firstly, he depicts the once Christian colonies in the lands of the Slavs as a deserted wilderness. And thereafter, he goes on to describe carefully the destruction of the pagan sacred places, and the Christening of space via martyrdoms, baptism, churches, cemeteries, etc.8 It reflects an understanding of the

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Church as both a spiritual and a spatial concept (e.g. Mt 16: 18), closely bound to physical constructions (Lauwers 2005: 9-19). These material signs of Christian land yet not only reflect the idea that sanctity had to be physically present in order to effect a change (Ross 1998), but also help to create real existing power and mark both the ecclesiastical and secular subordination. Therefore the significant attention placed by Helmold on the transformation of space reflects the crucial importance of land possession during the conquest and settlement at the frontier. At the same time the accompanying cerealization image (Bartlett 1993: 133-66) contributes significantly to a colonial story of people coming to cultivate the fertile, yet scarcely agricultural lands and fill them with towns and villages. Stating that ‘the Germans came from their lands to dwell in the spacious country, rich in grain, smiling in the fullness of pasture lands, abounding with fish and flesh and all good things’ (HCS 88: ref. Ex. 3: 8), Helmold establishes a link between Slavia and the Land of Canaan as well as the German colonists and the Israelis’ journey to the Promised Land. Thus this imagery provides manifold scenery for all the actors. Functioning firstly as a suffering landscape, the vast pagan wilderness underlines the perils the missionaries, crusaders and colonists had to experience before reaching the grace of God. Secondly, it represents the reward for those elected people: the new church and congregation that signifies the spiritual triumph of the priests, and the Promised Land that sacrilizes the colonial narrative. Altogether these representations of martyrs, missionaries, crusaders, and colonists as the followers of the saints, Apostles and people of Israel contribute significantly to the collective identity of the missionary church and the new frontier communities, as well as provide authority and legitimacy for the ecclesiastical and colonial rule. As their histories also include a story of their opponents, persecutors of Christians, pagan and warlike tribes, as well as neophytes, they provide models and largely determine images for both ‘us’ and ‘them’. What about the overall dynamics in the representation of pagans and barbarians? Like the parallel images provided by textual authorities, the other features of both ‘us’ and ‘them’ similarly rely on binary oppositions. Presenting one with a characteristic and the Other with its

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opposite, they help to create identity for both the describer and the described one. The Christian virtues and civilisation that exclude the pagans from Christianitas are applied to peoples after their subjugation to ecclesiastical rule, functioning as a sign of inclusion among the Christians. While the darkness of idolatry changes into the light of the true faith, also war changes into peace, grief to joy, pride to humility, ignorance to knowledge of the true faith, rebelliousness to obedience; in a similar way the space goes through significant transformations, becoming Christian, cultivated and safe. As Helmold has put it, then it ‘was great gladness among all the people of Northern nations; cheer and peace began at the same time. The icy cold of the North gave way to the mildness of the south wind, the harassing sea stopped and the tempestuous storms abated’ (HCS 110). As is evident from these and other sources, the mission took place in a long line of conquests, withdrawals, and reconquests, and hence brought along changing loyalties between Christians and nonChristians. Yet, the written records represent an overall missionary and/or crusading call, and hold true to dualistic images, where all enemy’s campaigns are interpreted as aimed against the true faith (Christianity, the Christians, and the Christian space (churches)). The signs of Otherness (vices, idolatry and heresy) are however applied also to the Christian rivals of the episcopal churches: the Saxon princes, Danes, Swedes, and the Northern episcopal sees.9 Especially the crusading period shows the flexibility of the universal call to fight the enemies of the Christian faith, as the ‘enemies’ came to include also Christian peoples, like Orthodox Russians.10 Moreover, as similar rhetoric was used also in power-struggles within Europe (Janson 2003), the signs of apostate and pagan should often be considered not to refer primarily to a non-Christian, but to issues of ecclesiastical subordination, or being disobedient to the Saxon church. In conclusion, the ultimate issues that determine the representation of Otherness are the need to legitimise warfare, as well as secular and ecclesiastical rule over land and peoples, and to give the new bishoprics and colonies a history and identity that would link them with the Christian tradition. Written to support the claims of those young institutions, these texts reflect the territorialisation of episcopal rule, and can thus be compared to the rhetoric accompanying the development of royal power.

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Even though a closer reading of these representations of Otherness can also reveal many local and personal experiences, their overall structure is part of a dynamic exchange between the concerns of individual authors and a wider network of images, references and metaphors. Thus this history and geography of the North largely results in a re-presentation of the biblical histories and landscapes that were imagined and re-imagined throughout medieval Europe. Reflecting the ideals, anxieties and needs of missionaries, colonists, crusaders, and above all else, of the learned ecclesiastical elite, they are to give coherence to these new communities. As in most frontier areas of high medieval Europe, these images of the Other primarily serve the making of European identities. Yet exactly for this reason one could also ask, to paraphrase Edward Said, whether this North is not almost a European invention, above all a place for re-acting and re-imagining great deeds and remarkable experiences, as well as for passing through spiritual landscapes (Said 1978: 1-28).

Notes 1 The article has been written in the framework of the grants ETF5514 , ETF7129, and SF0042478s03. 2 E.g. Berend (2001: 42-73); Lotter (1989: 269-73); MacKay (1989: 219-30). 3 A similar pattern for describing the pagan barbarians as both classical barbarians and pagan Romans is present in Adam’s description of the great temple in Uppsala (GHEP IV.26-28; see Janson 1998), or the Slavic temple in Rethra (GHEP II.18; see also Kaljundi 2005: 52-72, 107-34). 4 This pattern can be followed throughout the textual corpus, from the Saxons who ‘even regarded with reverence leafy trees and springs’ (GHEP I.8, ref. to Tacitus’ Germania 9, Einhard’s Vita Karoli Magni 7) to the pagan gods of the Livs and Estonians, described as e.g. ‘an image growing out of a tree’ (HCL X.14, see also HCL XXIV.5). 5 GHEP II.77-78, III.50; HCS 24, 31, and elsewhere in the corpus. 6 E.g. GHEP II.14, III.63,67, IV.1; HCS 12, 47, 73; ACS II.21. For a similar use of the wilderness topos in the spiritual topography of the Cistercian founding narratives, see Bruun 2004. 7 GHEP I.52, II.42, III.49, HCS 16,22, HCL X.10, and elsewhere in the corpus. 8 E.g. HCS 84, 108; compare with HCL XXIV.1 and XXIV.5. For the Christianisation of space in Henry’s chronicle see Jensen (forthcoming). 9 For abundant critique of the avarice of the Saxon princes in Adam’s and Helmold’s chronicles, see Kaljundi (2005: 122-26, 144-49). Power struggles between the Christian rulers are also the focus of Arnold’s chronicle, esp. in books II, III, V-VII. See also HCL XXV.2.

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10 E.g. HCL I.2, VII.4-5, IX-XI, XIV.2, XVI.2, XXVIII.4. Compare also with ACS V.30.

Bibliography Primary sources ACS = Arnoldi Chronica Slavorum. Ed. Johann Martin Lappenberg and L. Weiland. MGH Scriptores 21. Hannover, 1869. 100-250. GHEP = Adami Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum. Ed. Johann Martin Lappenberg. MGH Scriptores 7. Hannover, 1846. Trans. as Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen. Records of Western Civilisation Series. Trans. Francis J. Tschan. New York: Columbia University Press, 1959; rpt. 2002. HCL = Heinrici Chronicon Livoniae. Heinrichs Livländische Chronik. MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum 31. Ed. Leonid Arbusow and Albert Bauer. Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1955. Trans. as Henry of Livonia. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia. Trans. James Brundage. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1961; rpt. New York: Columbia University Press, 2003. HCS = Helmoldi presbyteri Bozoviensis Chronica Slavorum = Helmold von Bosau, Slawenchronik. Trans. by Heinz Stoob. Darmstadt: Wissenshaftliche Buchgesellscahft; Berlin: Rütten & Loening, 1963. Trans. as Helmold, the priest of Bosau, The Chronicle of the Slavs. Records of Civilisation, Sources and Studies 21. Trans. Francis J. Tschan. New York: Columbia University Press,1935. Secondary literature AhreĔ, Per-Olov, and Anders Jarlert, eds. (2004). Lund – medeltida kyrkometropol: symposium i samband med ärkestiftet Lunds 900-årsjubileum, 27-28 april 2003. Bibliotheca historico-ecclesiastica Lundensis 47. Lund: Arken. Arbusow, Leonid (1950). ‘Das entlehnte Sprachgut in Heirnrcihs “Chronicon Livoniae”. Ein Beitrag zur Sprache mittelalterlicher Chronistik.’ Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 8: 101-53. ––– (1951). Liturgie und Geschichtsschreibung im Mittelalter: in ihren Beziehungen erläutert an den Schriften Ottos von Freising (1158), Heinrichs Livlandchronik und den anderen Missionsgeschichten des Bremischen Erzsprengels: Rimberts, Adams von Bremen, Helmolds. Bonn: Ludwig Röhrscheid Verlag. Bagge, Sverre (1996). ‘Ideas and Narrative in Otto of Freising`s Gesta Frederici.’ Journal of Medieval History 22: 345-77. ––– (2002). Kings, Politics and the Right Order of the World in German Historiography c. 950-1150. Leiden etc.: Brill. Bartlett, Robert (1993). The Making of Europe: Conquest, Colonisation, and Cultural Change, 950-1350. London: Allen Lane. Berend, Nora (2001). At the Gate of Christendom: Jews, Muslims and ‘Pagans’ in Medieval Hungary, c. 1000 – c. 1300. Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought: 4th ser. 50. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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––– (2003). ‘Défense de la Chrétienté et naissance d´une identité: Hongrie, Polonge et péninsule Ibérique au Moyen Âge.’ Annales HSS 5 (Sept.-Oct.): 1009-27. Bilkins, Wilis (1928). Die Spuren von Vulgata, Brevier und Missale in der Sprache von Heinrich Chronikon Livoniae. Riga. Bruun, Mette Birkedal (2004). ‘Cistercienserne og den spirituelle topografi.’ In Undervejs mod Gud: Rummet og rejsen i middelalderlig religiøsitet. Ed. Mette Birkedal Bruun and Britt Istoft. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag. 66-85. Constable, Giles (1995). Three Studies in Medieval Religious and Social Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Greenblatt, Stephen (2003). Marvellous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World. Oxford: Clarendon Press. (1st ed. 1991.) Hartog, François (2001). Le miroir d'Hérodote: essai sur la représentation de l'autre. Paris. (1st ed. 1980.) Janson, Henrik (1998). Templum nobilissimum: Adam av Bremen, Uppsalatemplet och konfliktlinjerna i Europa kring år 1075. Avhandlingar från Historiska institutionen i Göteborg. Gothenberg. ––– (2003). ‘What Made the Pagans Pagans.’ In Scandinavia and Christian Europe in the Middle Ages. Papers of the 12th International Saga Conference, Bonn/ Germany, 28th July – 2nd August 2003. Ed. Rudolf Simek and Judith Meurer. Bonn: Handdruckerei der Universität Bonn. 250-56. Jensen, Carsten Selch (forthcoming). ‘The Chronicon Livoniae and the Question of How to Convert a Landscape.’ In The Clash of Cultures on the Medieval Baltic Frontier. Ed. Alan V. Murray. Aldershot etc.: Ashgate. Jensen, Kurt Villads (2002). ‘The Blue Baltic Border of Denmark in the High Middle Ages.’ Medieval Frontiers: Concepts and Practices. Eds. David Abulafia and Nora Berend. Aldershot etc.: Ashgate. 173-93. Kaljundi, Linda (2005). ‘Waiting for the Barbarians: The Imagery, Dynamics and Functions of the Other in Northern-German Missionary Chronicles, 11th – Early 13th Centuries. The Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum of Adam of Bremen, Chronica Slavorum of Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum of Arnold of Lübeck, and Chronicon Livoniae of Henry of Livonia.’ Unpublished MA-thesis published electronically by the University of Tartu Library: http://www.utlib.ee/ ekollekt/diss/mag/2005/b17445875/kaljundi.pdf Lauwers, Michel (2005). Naissance du cimetière: Lieux sacrés et terre des morts dans l`Occident medieval. Paris: Aubier. MacKay, Angus (1989). ‘Religion, Culture, and Ideology on the Late Medieval Castilian.Granadan Frontier.’ In Medieval Frontier Societies. Ed. Robert Bartlett and Angus Mackay. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 217-43. Mégier, Elisabeth (2000). ‘“Ecclesiae sacramenta”: The Spiritual Meaning of Old Testament History and the Foundation of the Church in Hugh of Fleury’s “Historia ecclesiastica”.’ Studi medievali. 3rd ser. 43: 625-49. Mortensen, Lars Boje (2005). ‘The Language of Geographical Description in TwelfthCentury Scandinavia.’ Filologia Mediolatina 12: 103-21 . Nyberg, Tore (1998). ‘The Danish Church and Mission in Estonia.’ Nordeuropaforum 1: 49-72. Riley-Smith, Jonathan (1987). The Crusades: a Short History. London : Athlone.

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Ross, Margaret (1998). ‘Land-Taking and Text-Making in Medieval Iceland.’ In Text and Territory: Geographical Imagination in the European Middle Ages. Ed. Sylvia Tomasch and Sealy Gilles. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. 159-84. Said, Edward (1978). Orientalism. London: Routledge and Kegan. Scior, Volker (2002). Das Eigene und das Fremde: Identität und Fremdheit in den Chroniken Adams von Bremen, Helmolds von Bosau und Arnold von Lübeck. Orbis mediaevalis. Vorstellungwelten des Mittelalters 4. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Schmeidler, Bernhard (1911). ‘Zur Sprache Helmold’s.’ Neues Archiv für ältere deutsche Geshcichtskunde 36: 538-42. ––– (1933). ‘Zur Entstehung und zum Plane der Hamburgischen Kirchengeschichte Adams von Bremen.’ Neues Archiv für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 50: 221-28. Smalley, Beryl (1974). Historians in the Middle Ages. London: Thames and Hudson. Todorov, Tzvetan (1982). La conquete de´l Amerique: la question de´l autre. Paris: Éditions du seuil. Trillmich, Werner (1961). ‘Einleitung.’ In Quellen des 9. und 11. zur Geschichte Hamburgishcen Kirche und des Reiches: Fontes saeculorum noni et undecimi historiam ecclesiae Hammaburgensis necnon imperii illustrantes – Rimberti vita Anskarii, Adami Bremensis gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, Wiponis gesta Chuonradi II. imperatoris, Herimanni Augiensis chronicon. Ed. by Werner Trillmilch. Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters 11. Darmstadt: Wissenchaftliche Buchgesellschaft. 137-58.

A WARNING TO THE INCURIOUS: M. R. JAMES, THE SCALACRONICA AND THE ANGLO-NORMAN PROSE BRUT CHRONICLE

Andy King and Julia Marvin

Abstract Jesus College, Cambridge, MS Q.G.10 contains two chronicles of English history. One of them, an Anglo-Norman chronicle ending at 1272, was identified by M. R. James, the eminent Victorian scholar and writer of ghost stories, as a fragmentary text of Sir Thomas Gray’s Scalacronica. Although the chronicle indeed presents many verbal correspondences with Gray’s work, James was mistaken, and MS Q.G.10 in fact contains a version of the Anglo-Norman prose Brut chronicle; the similarities stem from Gray’s heavy use of the prose Brut in his narrative for the period 1100-1272. This paper discusses how James came to make his erroneous identification; assesses the relationship between the Brut text in MS Q.G.10 and other versions of the prose Brut; examines Thomas Gray’s adaption of the prose Brut, as well as his reticence about his use of it; and ends by considering some of the potential pitfalls of relying on manuscript catalogues.

M.R. James was a man of many talents.1 The writer of some of the finest ghost stories in the English language, he was a medieval scholar of great eminence, editing many texts, and – as will mainly concern us here – cataloguing medieval manuscripts on a truly prodigious scale. One of his earliest endeavours in this field was the cataloguing of the library of Jesus College, Cambridge; the fruits of his labours appeared in 1895, as A Descriptive Catalogue of the Manuscripts in the Library of Jesus College, Cambridge. Amongst the manuscripts described therein is MS Q.G.10 (no. 58 in James’ catalogue), which contains two chronicles of English history, both ending in the reign of Henry III. The first of these, written in French prose (henceforth J), James

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listed as the Scalacronica of Sir Thomas Gray. The entry reads as follows: The Scala Chronica of Sir Thomas Gray (d. 1369?), in French prose, imperfect at the beginning. Partly edited by Stevenson for the Maitland Club. The principal MS. is at Corpus Christi (Cambridge), no. 132 [recte 133]. The present copy is imperfect at the beginning. The first words are drount a brut de loranguise et del seruage. The first rubric (f. 49) is coment les deux freres mampiz et Maulin estriuerent pour la terre. This copy goes down as far as the death of Henry III in 1272. The Corpus MS. ends in 1362 [recte 1363]. (James 1895: 92-3)

How did he arrive at this identification? The beginning of the manuscript is missing some folios, and the first folio that does survive is partially illegible. James would thus have focussed on the end of the chronicle, which, as he noted, concluded with the death of Henry III, an easily recognisable point for comparison with other known chronicles. Naturally, he would have turned first to printed sources. Editions of Anglo-Norman prose chronicles of English history were not especially commonplace in 1895 (nor indeed are they in 2007), so it is hardly surprising that he should have lighted upon Sir Thomas Gray’s Scalacronica, which had been partially edited by Joseph Stevenson in 1836.2 As James notes, the manuscript used by Stevenson (Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, MS 133 – henceforth C) ends in 1363, with the marriage of King David of Scotland to Margaret de Logie (erroneously dated by James to 1362). Having identified the section of Stevenson’s edition which dealt with the death of Henry III, James would have noticed some verbal correspondences; a quick comparison would confirm that these correspondences extended back through Stevenson’s text, and so the identification was made. Medieval historiography was not one of James’ main interests, and having made so quick and seemingly easy an identification, he did not spend any more time on the work. Indeed, it can be inferred that James’ examination of J was somewhat cursory. While he noted that it was ‘imperfect at the beginning’,3 he seems to have failed to notice that a large section, almost certainly a complete quire, has also

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been lost from the middle, for between fols. 62v. and 63r., the narrative leaps suddenly, in mid-sentence, from the reign of William Rufus to that of King John.4 Given the magnitude of James’ task, which he carried out single-handedly, he simply would not have had the time to subject every item in every one of the seventy-seven medieval manuscripts in Jesus College library to a detailed examination (particularly as this was only one of five catalogues of medieval manuscript collections which he published that year (Piper 2001: 53)). There was thus little incentive to devote much attention to texts which were apparently easily identifiable, such as J. And when James came to catalogue the Parker Library’s Scalacronica manuscript some ten years later, he found no reason to revise his earlier identification; his catalogue duly describes C as ‘the best copy of the Scala Chronica’ (James 1905: 306). Nonetheless, while J and C often correspond closely, their differences are significant. The phrasing of C and J is not identical, and J has rubricated chapter headings while C has no chapter headings at all.5 Rather more significantly however, the close correspondences between the two manuscripts occur only from their accounts of the reign of John onwards. Before this point, they are dissimilar. J is not in fact the Scalacronica: James got it wrong, and he inadvertently summoned into existence a spectral Scalacronica manuscript which continues to haunt scholars even today – although not, it must be said, to any great ill effect. Certainly it did not trouble Sir Herbert Maxwell, who did not even mention the existence of J in his translation of the Scalacronica, published in 1907.6 Indeed, it was not until 1993 that an attempt was made to exorcise James’ phantom, when, having examined J, Jean-Claude Thiolier realised that it is in fact a text of the Anglo-Norman prose Brut chronicle; or, as he put it, ‘Jesus College 58 est simplement le énième manuscrit porteur du Brut d’Engleterre’.7 Common as manuscripts of the prose Brut may be, scholarship on it has been sparse: Frederic Madden was lamenting the lack of a modern edition as early as 1856, but F. W. D. Brie’s monograph and edition of the main Middle English translation of the Brut would not appear until 1905 and 1906-8 respectively, nearly a decade after the appearance of the Jesus catalogue; and no complete text of any AngloNorman version would be published for another hundred years.8 The title of Thiolier’s piece, ‘La Scalacronica: Première Approche’,

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serves to highlight the curious scholarly neglect in which the Scalacronica – and Anglo-Norman historical prose in general – have languished. This goes a long way towards explaining how James’ error remained undetected for so long, even after an edition of a prose Brut text became available. Unfortunately, Thiolier’s findings do not yet seem to have reached a wide audience – perhaps because they appear in a French language essay collection published in England, with the slightly ambiguous title of Les manuscrits français de la bibliothèque Parker. And so, the Anglo-Norman Text Society’s authoritative guide to Anglo-Norman manuscripts, published as late as 1999, still lists MS Q.G.10 as containing a manuscript of the Scalacronica, and not the prose Brut.9 The prose Brut chronicle traces the history of Britain (England, in effect) from the fall of Troy and the coming of Brutus, greatgrandson of Aeneas and eponymous founder of the realm. In its oldest surviving form, concluding with the death of Henry III in 1272, it is derived largely from well-known sources such as Wace’s Roman de Brut and Geoffrey Gaimar’s Estoire des Engleis (and probably also the Historia Regum Britannie of Geoffrey of Monmouth). For the period from Harold onwards it draws chiefly on a source closely resembling the chronicle of Barlings Abbey, a Premonstratensian house in Lincolnshire.10 The prose Brut was a comparatively short and episodic work, well suited to being read aloud, and first composed in Anglo-Norman French; it would thus have been more readily accessible to the lay audience for whom it appears to have been intended than was the bulk of historical writing in learned Latin. This ‘Oldest Version’ of the prose Brut survives in five manuscripts.11 The chronicle became hugely popular, and gave rise to a complex manuscript tradition, with some fifty Anglo-Norman manuscripts now extant in all. Over time it was furnished with prologues and various continuations; the principal later versions, which take the narrative up to the 1330s, are the so-called ‘Short Version’ and the more thoroughly revised ‘Long Version’, which adds prophecies of Merlin to the text, among other things.12 The ‘Long Version’ was subsequently translated into English and given its own continuations. The Middle English prose Brut proved the most popular historical work in late medieval England, surviving in over 180 manuscripts, as well as

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thirteen early printed editions by Caxton and others.13 There were also versions in Latin.14 At first glance, it would seem obvious that J, which also closes with the death of Henry III, is a copy of the ‘Oldest Version’ of the Brut. Comparison of the endings of the two (with substantive differences between the two highlighted in bold text) shows just how close they are: Le cinquantisme qint an del regne le Roi Henri Edward son fiz Johan de Bretaigne, Johan de Vescy Thomas de Clare, Roger de Clifford Othes de Graundsoun Robert le Bruys Johan de Verdoun & multz des autres granz seignurs pristrent de lor chimin od grant compaignie des genz en la terre seinte, & demorerent illuc qe grant temps. Et tant come Sire Edward demora en la terre seinte son piere le Roi Henri se lessa morir a Loundre quant il auoit noblement regne .Lvj. anz .xix. iours si morust le iour seint Edmund lerceuesqe de Canterbury & fust enterre noblement a Westmouster le iour seint Edmund le Roi & martir lan del Incarnacion ihesu crist ml’.CClxxij. anz de qi alme dieu eit merci amen. (Jesus College, Cambridge, MS Q.G.10, fol. 70v.) Le cinquantime quint an del regne le Roi Henri, Edward son fiz, Iohan de Bretaine, Iohan de Vescy, Thomas de Clare, Roger de Clifford, Othes de Grandson, Robert de Brus, Iohan de Verdoun, e multz des autres granz seignurs de cea la mer e de la pristrent le chimin oue grant companie e oue grant poer des genz en la Terre Seinte. E demorerent iloqes graunt temps, e tant come Sire Edward demora en la Terre Seinte, son per le Roi Henri se lessa morir a Loundres, quant il auoit regne ben e noblement lvi aunz e xix iours. Si morust le iour Seint Edmund lerceuesqe de Caunterbury, e fust enterre noblement a Westmonster le iour Seint Edmund le roi e martir, lan del Incarnacioun Nostre Seignur Ihesu Crist mil cc lxxii aunz, de qi alme deu eit mercy. Amen. [The fifty-fifth year of the reign of King Henry, Edward his son, John of Brittany, John de Vescy, Thomas de Clare, Roger Clifford, Otto de Grandson, Robert Bruce, John de Verdun, and many other great lords from this side and that of the sea made their way with a great company and a great force of men to the Holy Land. And they remained there a long while, and while Lord Edward was dwelling in the Holy Land, his father King Henry chanced to die in London, when he had reigned nobly and well for fifty-six years and nineteen days. And he died on the feast of Saint Edmund archbishop of Canterbury, and he was nobly buried at Westminster on the feast of Saint Edmund king and martyr, in

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Barring minor variations and orthographical differences, no greater than those among other prose Brut texts, the text of J is essentially identical to the Brut. It is, moreover, divided into similar sections headed with large initials and rubrics, rubrics conspicuous only by their absence from the Scalacronica.15 But, as with James’s original identification, the seemingly easy answer may not be exactly the right one. On first inspection, J’s Brut text appears to end complete, its text in precise parallel to the ‘Oldest Version’ (the Latin chronicle that follows J in MS Q.G.10 is clearly of different origin). Earlier, however, the chronicle shows a peculiarity found in some – though not all – manuscripts of the ‘Short Version’, but in no manuscripts of the ‘Oldest Version’. In the ‘Oldest Version’, Havelok’s wife is given her English name of ‘Goldeburgh’ on one occasion and her French name of ‘Argentille’ on another, but many ‘Short Version’ manuscripts call her ‘Goldeburgh’ throughout, probably in consequence of an attempt by a diligent scribe to introduce consistency in naming while copying the ‘Short Version’. And J does the same.16 Furthermore, the extant Brut text in J concludes at the bottom of a verso page, at the end of a gathering, with only a line and a half remaining on the double-columned page. It is easy to suspect that, with no following initial present to serve as a signal, rubrics intended to be inserted in the empty lines might have been overlooked, as happens elsewhere in the manuscript, and thus omitted in the course of rubrication of the gathering.17 The original manuscript may well have continued beyond this point in a new gathering: the text’s defective opening gathering and the obviously missing gathering towards the end are reminders that the manuscript has been damaged and reassembled, with some loss of material along the way.18 The evidence for J’s originally concluding in 1272 is thus not as strong as first appearances suggest. The apparent completeness of J’s conclusion may be illusory and its correspondence to the ‘Oldest Version’ an odd coincidence. It seems likely that the manuscript instead represents a truncated copy of the ‘Short Version’ of the Brut.19

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If J is a text of the prose Brut chronicle, how are its many striking correspondences to the Scalacronica to be explained? Having collated the Scalacronica with a text of the ‘Long Version’ of the prose Brut, Thiolier explained the similarities by suggesting that ‘Thomas de Gray a presque recopié le Brut d’Engleterre pour le règne d’Henri III’.20 In supposing that Gray copied his account of the reign of Henry III from the Brut, Thiolier was undoubtedly correct. But Gray’s debt to the Brut goes much further than this; in fact, he used the prose Brut text as the basis of the Scalacronica’s narrative for the reigns of the English kings Henry I, Stephen, Henry II, John and Henry III – though not, interestingly, that of Richard I. Why then did Gray use the Brut only for these reigns? Despite the fact that the main text of the Brut begins with Brutus, and covers the same ground as the Scalacronica, Gray makes no use of the Brut until the beginning of Henry I’s reign, where his account of Henry’s succession is copied verbatim from the Brut. He adds a great deal of additional comment, notably material relating to Scotland, the Papacy and the Empire; and his account of the reign of Richard I is completely different from the Brut’s, and much longer, as is his account of Thomas Becket. The correspondences between the two start to diminish towards the end of the Scalacronica’s narrative of the reign of Henry III. Gray’s description of the jollities surrounding the coronation of Edward I does share many details with the continuation of the Brut covering Edward’s reign (common to both the ‘Short’ and ‘Long Versions’), and there are some close verbal correspondences. Furthermore, none of the details common to the Brut continuation and the Scalacronica are found in the rather more austere brief notice of the event in John of Tynemouth’s Historia Aurea, the long and detailed Latin chronicle which Gray cited as his main source from the Conquest on.21 Nevertheless, the differences between the Scalacronica’s account and that of the extant Brut continuation are sufficient to suggest that at this point, Gray was not copying the latter, but rather another closely related (and presumably Anglo-Norman French) account – whatever that may have been.22 Alternatively, of course, Gray may have been using a variant version of the Brut, now lost, with a different continuation into Edward I’s reign.23 After this, the Scalacronica diverges completely from any known version of the Brut, and it is clear that Gray made no further use of it in any of its diverse forms. Perhaps the

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most logical explanation of all this is that Gray was using a text of the ‘Oldest Version’ of the Brut that started with the coronation of Henry I and finished with the death of Henry III. Or perhaps it was just that he did not get hold of his copy of the prose Brut until he had already finished his narrative as far as William Rufus. Gray’s divergence from the Brut text for the reign of Richard Coeur de Lion is rather easier to account for. The prose Brut, which generally focuses on affairs in England, does offer a brief account of Richard’s crusading career; but Gray, himself a knight with a long and active record of military service, was greatly interested in the exploits in the Holy Land which earned Richard the status of one of late medieval England’s greatest military heroes. Furthermore, Gray’s interest in Richard’s crusade is in keeping with his more universal approach to history, which frequently encompassed foreign affairs. Indeed, the Brut text served as a basis only for Gray’s narrative of English affairs, and he interpolated a great deal of additional material, much of it derived from the Historia Aurea. So when Thiolier wrote that Gray ‘a presque recopié’ the text of the Brut, he was somewhat overstating the case; in fact, Gray’s approach to the Brut was far more discriminating, for he adapted and modified its text as he saw fit, to match his own interests and preferences. For instance, as a layman, he seems to have had no great interest in pious benedictions, which he tended to excise. Thus, describing the death of Henry I, the Brut has the following passage: E grante pece apres, le [trente e sisme] an qe il auoit regne, vn greue maladie li prist, dont il morust, ben confes e verroi repentaunt come bon crestien. Cesti bon Roi Henri regna xxxv anz e quatre mois, e pus morust en Normandie. [And a long while later, the thirty-sixth year that he had reigned, a grave illness struck him, of which he died, well shriven and truly penitent like a good Christian. This good King Henry reigned for thirty-five years and four months, and then he died in Normandy.] 24

By contrast, the Scalacronica has merely: … en le .xxx. ane qil auoit regne vn grefe malady ly prist, et donqes morust. Cesti bon Roy Henry regna playnement .xxxv. aunz, et quatre moys, puis morust en Normendy.25

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[In the thirtieth [sic] year that he had reigned, a grave illness gripped him, and thereupon he died. This good King Henry King reigned fully thirty-five years and four months, then he died in Normandy.]

Rather more interestingly, Gray sometimes expanded on the material in the Brut. For instance, the ‘Oldest Version’ of the Brut offers a straightforward account of King John’s sudden death at Newark castle, of an illness contracted at Swineshead Abbey. Gray copies this verbatim, but then adds the following: Les vns cronicles dient, qe com le roy seoit a manger a Swinisheued, qe il demaundoit vn moigne de leens, quoi valust vn pain qestoit sur la table deuaunt ly. Le moigne respoundist qil valust vn dener. ‘Si ieo vise’, fesoit le roy, ‘vn ane, il vaudra .x. s.’. Pur quel parole, le moigne ly fist empusoner dun hanope de seruoise, qil ly aporta, qi ly fist entendre qe ceo estoit bon, qi enfist la credence, de qoi il morust procheignement. Le roy enmaladist et morust a Newark. 26 [Certain chronicles say that as the king sat down to eat at Swineshead, he asked one of the monks the cost of a loaf of bread on the table before him. The monk replied that it cost a penny. ‘If I live for a year’, said the king, ‘it will cost ten shillings’. Because of these words, the monk poisoned him with a goblet of ale, which he drank from himself, to convince him that it was good, and this gave him credibility; and he died from this soon afterwards. The king took ill and died at Newark.]

The Historia Aurea, the Latin chronicle which Gray used as a source for this period, includes a brief reference to this lurid story, though attributing it to ‘common rumour’ rather than ‘certain chronicles’.27 However, Gray’s version includes details that are lacking from the Historia Aurea’s staid summary, and it resembles a greatly condensed version of the tale as found in the ‘Long Version’ of the Brut, though not in the ‘Oldest’ or the ‘Short Version’.28 This shared material suggests the possibility that Gray may have consulted a source resembling the ‘Long Version’ of the Brut, or that both he and the writer responsible for the ‘Long Version’ independently adopted the vivid episode from elsewhere. Finally, there is the matter of Gray’s reticence about his use of the prose Brut. In the prologue to the Scalacronica, Gray does make reference to ‘books of chronicles, rhymed and in prose, in Latin, in

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French and English’,29 and the Brut appears to be the only work in French used in its compilation. However, the prologue also includes a famous passage describing a dream which Gray had when he was contemplating the writing of his history. In this dream, the Sybil, the prophetess of Classical Greece, comes to tell him the form his book should take, and she shows him visions of the authors whose work is to provide its basis.30 The first vision is of a master in a fur-lined cloak sitting in a room in a manor in a great city. She tells him that this is ‘Walter archdeacon of Exeter, who translated the Brut from British into Latin’, whose work is to provide the basis for the first book of Gray’s chronicle.31 The second shows a black monk writing in a study; this is the reverend doctor Bede, whose Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum will provide Gray with the material for his second book, about the deeds of the Saxons. Another black monk, writing in a cloister, is Ranulph Higden, whose Polychronicon will inform Gray’s third book, dealing with the unification of England under Egbright. Gray’s final authority appears as a chaplain writing at his desk, in a chamber in a village at the foot of a strong castle. This is John of Tynemouth, whose Historia Aurea will be the source for the fourth book, from the reign of William the Conqueror up to Gray’s present. In fact, while Gray did make great use of the Historia Aurea, it was this last part for which the Brut provided much of the narrative. Why then did he not allude to the Brut in his elaborate literary dreamvision? Part of the explanation for Gray’s coyness may lie in aesthetic considerations; having created a neat fourfold division with one author providing the basis for each book of the Scalacronica, he may have thought it inelegant to add the Brut’s author alongside John of Tynemouth. More practically, the Anglo-Norman prose Brut was (and remains) an anonymous work, and none of the surviving manuscripts offer any indication of the author’s identity or any tradition concerning him. Almost certainly, Gray had no idea who the author was, which would have made it somewhat difficult to create a detailed vision of him to match those of the other authors he describes. On a more rarefied plane, the works named by the Sybil – the Historia Ecclesiastica, the Polychronicon and the Historia Aurea – were all intellectually respectable Latin heavyweights,32 much admired by the clerical intelligentsia of the day, although the matter of Geoffrey of

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Monmouth was controversial in the fourteenth century, as in the twelfth.33 As a layman trespassing on clerical territory, Gray would have been anxious to emphasize the respectable intellectual foundations of his work – and the Brut was a book of the sort that would now be disparagingly dismissed by modern academics as ‘popular history’, intended for those who were too ill-educated to read proper Latin history. Acknowledgment of it would hardly be consistent with the kind of literary and intellectual aspirations manifested in Gray’s dream vision. Just as no modern academic would admit to relying on works of ‘popular history’, so Gray would have had nothing to gain from advertising the fact that in any part of his chronicle he was recycling an anonymous vernacular text rather than translating a Latin author, for all that he was writing in French himself. Gray’s concealment, if it is fair to call it that, succeeded for over 600 years, so much so that when James looked at the Brut in J, he saw a Scalacronica instead. All of this serves to remind us that as scholars, we stand upon the shoulders of our predecessors. Our knowledge of the Middle Ages rests largely on the surviving medieval parchment which slumbers, largely undisturbed, in libraries scattered around the world; and our knowledge of the contents of that parchment rests largely on the endeavours of men such as M. R. James. Cataloguing medieval manuscripts requires time, unflagging attentiveness, a prodigious memory, and a vast amount of knowledge over a wide range of fields. No matter how careful and erudite they are, as indeed James undoubtedly was, cataloguers are only human, and they sometimes get it wrong. As the case of Jesus MS Q.G.10 demonstrates, corrections to received wisdom, even once made, may go unrecognized for years. Moreover, many of our most important libraries have never been properly catalogued. Even the Cotton collection at the British Library, possibly the single most significant collection of medieval manuscripts in the world, is now served only by a catalogue compiled two hundred years ago, containing no more than brief descriptions in Latin.34 As electronic cataloguing becomes a reality, with more latitude for collaborative effort and ongoing revision, many of these difficulties may be alleviated (though never eliminated), and we may be in for surprises. Just as ghost words lurk in dictionaries and editions, ghost

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texts may be haunting our catalogues, while other medieval works of potentially great importance remain effectively undiscovered, camouflaged by inaccurate cataloguing and the uncritical acceptance thereof.

Notes 1

We would like to acknowledge our debt to the work of J. C. Thiolier (1993) which provided the starting point for this essay; what follows is intended to confirm and extend Thiolier’s conclusions. We would also like to thank Dr Claire Etty for reading and commenting on the piece. Although the initial division of labour was roughly along the Scalacronica / Brut divide, the final version is a joint effort, for which both authors take responsibility. 2 Stevenson 1836, edited from Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, MS 133. For a new edition, see King 2005. 3 Comparatively little may be missing from the beginning of the main text, possibly just a single folio; compare Jesus College MS Q.G.10, fol. 1, with the similar but intact text in British Library (henceforth BL), Additional MS 35092, fol. 6 (Marvin 2006: 74), where ‘se pleindront a Brut de lour anguise e del seruage’ occurs at the bottom of the recto of the second folio, some 600 words into a MS with very small pages (but see below, n. 19). 4 Note that the pencilled numeration, possibly added by James himself, carries on across this lacuna without interruption. 5 Apart from some marginal chapter headings towards the end of the manuscript, added later in a small, rather untidy fifteenth-century hand. 6 Maxwell 1907. Maxwell’s failure to notice J is not perhaps altogether surprising, considering that he translated only the latter part of the work, starting with the reign of Edward I, at the point where J concludes. 7 ‘Jesus College 58 is simply the ‘nth’ manuscript containing the Brut of England’ (Thiolier 1993: 123). 8 Madden (1856: 4); Brie (1905); Brie (1906-8). Julia Marvin has now produced an edition of the prose Brut to 1272 (Marvin 2006). 9 Dean and Boulton (1999): no. 74 (Thiolier’s article is nevertheless listed in its entry on the Scalacronica). 10 Marvin (2006: 20-40). See also Matheson (1998: 30-31); Brie (1905: 37-44). Earlier scholarship associated the prose Brut with the Cistercian annals of Waverley, a close analogue to the Barlings chronicle. 11 Dean and Boulton (1999): no. 42 – from which listing should be subtracted BL, MS Cotton Tiberius A.VI (perhaps better considered an idiosyncratic work that uses the Oldest Version as a source), and to which should be added Bodleian Library, Oxford (henceforth Bodleian), MS Wood empt. 8, listed by Dean and Boulton (1999) under no. 36 as a MS of the ‘Short Version’.

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On the content and some of the similarities and differences between the ‘Long’ and ‘Short’ Versions, see Marvin (2001); Marvin (2006: 47-51); Matheson (1998: 31-37); and Childs and Taylor (1991: 15-24). 13 Dean and Boulton (1999): nos. 36, 42, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49; Matheson (1998: xxxxxii, 5-8); see also Edward Donald Kennedy’s discussion, list, and extensive bibliography – which define the Brut by slightly different criteria (1989: 2629-37, 2818-33). 14 See Kingsford (1913: 310-12), updated and refined by Matheson (1998: xx-xxi, pp. 5-6, 37-47), Matheson (1984: 212-13), and Kennedy (1989: 2638-40). Some nineteen MSS have been called Latin Bruts, but they represent a variety of texts which have been very little studied, and their precise textual affiliations are not yet clear. 15 The placement of large initials remains fairly, though not entirely, consistent across all versions of the Anglo-Norman prose Brut (generally marking the beginning of a new reign), but rubric headings do not reach much of a degree of standardization until the ‘Long Version’. Headings appear in all but one manuscript of the ‘Oldest Version’ (that one, Bodleian MS Douce 120, has running heads), and in relatively few of the ‘Short Version’, e.g., BL, MSS Additional 18462b and Harley 200, Bodleian MS Douce 128, Lambeth Palace, London (henceforth Lambeth), MS 504, and Trinity College, Cambridge, MS R.5.32. 16 Cf. J, fols. 9v, 39v; Marvin (2006: 100, 180); Bodleian MS Rawlinson D.329, fols. 23v, 56 (a ‘Short Version’ text). See Marvin (2005). 17 J, fol. 70v. Rubrics appear occasionally at the bottom of a column, with the initial for the section following at the top of the next column or page, e.g., fols. 16, 27, 30v, 39r-v, 40v-41, 42v, 47r-v, 49r-v, and 51. Blank spaces for rubrics may also be found elsewhere in the MS, e.g., fols. 3, 13r-v, 15, and 20v-21r. Situations somewhat analogous to that of 70v are presented by fols. 40v-41, on which rubrics appear at the bottom of the verso page and the initial at the top of the following recto, and fol. 15rv, on which an initial comes at the top of the verso page, while the two lines at the end of the preceding recto page are blank, their rubric never added. On fol. 32, the absence of what should have been a red initial in the alternating colour scheme, along with the presence of a rubric heading, indicates that initials and rubrics were not added at the same time. 18 As currently trimmed, the MS displays only one catchword (fol. 54v) and no other contemporary binding marks, so the absence of a catchword on fol. 70v is not informative. 19 The ‘Short Version’ has yet to receive full study: when the text is better known and more distinctive moments have been noticed, this identification will be easier to test. If, as it seems, J is a ‘Short Version’ text, it may have originally contained the verse prologue found in many ‘Short Version’ manuscripts; it may thus be missing considerably more than the first 600 words of the text. See Dean and Boulton (1999): no. 36; Brereton (1937). 20 Thiolier (1993: 122-23). Thiolier used BL, MS Royal 20.A.III for the comparison. 21 Stevenson (1836: 3, 107-8); BL, Rawlinson D.329, fol. 102r-v (prose Brut, ‘Short Version’); Lambeth MS 12, fol. 213 (Historia Aurea). 22 Matheson (1998: 32) suggests that the source for the Brut continuation from 1272 to 1307 is the ‘version of Langtoft’s verse Chronicle that is exemplified in [MS] College

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of Arms, Arundel 14’ (edited in Thiolier 1989 as ‘Rédaction I’). However, no version of Langtoft describes Edward’s coronation in any detail. 23 Some evidence of other efforts at continuations to the ‘Oldest Version’ does survive: Bodleian MSS Douce 120 and Wood empt. 8 both end incomplete, with the beginnings of accounts of the reign of Edward I following the text to 1272. See the appendices to Marvin’s edition of the ‘Oldest Version’ (2006: 411-16). 24 Marvin (2006: 250, 251), with ‘le trente e sisme’ a correction from Bodleian MS Wood empt. 8, f. 47, for A’s ‘le trentezime’ (fol. 115v). Like the Scalacronica, Wood empt. 8 reads ‘regna pleinement’. 25 Stevenson (1836: 28). Extant Brut manuscripts generally read ‘le trente e sisme’ or ‘le trentezime’, and Gray clearly interpreted his source as meaning ‘thirty’, even though this seems incompatible with Henry’s thirty-five year reign. Other medieval scribes may have read the term similarly, while noticing the incongruity; thus, the ‘Long Version’ has Henry falling ill after a cautiously unspecified ‘longe temps’; BL, Cotton MS Cleopatra D.III, fol. 127; cf. Brie (1906-8: I, 144). 26 Stevenson (1836: 96); cf. Marvin (2006: 284). 27 Lambeth MS 12, fol. 169; cf. Babington and Lumby (1865-86: VIII, 196). 28 Cotton Cleopatra D.III, fols. 137r-v; cf. Brie (1906-8: I, 169-70). See also Marvin (2001: 175-76). 29 ‘Liuers de cronicles enrymaiez et en prose, en Latin, en Fraunceis et en Engles’ (King 2005: 4). 30 For Gray’s periodisation of history, and its relation to that of other historians, see Given-Wilson (2004: 119). 31 ‘Gauter erchedeken de Excestre, qe le Brut translata de Bretoun en Latin’ (King 2005: 4). Gray is referring here not to the Anglo-Norman prose Brut, but to the ‘certain very old book in the British language’, i.e. Breton – or perhaps Welsh (quendam Britannici sermonis librum uetustissimum), belonging to one Walter, archdeacon of Oxford, which Geoffrey of Monmouth claimed to have used as the source for his Historia Regum Britannie, written c. 1136 (Wright 1985: I, 129, 147). Gray obviously gleaned the reference from the Historia Regum, and seems to have misunderstood it, for according to the Historia Regum, Walter simply owned the book, and it was Geoffrey himself who actually translated it (Wright 1985: I, 1); see Gransden (1974: 202-3). Gray’s erroneous reference to Walter of Exeter was a simple slip, for confusion between the Latin soubriquets ‘of Exeter’ (Exonie) and ‘of Oxford’ (Oxonie) was not uncommon. 32 Quite literally: Durham Priory’s copy of the Historia Aurea comprised three very large and heavy volumes, Lambeth Palace, MSS 10-12. 33 Gray himself felt the need to defend the historicity of Arthur against doubts raised by Ranulf Higden and John of Tynemouth (C, fols. 82-83v; Babington and Lumby 1865-86: V, 334-36). Gray’s defence of Arthur’s historicity is discussed by Moll (2003: 67-72). 34 Although a project is now underway to provide a much more detailed catalogue, available on-line (http://www.shef.ac.uk/hri/projects/projectpages/cotton.html – viewed 19/01/07).

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Bibliography Primary Sources – Manuscripts Cambridge Corpus Christi College 133 (Scalacronica) Jesus College Q.G.10 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut) Trinity College R.5.32 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Short Version) London British Library Additional 35092 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Oldest Version) 18462b (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Short Version) Cotton Cleopatra D.III (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Long Version) Tiberius A.VI (Anglo-Norman prose Brut) Harley 200 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Short Version) Royal 20.A.III (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Long Version) Lambeth Palace 10-12 (Historia Aurea) 504 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Short Version) Oxford Bodleian Library Douce 120 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Oldest Version) 128 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Short Version) Rawlinson D.329 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Short Version) Wood empt. 8 (Anglo-Norman prose Brut, Oldest Version) Primary Sources - Texts The Anonimalle Chronicle, 1307-1334. Ed. Wendy R. Childs and John Taylor. Yorkshire Archaeological Society Record Series, 147. Leeds, 1991. The Brut; or, the Chronicles of England. 2 vols. Ed. F. W. D. Brie. Early English Text Society, OS, 131, 136. London, 1906-8. Des Grantz Geanz: An Anglo-Norman Poem. Ed. Georgine E. Brereton. Medium Aevum Monographs, 2. Oxford, 1937. Geoffrey of Monmouth. Historia Regum Britannie. Vol. 1. Bern, Burgerbibliothek, MS 568. Ed. Neil Wright. Cambridge: Brewer, 1985. Gray, Thomas. Scalacronica: by Sir Thomas Gray of Heton, Knight. Ed. Joseph Stevenson. Maitland Club. Edinburgh, 1836. ——. Scalacronica: The Reigns of Edward I, Edward II and Edward III. Trans. Herbert Maxwell. Glasgow: James Maclehose, 1907. ——. Sir Thomas Gray: Scalacronica (1272-1363). Ed. and trans. Andy King. Surtees Society, 209. Woodbridge, Suffolk, 2005.

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Higden, Ranulph. Polychronicon Ranulphi Higden Monachi Cestrensis. 9 vols. Ed. C. Babington and J. R. Lumby. Rolls Series, 41. London, 1865-86. Langtoft, Pierre de. Edition critique et commentée de Pierre de Langtoft: le règne d’Edouard Ier. Ed. J. C. Thiolier. Paris: Centre d’Etudes Littéraires et Iconographiques du Moyen Age, 1989. The Oldest Anglo-Norman Prose ‘Brut’ Chronicle: An Edition and Translation. Ed. and trans. Julia Marvin. Medieval Chronicles, 4. Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell, 2006. Secondary Sources Brie, F. W. D. (1905). Geschichte und Quellen der mittelenglischen Prosachronik, ‘The Brute of England’ oder ‘The Chronicles of England’. Marburg: Friedrich. Dean, Ruth J., and Maureen B. M. Boulton (1999). Anglo-Norman Literature: A Guide to Texts and Manuscripts. London: Anglo-Norman Text Society. Given-Wilson, Chris (2004). Chronicles: The Writing of History in Medieval England. London: Hambledon. Gransden, Antonia (1974). Historical Writing in England, c. 550 to c. 1307. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. James, M. R. (1895). A Descriptive Catalogue of the Manuscripts in the Library of Jesus College, Cambridge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —— (1905). A Descriptive Catalogue of the Western Manuscripts in the Library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kennedy, Edward Donald (1989). A Manual of the Writings in Middle English, 10501500. Vol. 8. Chronicles and Other Historical Writing. Gen. ed. A. E. Hartung. New Haven: Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences. Kingsford, C. L. (1913). English Historical Literature in the Fifteenth Century. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Madden, Frederic (1856). ‘Prose Chronicles of England Called the Brute.’ Notes and Queries, 2nd ser., 1: 1-4. Marvin, Julia (2001). ‘Albine and Isabelle: Regicidal Queens and the Historical Imagination of the Anglo-Norman Prose Brut Chronicles’. Arthurian Literature 18: 143-91. —— (2005). ‘Havelok in the Prose Brut Tradition’. Studies in Philology 102: 280306. Matheson, Lister M. (1984). ‘Historical Prose’. In Middle English Prose: A Critical Guide to Major Authors and Genres. Ed. A. S. G. Edwards. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. 209-48. —— (1998). The Prose ‘Brut’: The Development of a Middle English Chronicle. Tempe, Arizona: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies. Moll, Richard J. (2003). Before Malory: Reading Arthur in Later Medieval England. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Piper, A. J. (2001). ‘Cataloguing British Collections of Medieval Western Manuscripts, 1895-1995’. In The Legacy of M. R. James. Ed. Lynda Dennison. Donington, Lincolnshire: Shaun Tyas.

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Thiolier, J. C. (1993). ‘La Scalacronica: Première Approche’. In Les manuscrits français de la bibliothèque Parker. Actes du Colloque 24-27 mars 1993. Ed. Nigel Wilkins. Cambridge: Parker Library Publications. 121-55.

CHIVALRY AND ROMANCE IN THE CHRONICLE OF BINDINO DA TRAVALE

Alison Williams Lewin

Abstract Bindino da Travale (d. 1416), a minor artist living in Siena, decided late in life to compose a chronicle recounting major events in recent Sienese and Italian history. This cronaca, largely dictated, presents several striking features that separate it from both annals and newly emerging humanist histories. Bindino displays a wide range of knowledge: he can list more than 25 types of gemstone; he can name the nine orders of angels, in proper sequence; he even tries, with uneven results, to imitate the flowery and subtle speech of ambassadors. This essay focuses on one such unusual aspect of his chronicle, namely, its allusions to both form and content of chansons de geste. The resemblences argue for the persistence of this earlier literary form, at least in popular literature, and suggest literate nonelite Italians could use a rich non-humanist version of the past to interpret contemporary events.

Ladislao rode with his whole brigade and arrived under the gates of Naples. King Louis (of Anjou) sent out his Grand Constable, who was named Count Alberigo, and the count Giovanni da Barbiano and other counts. Ladislao in the fray encountered Count Alberigo and they jousted together, so that Ladislao lifted him out of the saddle and he fell to the ground, so that Count Alberigo was his prisoner.1

Thus enters the dashing young king of Naples at scarcely fifteen years of age, after he has spent some months gathering soldiers to him to champion his claim to the kingdom of Naples. He won the men’s loyalty, as the chronicler Bindino da Travale tells us, by inviting all the poor of Gaeta to dine with him, despite his poverty, and by

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treating the soldiers in a courtly and courteous manner – ‘ai soldati ne fecie chortesia.’ Among chronicles both Latin and vernacular of the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, Bindino’s stands out by virtue of its resemblance to a chivalric romance in its overall style. Bindino moreover embellishes his prose at various points with little poems, Biblical references, allusions to Roman philosophers, and accurate descriptions of the heavens and orders of angels. Who then was its author, Bindino da Travale? We know a few facts of his life. Born in 1356 to a peasant, one Ciallo, in Travale,2 a good day’s walk from Siena (25-30 kilometers), he came to Siena as a youth, because, as he tells us, he saw St Catherine praying fervently in the church of San Domenico (Lusini 1895: 122) – though it is not clear whether he literally saw her on a visit to Siena or saw a vision of her, as several vivid visions do occur in the work. During the rest of his fairly long life, he became a citizen, married, had two children (or at least two who survived into adulthood), and became extremely well informed about the affairs of Siena in the greater scheme of diplomacy and upheaval that characterized the period of the schism in Italy. Moreover, he clearly received some education, as his ability to write a clear hand indicates, and absorbed several different literary influences, from chivalric romance to handbooks instructing ambassadors on how to compose appropriate speeches. While Siena and its surprising ally, Florence, are certainly central to his story, the figure that dominates the chronicle until his untimely death in 1414 is undoubtedly Ladislao, the ambitious and capable ruler of Naples whose expansionist plans threaten the stability of central Italy, the resolution of the schism, and indeed the independent existence of communes like Siena and Florence. Ladislao’s central placement in this chronicle argues for the significant influence of earlier Provençal romances on Italian vernacular culture, an influence acknowledged by, most recently, Ron Witt, but whose persistence and diffusion in Italian popular culture have perhaps been underestimated.3 The first wave of French culture to pass over the Alps came even before the appearance of the troubadours in the late twelfth century; Witt states that ‘[t]he epics and romances of northern France, however, appear to have been in circulation much earlier’, as iconography in Modena and Verona, as well as the appearance of certain new names (especially Orlando and Rolando) assert (Witt 2000: 42). The

Chivalry and Romance in the Chronicle of Bindino da Travale 149 papacy’s remove to Avignon in 1309 ensured prolonged exchanges between French and Italian culture; while Petrarch and, later, Cardinal Pietro de’ Corsini, may have delighted in the classical manuscripts they found there, others were surely as pleased to have lighter reading material: according to B. Ullman, citing K. Burdach, while Cola di Rienzo in prison at Avignon may have read Livy, the cardinals were occupied with medieval French romances! (Ullman (1973: 22, n. 27). What elements in Bindino resonate with those of earlier French romances? To begin with, in several passages the king summons his supporters. Bindino echoes earlier appeals to the noble desire for reputation by listing individual names in ways reminiscent of lists of nobles distinguished in battle. One such early example from the second half of the preceding century comes from the poet Folgòre da San Gimigniano: A la brigata nobile e cortese E’n tutte quelle parti dove sono Con allegrezza stando, sempre dono cani, ucceli e danar per ispese, ronzin portanti, quaglie a volo prese, bracchi levar, correr veltri a bandono in questo regno Niccolò corono, per ch’ell’è ’l fior de la città sanese; Tengoccio e Min di Tengo ed Ancaiano, Bartolo e Mugàvero e Fainotto che paiono figliuoi del re Priàno Prodi e cortesi più che Lancilotto; se bisognasse, con le lance in mano Farìan tornamenti a Camelotto.4 (To the noble and courtly brigade, everywhere I go, I always give dogs, birds and money for expenses, pack animals, quails caught in mid-flight. Hunting dogs are roused, greyhounds unleashed. And in this kingdom I crown Nicccolò because he is the flower of the city of Siena. Tengoccio and Min of Tengo and Ancaiano, Bartolo and Mugero and Fainotto who seem the sons of King Priam; brave and chivalrous, even more than Lancelot; if need be they could joust in tournaments with lances in their hands at Camelot. (Buck 1989: 194)

The last couplet, in rather overblown terms, calls these knights more valiant and courteous than Lancelot, who could, if it were necessary, with lance in hand take part in a tournament at Camelot.

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Another work from about the same time in the late thirteenth century, a redaction of La sconfitta di Monte Aperto, emphasizes the magnificent appearance of the most valorous knight on the field. Having asked the favor of striking the first blow, misser Guartieri richiese lo suo destriere degli speroni per farsi innanzi. Lo suo destriere era armato di due armadue di ferro, e di sopra aveva una vesta di zondado vermiglio recamato a draghi di seta conta[r]si d’oro fino; e veramente quello cavallo pareva uno drago che volasse per rabbia, per divorare chi innanzi a lui venisse. Era lo più forte cavallo che a quelli di si trovasse, e lo più valoroso, e quello che più denari valeva. Misser Gualtieri era giovano e valente e bene armato, bellissimo de la persona, lo più che fusse infra tutti quelli Tedeschi andavano innanzi; e seguiva maestro Arrigo con tutta loro compagnia, fra lo sabato a mattina,…. Sir Walter urged his warhorse on with his spurs to advance. His warhorse was armed with two iron weapons, and over them he had a cloth of scarlet satin embroidered with dragons in silk made of fine gold; and truly that steed resembled a dragon that flew in a rage to devour whomever came before him. It was the strongest horse out of all present there, and the bravest, and the one worth the most money. Sir Walter was young and valiant and well armed, the most handsome in his person among all those Germans charging ahead; and he followed King Henry with his whole company, since Saturday morning, ….’ (Cited in Scavo 1997: 14-15)

Both elements, the list of names of nobles and the splendor of their leader, occur in Bindino’s vivid description of King Ladislao calling up his troops in 1409: Sonava il chorno chuel re giocondo, e chonti e ducha e marchesi a lui facieno ritorno. Treciento chani al re andavano dintorno, dugiento chavalieri a speroni d’oro napoletani in chui si fidava: bene cinchueciento erano gli altri fra ducha e marchesi che del re amici erano isciti d’altri paesi. (Bindino, 44) (This jolly king sounded the horn and counts and dukes and marquises returned to him; 300 dogs came swarming to the king, 200 Neapolitan knights with golden spurs in whom he had faith; a good 500 were the others among dukes and marquises who as friends of the king had come out of other countries.)

Then come the names:

Chivalry and Romance in the Chronicle of Bindino da Travale 151 Drawn by the sound of the horn was messer Gionnello5, who was nephew of the pope, then followed Pope Gregory; he had with him 200 lances. Drawn there was messer Gentile da Monteranno with 300 lances; he was the brother of the lord cardinal of Bologna, who was of the Neapolitan Cossas; he had 400 lances. Drawn to the sound was Baldecche with 50 lances, also drawn there was Anistoforte with 80 lances. There came there Anichino della Fottinera with 100 lances, Gianni de la Penna with 100 lances; these were Germans and were together in a company. There came Malafetto with 140 lances, and Cortebrache, a German, with 200 lances. And there came there Modaldo da Siena with 200 lances; there came there, when he heard it, messer Antonio Ghinazoni, a rebel of Siena – that one was among those of the balia of Perugia to make war on the league; that one had 500 lances. Drawn out by the sound was Tartaglia, with 300 lances; that one abandoned Sienese hire to go to the pay of the king. …

and the list goes on and on. The overwhelming impression is one of great strength, of valorous captains, of ceremony and banners flying, especially when Bindino inserts interruptions such as this into the list: Traevano di lunghe parti per piaggie e per valli e per piani al grande sonare che facieno le trombette e’ tamburegli e chornamuse. Chorria al sonare la gientein fretta; facieva lo re chol chorno la valle risonare. Chuando il re ebbe sonato, lo re montò in arcione. Seghuivano le bandiere chavalieri e pedoni. (Bindino, 46) (They were drawn from far away, through countrysides and through valley and through plains to the great sound the trumpets and trimbrels and bagpipes. The troops ran in haste to the sound; the king made the valley resound with his horn. When the king had sounded, he mounted into his saddle. The bands of cavalry and infantry followed.)

More captains and troops assemble; then ‘the king led off in front of them; he had in his company a thousand, between knights with spurs of gold and dukes and counts and marquises.’ The climax of the chapter is a description of the king himself: Era vestito i’re d’una pelle di Lonza e non portava arme in testa per lo grande affanno che ne la testa dava, perchè era istato tre volte avvelenato. Per aveva il volto di rossori piazato, senza barba, magro era a sua grandezza; era alto più che normale uomo uno palmo. (Bindino, 46-47) (The king was dressed in a boar’s skin and did not carry armor on his head for the great tightness in his head, because he had been poisoned

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Another stylistic element Bindino employs that suggests his desire to associate Ladislao, and Bindino’s own writing, with chivalric romance is short sections in rhyme, which, when read aloud, have a definite meter to them. He concludes his description of Ladislao and his host thus: Era dinanzi a lui otto miglia chavalieri pieni d’ardimento e bene armati di tutto guarnimento. Dinanzi a chostoro sergienti e paggi e schudieri dinanzi a chostoro erano tre miglia chavalieri e meglio armati chon chorrenti destrieri. (Bindino, 47)6 (There were before him 8,000 knights filled with ardor, and well armed with every type of equipment. In front of them were sargeants and pages and squires, in front of them were 3,000 knights better armed with swift-running warhorses.)

Both the imagery and the splendor of the chivalric romance clearly infuse Bindino’s writing. Siena can lay claim to a small group of poets who were certainly influenced by the Provençal school, such as Rustico di Filippo, Nicolo del Rosso, Cecco Nuccioli (cited above), Pietro dei Faitinelli and Meo de’ Tolomei;7 most famous, Cecco Angiolieri certainly used the southern French themes of ‘blind fortune, … and the mixed blessing of woman…’, together with touches of the dolce stil nuovo8 taking hold in Siena’s hated rival republic, Florence.9 The appearance of chivalric themes in prose, certainly in contemporary chronicles is striking, though perhaps not unique. And while several earlier chronicles in rhyme form are extant, none to my knowledge slips from prose to rhyme and back again. Was this turn of mind Bindino’s idiosyncratic leaning, a fondness for old-fashioned works that modern Italians had rejected? Certainly as more notaries wrote more chronicles, the emphasis shifted to praise for political shrewdness and limited participation from worthy citizens; the fact that most city-states had come to rely on mercenaries only further undercut the appeal of romance and chivalry. Perhaps some sense of nostalgia for heroes of bygone days led Bindino to make Ladislao the hero of his work, and to articulate admiration for

Chivalry and Romance in the Chronicle of Bindino da Travale 153 warriors who seemed, at least, to respond to the sound of a trumpet’s call from their leader, not the jingling of coins in his purse. Ladislao shares in another trait of the chivalric hero. One of the earliest romances to appear, after The Song of Roland,10 is a Vita Sancti Wilhelmi, composed in 1122 by the monks of Gellone, which places Guglielmo di Tolosa, one of Louis the Pious’s vassals, at its center. Of particular interest regarding this point is the historically impossible conquest of Orange, which gives Guglielmo both his fief and a wife (Meneghetti 1995: 185). Echoes of this tale resound in the story of Ladislao’s own courtship: Then when he had it [Manupello] under his rule [he went] towards the Compagnia of Rome. And [he went]11 throughout Campagnia setting fire to and burning all those lands that did not want his lordship, and he sent the count of Campagnaia [Onorato Gaetani count of Fandi (Fondi)] on his way. All Campagnia was under the king in his rule. Then [Ladislao was] at Taranto where the princess of Taranto was a widow; she had one son. And he set up camp at Taranto and raised the fortifications. The war there was harsh and cruel; king Ladislao could not have the land there, the princess was so strong. The king had as his wife one of the house of Chiaramonte; he married her off to one of the king’s great barons [presumably after divorcing her]…. Then it was the king’s pleasure that he take the princess as his wife by his own ability, the princess was happy about it. The king was at that time about thirty or so. And the princess gave all her lands to the king. The king left Talanto and put good rule in place there; he raised a standard that said, ‘O Cesare o nichil’ [either Caesar or nothing]. (Bindino, 28-29)

While in the early twelfth century monasteries had been instrumental in the reception and transmission of chansons de geste, as population centers that boasted at least some literate members, clearly towns, especially those on a major trade route like Siena, had two centuries later become rich repositories of romance lore. The context of the early romances and Bindino’s tale of Ladislao could not be more diametrically or ironically opposed, however; whereas early romances transmitted a religious message, typically an exhortation to make war against the infidel (Meneghetti 1995: 187), Ladislao appeared to most of Christendom, especially the Sienese, as an opponent of the Roman Church itself. Because his own title depended on the legitimacy of the Roman pontiff, Gregory XII, Ladislao

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strenuously opposed any actions to resolve the schism, whose resolution might jeopardize his own legitimacy. Bindino avoids addressing this problem head-on, particularly given his republic’s own tenuous relations with Ladislao. One of the most desperate moments for the Sienese came during and immediately after the Council of Pisa in 1409, which had resulted in the election of a new pope, Alexander V. The new pontiff did in fact recognize Ladislao’s opponent, Louis II of Anjou, as legitimate king of Naples. While describing the council in great detail, complete with extensive lists (again!) of various prelates and nobles attending and descriptions of their coats of arms, Bindino nearly skirts the issue of his hero’s motives or position, saying only that ‘the spirits of those who supported pope Alexander were divided, because it had been believed that Pope Gregory was a good man.’12 At this point we may see another strand from the chivalric age entering Bindino’s work. If, as Maria Luis Meneghetti states in Storia della letteratura italiana, the earlier romances differ from the chansons de geste in the latter’s realistic portrayal of tensions between rulers and vassals (1995: 187), then Bindino’s tale would seem to follow this development, as the following also makes clear. After the council, preparations began immediately for war against Ladislao. Bindino here provides another long list of captains, this time naming those who lined up against Ladislao. Sforza da Attendolo (with his holdings inside the kingdom of Naples) led off with 400 lances, though he was not named commander of King Louis’s forces (Bindino, 63). Even more harmful to Ladislao’s cause was the greater betrayal of Paolo Orsini, initially one of the king’s most highly placed commanders (Bindino, 48). Despite the formal alliance of Bindino’s adopted commune with that of Florence, it is perhaps not surprising that the age-old enmity between the two city-states peeps through the cracks, as Bindino casts the Florentines as the villains in seducing Orsini away from loyal service to Ladislao: … the Florentines decided to have Paolo Orsini secretly in the pay of the commune of Florence and to lend him 3500 florins. He snuck away from the king secretly with 1500 lances and went to Rome and was there brought inside by the rulers of the Romans to hold Rome for the true pastor of Holy Church. (Bindino, 68)

Chivalry and Romance in the Chronicle of Bindino da Travale 155 Orsini’s defection became apparent during Louis’s brief moment of triumph in 1410, when he entered Rome and knighted Orsini (Bindino, 121). After many fierce battles, however, Orsini returned to Ladislao’s service, in part because the pope in the Pisan line, John XXIII (of the Neapolitan house of Cossa, whose brother had been executed by Ladislao!) had not paid him for four months (Bindino, 243). Though the Florentines came through with 20,000 florins, Orsini nonetheless made peace with Ladislao (Bindino, 243/4), through intermediaries it would seem. For when Orsini appears in person before the king, he and his son are both clad in somber colors, with ropes around their necks. They kneel before the king three times, crying out: ‘Mercy, holy crown!’ The king turns to them and asks why they are wearing such dark clothing, to which Paolo responds: ‘I am worthy of death, having offended such a great and magnificent lord.’ Arthur himself could not respond more nobly than Ladislao. Placing his hand on Orsini’s chest, he orders: ‘Take off those vestments, because they are filled with betrayal.’ Greatly fearful, Paolo repeats that he is in the king’s mercy, and does as ordered. Ladislao then takes off his own tunic and puts it on Paolo, saying: ‘I wish [you to wear] these, which are vestments of loyalty, and that which was done in the past is forgotten’ (Bindino, 249-50). Ladislao made Orsini his vicar in Todi, which town Orsini promptly lost. The inhabitants of Todi secretly approached Orsini, however, and said: ‘We choose Paolo Orsini and let him be our head and guide and lord; but we do not wish to have anything to do with King Ladislao’ (Bindino, 256). The king was, naturally, furious, and plotted his revenge. After a formal peace had been signed with the league, Ladislao held a great council and celebration in Perugia. When he saw Orsini appear, Ladislao continued dancing and feasting, but ordered the gates of the city closed. Orsini realized his situation and demanded to be let out; the king ordered the gates opened, but by this time had mounted and pursued his traitorous vassal. Orsini was captured and brought before the king the next morning on an old broken-down nag that could scarcely carry him. This time his plea for mercy fell on deaf ears, and after a brief imprisonment, Ladislao had him executed (Bindino, 275/6). Clearly tension between lord and vassal figure prominently in Bindino’s work, as in later romance.

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Yet another element, already alluded to, of earlier romances that figures prominently in this chronicle is the presence of rhythmic, even rhymed, sections. While many have noted that the earliest resurgence of classical literature in Padua and elsewhere took the form of poetry, Bindino’s work raises the intriguing question of the extent to which poetic speech persisted in the vernacular. The openings and closings of many of his chapters fall into some sort of metered speech, and often include a rhyme scheme within them. For example, written as regular prose at the beginning of several chapters is a little set of verses, ranging in length from six to eight lines, setting the scene as day turns to night. One of the more polished versions reads: Già le sue chiome d’oro s’attrezava Apollo nell Ispagnia a meze l’onde E le cholonne d’Erchole lassava E spento è ‘l dì che ‘lumina la fronde: L’aria cilestra tutta s’istellava La luna si dimostra e il sol s’aschone. Ogni animale si dorme e riposa, Perchè la notte è schura e tenebrosa.13 (Already his Apollo had spread his golden rays in Spain in the midst of the waves, and was leaving the columns of Herculs and the day which illuminates the frond; the celestial air became starry, the moon showed herself and the sun hid. All the animals went to sleep and rested because the night is dark and shadowy.)

Given that Bindino dictated nearly all his text to his son Giovanni,14 writing only a few sections himself, the appearance and repetition of this rhyme and others might suggest a habit of thought that fell easily into such patterns. The presence of rhyme also suggests that he realized poetry was a more suitable vehicle than prose for the themes of chivalry and courtliness that fascinated him so.15 Many, many chronicles were written in Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; their total number is completely unknown. The vicissitudes of fortune have further determined which have survived, again without any sense of how many may have been lost. Thus no clear picture exists of how representative Bindino’s chronicle is in exhibiting the influence of chivalric romances, in either theme or form. The existence of even one such work, however, coming from a population underrepresented in the written record, indicates some

Chivalry and Romance in the Chronicle of Bindino da Travale 157 access to, and familiarity with, a strand of literature that the more educated and adventuresome authors of the time seem to have abandoned. While ideals of the Roman Republic and civic virtue infused humanist treatises, another more romantic tradition seems to have persisted in the shadows, finally coming into its own again in the courtly culture of Castiglione and Ariosto.16

Notes 1

‘Anzilago chavalchò chon tutta sua brigata a endone in su le porti di Napogli; I’ re Luigi mando fuore il grande conestabile, che a nome chonte Alberigo, e ‘l chonte Giovanni da Barbiano e aultri chonti. Anzilago si rischontro ne la izuffa chol chonte Alberito e giotrarono insieme, si che Anzilago il levo de l’arcione e cadde in terra, si che il chonte Alberigo fu suo prigione’ (Bindino da Travale, La Cronaca 24-25). I provide the page numbers from the edition, but have also personally reviewed the manuscript in the Archivio di Stato di Siena (ms. 158), and found many minor errors in Lusini’s trascription. Thus my original versions may vary slightly from the published edition. 2 Though tiny and isolated, Travale nonetheless enjoys a glimmer of fame among linguists for containing a parchment from 1158 that contains the first record of volgare (‘Guaita, guaita male; non maigiai ma mezo pane’), indicating some disinclination or inability to serve as guard or to be watched, because of hunger. An analysis of the text adds: ‘Col che non s’esclude una spiritosa paradia dei gridi o canti delle scolte sui quali ha richiamato l’attenzione Leo Spitzer,’ alluding to a verse attributed to Ramabaldo di Vaqueiras (see Castellani 1976: 159). Perhaps Travale was less off the beaten track, and thus provided a richer verbal and literary environment than its isolation suggests! 3 Though largely concerned with illuminating the role of Venice and the Veneto in his long essay, Carlo Dionisotti mentions generally that Tuscan developments in literature in the volgare had little impact on Venetian culture, during the 1400s, excepting only the poetry of Giutinian and ‘la prosa illeggibile’ of the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili. Elsewhere, he believes, the impact of these examples is far weaker than in other regions of Italia, mentioning writings in volgare in Aragonese Naples, Sforzian Milan, and the d’Este court of Ferrara. To me, these examples serve to underscore the unique status of Bindino’s work, earlier than and isolated from these other developments, as does his assertion that ‘furano insomma i non Toscani che presero sul serio quel che i Toscani prendevano alla leggera’ (Dionisotti 1979: 117 and 118). 4 The poem may in fact be satirical in tone, a subtlety Bindino either misses or ignores in his own composition. 5 Bindino errs; the name of the pope’s nephew was Ludovico. 6 In the original all the text runs from margin to margin, and these rhyming sections are neither indented nor grouped into stanzas. I have presented them thus in my transcription to draw the reader’s attention to their meter and rhyme.

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7 Gifford P. Orwen is hesitant to include Folgore da San Gimignano in this group, as he was not exactly Sienese nor bourgeois, and focuses more on ‘the social life of the privileged few’ than on political or amorous affairs (Orwen 1979: 22, 24). 8 Little agreement exists on whether the Provençal tradition underlay the dolce stil nuovo, or Dante created it apart from the earlier tradition (cf. Healy 1965: 89-90). Both, however, focused on questions of love, increasingly spiritual, and could of course involve only knights and ladies of degree. 9 Orwen (1979: 22/3). In the opening of one of his sonnets, for example, Angiolieri says he is ‘più vil, che non fu pro’ Tristano’ (more vile than Tristan was courageous), thus simultaneously acknowledging and inverting a chivalric ideal (Orwen 1979: 49). In another he writes to Dante mocking an Angevin marshal both clearly knew, satirizing the man’s pretenses and concluding with the claim that Ed eo per me ne conterò novelle al bon re Carlo conte di Provenza, e per sto me’ gli fregiarò la pelle (And I for my part will recount tales to the good king Charles, count of Provence, and through them can get under his skin ( I like my translation here. Orwen 1979: 62). 10 Little agreement exists on whether the Provençal tradition underlay the dolce stil nuovo, or Dante created it apart from the earlier tradition (cf. Healy 1965: 89-90). Both, however, focused on questions of love, increasingly spiritual, and could of course involve only knights and ladies of degree. 11 A blank appears in this sentence in the manuscript. 12 ‘Divariati erano gli animi di quegli del papa Alisandro, perch’era tenuto il papa Girigoro buono uomo’ (Bindino, 63). 13 Bindino 277; cf. 264. The examples of rhymed couplets are many: we find one at the top of fol. 2r (there are no break lines in the original ms.): ‘Chastruccio cho la sua giente forte feria; morti per lo piano e assai giente nella Ghusciana periva’; nearly all folio 16v and 17r are rhythmic and rhymed, for example at the beginning of capitolo 34 (‘Fecie il suo isforzo il nobile barone per chonquistare ogni sua terra. Poi al vento spiegò suo pennone e per chamino chostui di disserra’); or yet again at the bottom of fol.19v, again near the opening of a section (‘Tirava il carro chon destrieri gonfianti chol giogo al chollo chiamando Serpina. El sole è fuore cho’ suoi raggi tanti, la frescha rosa [è] in su la verde ispina’) Once the reader becomes attuned to this habit, its pervasive presence is impossible to ignore. 14 Most sections begin: ‘Here is Giovanni di Bindino, writing what Bindino puts forth.’ 15 A minor sixteenth-century author of works in the chivalric tradition, Niccolò Liburnio, ‘come tutti ii suoi pari, aveva voluto essere poeta’ (Dionisotti 1979: 132). 16 A much less famous revival of chivalric culture appears in the work of Niccolò Liburnio, most likely from the far eastern reaches of Italy, who published le vulgari elegantie with Aldo Manuzio in 1521, and Le tre fontane in Venice with Gregorio de Gregori in 1526 (Dionisotti 1979: 114/5).

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Bibliography Primary sources Bindino da Travale, La Cronaca. Trans. V. Lusini. 2nd edn. Florence: B. Seeber, 1903. Secondary sources Buck, August, ed. (1987, 1989). Die Italienische Literature im Zeitalter Dantes und am Jbergang vom Mittelalter zur Renaissance. 2 vols. Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universit#tsverlag. Castellani, Arrigo Ettore (1976). I più antichi testi italiani. 2nd edn. Bologna: Pàtron. Dionisotti, Carlo (1979). ‘Niccolò Liburnio.’ In Letteratura italiana e culture regionali. Ed. A. Stussi. Bologna: Nicola Zanichelli. Healy, Eliot D. (1965). ‘Some Aspects of the Troubadour Contribution to the Dolce Stil Nuovo.’ In Mediaeval Studies in Honor of Urban Tigner Holmes, Jr. Ed.. John Mahoney and John Esten Keller. University of North Carolina Studies in the Romance Languages and Literatures, no. 56. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Lusini, V. (1895). ‘Sulla Cronaca di Bindino da Travale (1356-1416).’ Bullettino Senese di Storia Patria II: 111-129 Meneghetti, Maria Luisa (1995). ‘La Nascita delle letterature romanze.’ In Storia della Letteratura Italiana. I. Dalle Origini a Dante. Ed. Enrico Malato. Rome, Salerno. Orwen, Gifford P. (1979). Cecco Angiolieri: A Study. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Department of Romance Languages. Scavo, Rosanna (1997). Storia della Storiografia dalle cronache comunali all’illuminismo. Bari: Scuola di Archivistica, Paleografia e Diplomatica. Ullman, B. (1973). Studies in the Italian Renaissance. 2nd edn. Storia e Letteratura: Raccolta di Studi e Testi 51. Rome: Storia e Letteratura. Witt, Ronald G. (2000). ‘In the Footsteps of the Ancients’: The Origins of Humanism from Lovato to Bruni. Brill: Leiden / Boston / KCln.

LE CHRONIQUEUR ET SON PUBLIC: LES VERSIONS LATINE ET FRANÇAISE DE LA CHRONIQUE DE GUILLAUME DE TYR

Margarida Madureira

Abstract This paper analyses the various aspects through which author and translator represent in their texts different ideological conceptions about the Oriental Latin States. Addressing himself to a homogeneous community, with which he shares the feelings and the points of view, Guillaume de Tyr interprets the historical events from a subjective perspective, connecting them to the present. Unlike him, the French translator, as well as his reader, lacks identification with this territory as a geographic reality. They find, thus, on the concept of ‘Christendom’, a point of view that enables the reinterpretation of those historical events, integrating the history of crusades into their own Christian history.

Composée en Orient par un natif du Royaume de Jérusalem, la Chronique de Guillaume de Tyr représente une œuvre à part parmi les récits qui nous ont transmis l’histoire des croisades et des Etats latins. Constable en faisait abstraction dans un article sur la deuxième croisade alléguant qu’il s’agissait d’un chroniqueur ‘thoroughly nonWestern in his attitude’ (1953: 214, n.4). D’autres études plus récentes confirment ce point de vue. Ainsi, selon B. Ebels-Hoving, ‘William was a native of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, a crusaders’ colony, and despite the twenty-odd years he spent in the Schools of France and Italy, he remained an orientalis latinus’ (1996: 211). A dire vrai, il ne faut pas s’attendre à ce qu’il exprime une culture radicalement originale par rapport à celle qui circulait en Occident, d’où provenait d’ailleurs l’immense majorité des œuvres, soit en latin, soit en vulgaire, qui circulait dans cette région (Jacoby 1984: 646). Mais, bien que partageant les valeurs de ses homologues européens, avec qui il a appris les usages et techniques d’écriture et à qui il emprunte la forme

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littéraire de son texte, son regard est marqué par le sentiment d’appartenance à un autre monde. L’étude de Bunna Ebels-Hoving montre que l’enracinement dans la terre natale, que l’archevêque de Tyr présente comme la raison déterminante pour l’écriture de sa chronique, est à l’origine d’un ‘patriotisme séculier’, qui laisse dans son ouvrage une empreinte distinctive: ‘the subject of this history was his terra Hierosolymitana. His writing was rather an early specimen of ‘Landesgeschichte’. And his incentive was the urgentissimus amor patriae to which he confesses in the prologue he wrote for his nearcompleted work’ (1996: 215; cf. aussi Pryor 1992: 276). Le sens de l’histoire s’y trouve, en conséquence, focalisé sur deux axes: celui du temps, bien sûr, structure majeure des œuvres historiographiques médiévales; par contre, le second axe, celui de l’espace, n’est le plus souvent qu’un aspect secondaire, sans valeur opératoire, pour les historiens du XIIe et du XIIIe siècle (Guenée 1980: 20). Tout en se sentant lié à la communauté culturelle chrétienne de l’Europe occidentale, l’archevêque de Tyr, à l’instar de la noblesse des Etats latins d’Orient (Graboïs 1997: 54), avec laquelle il noue des relations très étroites grâce à la charge qu’il occupe auprès du roi Amaury Ier, a conscience d’une identité propre à ceux qui sont originaires de cette région. Cette situation explique une double perception, cléricale et séculière, des événements: de leurs causes, de leur sens dans l’histoire. Ainsi les résultats opposés dans le combat envers les Turcs obtenus par les premiers croisés et par les Latins qui en ont hérité du territoire conquis en Terre sainte sont-ils expliqués, au chapitre XXI, 7,1 soit pour des raisons d’ordre moral: Considerantibus ergo nobis et statum nostrum diligenter discutientibus prima occurrit causa, in deum auctorem omnium respiciens, quod pro patribus nostris, qui fuerunt vir religiosi et timentes deum, nati sunt filii perditissimi, filii scelerati, fidei christiane prevaricatores, passim et sine delectu per omnia currentes illicita … (ll.12-18; c’est moi qui souligne),

soit par une évaluation objective des faits et des circonstances historiques: … quod tempore preterito, cum illi viri venerabiles, zelo ducti divino, ardore fidei interius succensi primum ad Orientales partes descenderunt, erant bellicis assueti disciplinis, preliis exercitati, usum habentes armorum familiarem, populus vero Orientalis econtrario longa pace

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dissolutus, rei militaris expers, inexercitatus legibus preliorum vacatione gaudebat. (ll.26-31)

Le rapport à Dieu, ‘auteur de toute chose’, dont parle le premier de ces extraits, se dévoile aussi dans la trame de citations bibliques qui émaillent le texte de Guillaume de Tyr: elles rendent manifeste une conception du temps et de l’espace d’après laquelle l’histoire sacrée de l’Ancien et du Nouveau Testaments prend forme, à nouveau, en des configurations historiques contemporaines. Ce point de vue, disons, ‘typologique’ va de pair avec une représentation plus séculière de ces deux coordonnées, qui, conjuguant des facteurs d’ordre géographique, politique et affectif, rapportent les événements au hic et nunc de l’écriture. Je n’en donnerai qu’un exemple, dont la valeur structurante pour l’écriture de l’histoire chez Guillaume est frappante. Je pense à certains emplois du pronom personnel de première personne du pluriel: un nous au référent instable, en certains cas précisé par rapport au double axe du temps et de l’espace (j’y reviendrai). Formellement, cette prégnance des instances de discours est discernable dans les trois prologues, par le truchement desquels le chroniqueur met en relief l’importance du témoignage et du regard personnels. Structurée à partir de ces trois prologues, situés au début des livres I, XVI et XXIII, dans lesquels Guillaume exprime des relations différentes avec la matière rapportée, la Chronique présente les événements sous un jour très particulier, sans que cette perspective porte atteinte à la véracité des faits ou signifie une présence trop envahissante de l’auteur dans son récit. En fait, ce regard, disons, ‘subjectif’ s’ajoute à la vérité événementielle du récit, constituant une autre dimension du vrai, à l'aide de laquelle la Chronique construit sa pertinence par rapport au contexte de sa production-réception. Il ne concerne donc pas que l’auteur, mais l’ensemble de toute une communauté: communauté hétérogène, comme le prouve la double destination de l’œuvre, composée en réponse à la commande d’Amaury Ier et, à ce titre, adressée à un public aristocratique, mais affichant, dans la salutation inscrite en tête du premier prologue,2 un autre destinataire, le haut clergé – ceux qui, comme Guillaume de Tyr lui-même, appartiennent à l’épiscopat du royaume franc de Jérusalem: ‘Venerabilibus in Christo fratribus, ad quos presens opus pervenerit, eternam in Domino salutem’. C’est donc du point de vue de l’efficacité de l’acte communicationnel, de la fonction du texte auprès de ses

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récepteurs, qu’il faut considérer la mise en valeur du témoignage directe, que la petite préface qui ouvre le livre XVI associe à une plus grande rigueur méthodologique (Tessera 1999: 254). Ce discours préliminaire délimite deux parties dans l’œuvre: un passé plus lointain, auquel l’auteur n’a eu accès que par l’intermédiaire de sources écrites; celui, plus récent, dont la mémoire survit encore dans ceux qui y sont intervenus: un passé qui, de la sorte, s’intègre à la contemporanéité.3 Pour ce qui est des fondements ‘théoriques’, doctrinaires, de l’écriture de l’histoire, le prestige du témoignage oculaire tire son origine d’un verset de l’Evangile de Saint-Jean: ‘et qui vidit testimonium perhibuit et verum est eius testimonium’ (19,35). En tant qu’élément structurant du discours historique de la Chronique, c’est pourtant sa fonction de jalonnement de la contemporanéité, dont je parlais ci-dessus, cet horizon dans lequel se reconnaissent auteur et lecteurs, qui est fondamentale. De fait, cette référence du rapport de communication à un contexte situationnel s’avère de toute première importance pour l’effet pragmatique d’une œuvre dont le projet va bien au-delà de la simple préservation pour la postérité de la mémoire des événements remarquables qui constituent l’histoire des Etats latins d’Orient. Examinons, maintenant, l’emploi de la première personne du pluriel. Nombreuses occurrences du pronom nous renvoient à l’auteur et relèvent, en conséquence, d’une convention littéraire qui vise, par le truchement d’une attitude de modestie, la complaisance du lecteur. C’est le cas de l’utilisation de la première personne du pluriel dans les trois prologues, en articulation avec la définition (ou la redéfinition, en raison de la modification du contexte initial) de l’intention et du programme d’écriture: Paruimus igitur et manus dedimus ei, cui nostram non satis honeste negare poteramus operam, non multum attendentes quid de nobis sensura sit posteritas et quid in tam excellente materia exsanguis nostra mereatur oratio. (Prologue, 72-76)

Ce nous correspond à un auteur-narrateur intradiégétique. Malgré la discrétion dont il fait preuve en ce qui concerne sa participation aux événements racontés (Tessera 1999: 251), on retrouve dans son texte quelques allusions, voire de brefs récits à caractère autobiographique, parmi lesquels il faut signaler le chapitre XIX, 12, portant sur le séjour de Guillaume de Tyr en Europe pour ses études, que R.B.C. Huygens a édité pour la première fois en 1962.

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Outre cet emploi, où le nous n’apparaît que comme un substitut linguistique de la première personne du singulier visant des effets stylistiques et rhétoriques, il faut considérer un autre type d’occurrence où le pronom conserve, de façon évidente, son sens pluriel. Regardons la citation suivante: Vere tamen sequente, quod erat sexti anni domini Amalrici initium, videntes regni prudentiores quod in subiugata Turcis Egypto plurimum nobis decesserat et multo deterior facta erat nostra conditio – nam violentissimus hostis noster Noradinus et per mare poterat, classe numerosa ex Egypto proficiscente, regnum nostrum artare non modicum et quamlibet ex maritimis urbibus utroque vallare exercitu et, quod formidabilius erat, peregrinis transitum ad nos impedire aut negare penitus – consulunt opus esse ut de prelatis ecclesiarum viri venerabiles, prudentes et eloquentia prediti ad Occidentes principes dirigerentur, qui doceant et diligenter insinuent regni pressuras inportabiles et populi christiani afflictionem et casus asperos fratribus imminentes. (XX, 12, 5-12; c’est moi qui souligne)

La première personne du pluriel (nobis, nos) a, dans ce morceau, bel et bien une valeur collective: elle réunit le je de l’auteur à tous ceux qui, comme lui, ont participé aux événements: le nous correspond ici à je + ils.4 Ce nous s’inscrit, à la fois, dans le temps et dans l’espace, une double référence qui lui accorde une valeur identitaire. Considérée du point de vue de la référence à l’espace, la première personne du pluriel renvoie, tout d’abord, aux ‘regni prudentiores’, mais aussi à tous les Latins d’Orient à qui la prise de l’Egypte par Noradin porte préjudice. En tant qu’entité politique, le ‘royaume’ s’oppose à l’Occident (les ‘Occidentes principes’), dont l’aide est demandée au nom de la foi religieuse que ces deux mondes ont en commun: c’est la menace que les Turcs représentent pour les pèlerins qui est présentée comme le plus grand risque auquel s’expose la chrétienté (c'est-à-dire les chrétiens d’Orient, aussi bien que d’Occident) en conséquence de l’assujettissement de l’Egypte au pouvoir de Noradin. S’en tenant aux faits et au regard qui, dans le passé, ceux qui les ont vécus (parmi lesquels l’auteur) ont porté sur eux, la narration conserve apparemment une perspective objective, assurée, par ailleurs, par le caractère géographique précis qui marque la représentation de l’espace. Si l’on se rapporte au second axe, celui du temps, on s’aperçoit, cependant, que c’est précisément grâce à l’emploi de cette première personne du pluriel que le présent se trouve engagé dans

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l’histoire. De fait, autorisant l’identification d’auteur et destinataires avec les actants d’un passé parfois assez lointain, toujours envisagé du point de vue de ses suites pour l’histoire des Etats latins d’Orient et, en particulier, du royaume de Jérusalem, la première personne ajoute à la relation temporelle entre passé et présent une dimension affective, susceptible d’inverser l’écart qui se creuse naturellement entre ces deux cadres définis l’un par rapport à l’autre. Ce renversement est visible dans l’explication des causes développée au chapitre XXI, 7, ainsi que dans la citation de XX, 12, transcrite ci-dessus. D’une manière inverse, mais corrélative, devant le présent détestable, dont le prologue au livre XXIII trace un sombre tableau, c’est par rapport au moment contemporain que se creuse un écart infranchissable: deficimus in nobis ipsis detestatione presentium, obstupescentes materiam que se oculis et auribus ingerit … Nichil enim in nostrorum principum actibus occurrit quod memorie thesauris vir prudens credat esse mandandum, nichil quod aut lectori recreationem conferat aut scriptori proficiat ad honorem. … factusque est apud nos sicut populus ita et sacerdos, ita ut nobis aptari possit illud propheticum omne caput languidum et omne cor merens, a planta pedis usque ad verticem non est in nobis sanitas. (ll.14-25)

Référé au hic et nunc, à la fois, du discours et des faits historiques, dont l’enchaînement tragique est de plus en plus évident au regard de ceux (auteur et lecteurs) qui en sont témoins, le pronom de première personne du pluriel ne peut être compris que par rapport à la situation de communication: je + ils devient je + vous. Assumant un discours subjectif, expression du désarroi de ceux qui voient leur patrie aller à sa perte, nous représente, alors, une situation de communication qui comprend énonciateur et récepteurs, unis par une identique perception, chargée d’émotion, des événements historiques: nous représente et l’auteur et tous ceux qui l’incitent, en ces temps funestes, à poursuivre son écriture de l’histoire, en qui l’on peut voir, sans aucun doute, ses premiers destinataires. Le but de la Chronique s’est donc substantiellement altéré par rapport au début du texte: la glorification de la patrie, que l’archevêque de Tyr visait par le truchement du récit des événements illustres qui formaient son histoire, fait place maintenant à l’enseignement moral.5 Soudant auteur et destinataires, qui se reconnaissent tous les deux dans cet amour de la patrie qui est à

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l’origine de l’écriture, la première personne du pluriel imprime au texte de Guillaume une très grande cohérence idéologique. Réalisée très tôt, probablement dans les premières décennies du XIIIe siècle, par un traducteur anonyme, la version française de la Chronique, improprement désignée Roman ou Estoire d’Eracles dans plusieurs manuscrits, efface de façon systématique les points de repère sur lesquels Guillaume de Tyr fondait le complexe réseau de structuration idéologique mis en place dans son texte. Fruit d’une réinterprétation, à l’origine d’un projet littéraire inédit, cet effacement s’inscrit dans un processus de réécriture qui prend en considération le contexte de production-réception du nouvel ouvrage. ‘Comprendre l’œuvre d’un historien,’ nous dit Bernard Guenée, ‘c’est … d’abord la situer dans une culture. C’est aussi définir son public. … Une œuvre historique naît ainsi de la rencontre d’une culture, d’un auteur et d’un public’ (1999: 485). John H. Pryor a mené au sujet du contexte historique, sociologique, idéologique dans lequel et pour lequel cette traduction a d’abord été exécutée une réflexion très approfondie, en s’appuyant sur les vagues informations procurées par le texte français. Ses conclusions permettent de penser au traducteur comme un clerc français, qui aurait probablement séjourné en Terre sainte pour un temps (croisade? pèlerinage? on n’en sait rien), écrivant pour un public noble, français lui aussi, mais laïque, sans doute la cour capétienne des premières décennies du XIIIe siècle (1992: 272-89). L’adéquation du discours aux exigences de cet auditoire français, laïque et raffiné explique plusieurs aspects par lesquels la traduction s’éloigne de l’original latin:6 non seulement l’évincement de tout ce qui, dans ce dernier, liait auteur et récepteur à leur patrie, le royaume de Jérusalem, mais aussi les modifications ayant en vue adapter la narration aux goûts, intérêts et connaissances de ce public courtois. Je laisserai de côté les simplifications (l’élimination de nombreuses citations bibliques ou classiques, d’analyses plus complexes des situations politiques et militaires, de descriptions trop détaillées des lieux où se déroule l’action, etc.), le coloris des scènes (par exemple, la conversion systématique du discours indirect de la version latine en discours direct ou l’amplification des dialogues) ou l’exquisité des manières, sans rapport direct avec le sujet de ma communication. L’historiographie française accorde une plus grande place à la fonction ludique du texte que la latine; cette recherche du divertissement

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contraste avec la concentration sur le politique de la version de Guillaume de Tyr. Il ne faut pourtant pas qu’on se laisse aveugler par la recherche de l’amusement dans l’historiographie en langue vulgaire du début du XIIIe siècle. L’histoire en français rend manifestes d’importants transferts entre l’univers culturel des clercs et celui des laïcs, la culture historique de ces derniers ne divergeant pas, tout au moins quant au fond, de celle des premiers. La grande différence se trouve dans l’intérêt témoigné par la noblesse française médiévale pour l’histoire nationale (Guenée 1980: 317-19). La coïncidence en ce qui concerne l’espace géographique où est née, au début du XIIIe siècle, cette histoire nationale en français et celui où furent produits les plus anciens manuscrits parvenus jusqu’à nous contenant la traduction de Guillaume de Tyr est frappante: l’Ile-de-France et le Nord de la France, y compris la Flandre francophone (Spiegel 1993; Folda 1973). Sans aller jusqu’à voir dans l’ensemble de la production historiographique du Nord de la France une identique position idéologique – par exemple, comme le pense G. Spiegel, la réponse commune de la haute aristocratie qui s’oppose à Philippe-Auguste à une situation politique de plus en plus adverse à la puissance des grands lignages –, je suis convaincue que l’étude de la version française de l’œuvre de l’archevêque de Tyr ne peut être menée à bon terme sans que l’on tienne compte de cet intérêt parallèle et grandissant pour l’histoire de la France. Un double horizon commande, ainsi, la relation du traducteur et de son destinataire aux événements racontés, réglant la perspective selon laquelle ceux-ci sont présentés: d’une part, l’idée qu’on se fait, en Occident, de la croisade; de l’autre, le rapport de celle-ci à l’histoire de la France. Cela revient à dire que, tout en envisageant le divertissement de son lecteur/auditeur, les choix du traducteur ont, sans aucun doute, une portée idéologique: d’un certain point de vue, le traducteur est, lui aussi, un ‘historien’, son œuvre naissant ‘de la rencontre d’une culture, d’un auteur et d’un public’. Les modes de perception et de représentation qui définissent cette culture, notamment en ce qui concerne les croisades et les Etats latins d’Orient, ne sont pas toujours aisés à percer, et cela pour deux raisons: d’une part, le texte français ne comprend aucun énoncé systématique explicitant ses visées littéraires, politiques ou historiques, de l’autre (et corrélativement), les choix pratiqués par le traducteur manquent de clarté, si bien qu’il

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semble préférable de parler d’orientations dominantes, plutôt que de critères invariables. Ce n’est pas que ces choix ne soient pas révélateurs d’une perception idéologique des faits historiques; celle-ci est cependant de l’ordre du refoulé: il est difficile de parler à propos de l’auteur de la version française d’une conscience historique, ce qui ne revient pas à dire que son texte ne transmet pas un mode de regarder l’histoire et le passé. Tâchons donc d’identifier les repères qui structurent la perspective dans la version française. Remarquons, tout d’abord, que le traducteur français fait disparaître les trois prologues, dont on a vu l’importance pour l’architecture de la Chronique de Guillaume de Tyr. En même temps, il remplace, avec régularité, la première personne de l’auteur par une troisième personne et restreint significativement les passages qui portent sur la participation de celui-ci dans les événements: Guillaume de Tyr est, dans la traduction française, ‘… Guillaume qui fu arcevesques de Sur et ceste estoire mist en latin et bien sentendoit en clergie’ (XIX, 3).7 C’est donc en toute logique que le traducteur prend soin de faire disparaître de son texte le pronom nous, à valeur collective, correspondant à je + ils. Dans la version française, le terme ‘poulain’ signifie l’autre; la Terre sainte est ‘la terre d’Outre mer’ (Pryor 1992; Langille 2002-2003). Tous ces aspects vont dans le même sens: ils creusent une distance entre auteur et lecteur/auditeur, d’une part, et les événements racontés, de l’autre. Cela dit, la traduction conserve, voire introduit, de nombreuses occurrences de pronoms et déterminants possessifs de la première personne du pluriel. À côté de syntagmes plus attendus comme ‘nostre François’, ‘nostre langage’ ou ‘la gent de nostre foi’, on trouve, par exemple, ‘nostre crestien’/‘nos crestiens’, ‘nostre gent’/‘nos genz’, ‘nostre baron’/‘nos barons’, ‘nostre chevalier’, ‘li nostre’/‘les nos’, mais aussi ‘nostre chastel’, ‘nostre roiaumes’, ‘nostre terre’/‘nous citez et chastiaus’, ‘noz terres’, ‘nostre ost’, etc. La question qui se pose est la suivante: quelle communauté, quel sentiment identitaire trahit cet usage du possessif? Bien que la narration soit à la ‘troisième personne’, elle n’est pas neutre. On ne saurait trop insister sur une vive adhésion du traducteur aux heurs et malheurs des Latins d’Orient, que l’emploi du possessif de première personne du pluriel rend explicite. De ce point de vue, des expressions comme ‘terre d’Outre mer’ ou ‘terre de la outre’ rendent manifeste, avant tout, à une réalité géographique bipartite: l’Occident et l’Orient latin,

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territoires de la Chrétienté, c'est-à-dire de la communauté des peuples chrétiens, d’où l’auteur de la version française exclut cependant le monde gréco-byzantin.8 L’espace ayant – on l’a vu ci-dessus – une valeur cruciale pour la construction de l’histoire dans la Chronique de Guillaume de Tyr, on dirait que le traducteur procède au simple renversement de la perspective qu’il retrouve dans sa source. En fait, il n’en est rien. Certes, dans sa réalité géographique, cet espace apparaît comme étranger aux yeux occidentaux du traducteur et de son public. Mais ce n’est pas en tant que lieu physique que l’Orient latin leur inspire de l’intérêt: identifié à la Terre sainte, ce territoire est surtout conçu, dans le texte français, comme but de pèlerinage, c'est-àdire moins dans sa réalité physique qu’en tant que qu’espace symbolique. C’est donc le prestige mythique (plus que mystique) de la ville de Jérusalem et du Saint Sépulcre que le traducteur privilégie. Le contraste avec la réalité géographique concrète que décrit la Chronique est frappant.9 D’autre part, la version française emploie le plus souvent le mot ‘chrétienté’ dans une acception restreinte, pour désigner l’Orient latin ou les chrétiens qui habitent cette région: c’est, d’ailleurs, à de rares exceptions près, l’expression ‘orientales latinorum’, ou une autre équivalente, qu’on retrouve à la place correspondante chez Guillaume de Tyr.10 Implicitement, la désignation latine inscrit dans le texte ce sentiment identitaire, ‘national’, lié à l’espace géographique, que j’ai analysé ci-dessus. Au contraire, même si, dans le texte traduit, ‘chrétienté’ signifie, à part quelques exceptions, ‘la crestientez de la terre’ (XVI, 13), ‘la crestiente dorient’ (XXII, 5), le mot évoque à l’esprit cette communauté sans frontières que lie une même foi dans le Christ et une même obéissance à Rome. D’où un clivage – fondamental en ce qui concerne le sentiment d’identité représenté dans le texte français – par rapport tant aux sarrasins, qu’aux Grecs.11 L’effacement tant du pronom nous, correspondant à je + vous, que des coordonnées géographiques et temporelles apparaît, ainsi, comme condition indispensable à l’identification d’auteur et destinataires avec les personnages du récit. Certes, nous est parfois employé dans la version française à la place du pronom personnel de première personne du singulier pour désigner le sujet de l’énonciation, de même que dans le texte latin. Il s’agit, pourtant, le plus souvent, de formules de liaison stéréotypées, sans aucun rapport avec un projet d’écriture.12 En d’autres cas, la voix du traducteur intervient pour expliquer ou

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commenter des questions obscures pour son destinataire français, ignorant des lieux et des personnes représentés dans le texte. Disons-le pourtant tout de suite: malgré le contexte français de la traduction, que confirme tant l’amplification des exploits mémorables des Français, que l’occultation de ce qui peut ternir leur gloire, malgré la place centrale que ceux-ci, et en particulier les rois français, occupent dans l’histoire des croisades et des royaumes latins d’Orient, l’appartenance nationale ne constitue pas un trait pertinent pour la construction de la perspective idéologique selon laquelle sont représentés les événements dans la traduction de la Chronique. A preuve l’emploi fréquent du possessif de première personne du pluriel pour désigner les troupes de l’empereur allemand, au livre XVI. Il faut donc revenir à la notion de chrétienté, la seule qui représente, dans le texte français, un sentiment identitaire unissant la perception que traducteur, lecteur/auditeur et personnages ont des événements. Cette insistance sur la chrétienté témoigne-t-elle d’un penchant plus religieux de la traduction par rapport à sa source latine? J’aurais tendance à croire que non. Si, à une époque plus ancienne, cette notion a été associée, avant tout, à l’idée de communauté spirituelle, elle acquiert peu à peu un sens profane, désignant, à l’âge féodal, la communauté des peuples chrétiens qui obéissent à la papauté (Rousset 1963: 191). Son emploi dans la version française de la Chronique tient à cette dernière acception. En fait, ‘la crestiente dorient’ n’y représente qu’une partie de la Chrétienté – communauté universelle que les guerres contre l’Islam ont contribué à affermir. C’est la gloire de toute cette communauté – et non pas seulement de la chrétienté d’Orient – que la défaite des Latins devant l’armée turque à Carran et la déroute qui s’ensuivit risque de ternir. En toute logique, le traducteur remplace donc ‘gentis … nostre’ par ‘toute la Crestiente’.13 Double, la notion de ‘chrétienté’ permet ainsi la réinterprétation des événements selon une perspective qui lie auteur et lecteur/auditeur à un espace et à un temps qui, dans leur réalité physique, leur sont étrangers; elle intègre, ainsi, les événements de la croisade à leur propre histoire de peuple chrétien.

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Notes 1

Pour un bref commentaire de ce passage, dans le contexte d’une analyse du type de liens de causalité mis en œuvre par les historiens du Moyen Age, voir Guenée (1973: 1009). 2 Je ne ferai pas entrer en ligne de compte, dans cette communication, les conséquences qu'entraînent, pour une redéfinition des effets de lecture inscrits dans le texte, d’une part, la mort du premier destinataire de l’œuvre, de l’autre la débâcle du royaume de Jérusalem que Guillaume de Tyr croit, à juste raison, imminente. Pour une étude des destinataires de Guillaume de Tyr, cf. Huygens (1986: 32-33). 3 ‘Que de presenti hactenus contexuimus Historia aliorum tantum, quibus prisci temporis plenior adhuc famulabatur memoria, collegimus relatione …. Que autem sequuntur deinceps partim nos ipsi fide conspeximus oculata, partim eorum, qui rebus gestis presentes interfuerunt, fida nobis patuit narratione, unde gemino freti adminiculo ea que restant auctore domino facilius fideliusque posterorum mandabimus lectioni’ (ll.1-10). 4 Je dois signaler ici ma dette envers les réflexions de Sophie Marnette (1998 et 1999), même si tant la Chronique de Guillaume de Tyr, comme sa traduction, représentent des cas différents de ceux étudiés par cette linguiste. 5 ‘Sed quibus cordi est ut in eo, quod semel cepimus, nos continuemus proposito quique orant instantius ut regni Ierosolimorum status omnis, tam prosper quam adversus, posteritati nostra significetur opera, stimulos addunt … Habundant et aliis exemplis ad hoc nos nituntur impellere eoque facilius persuadent, quia plane liquet rerum gestarum scriptoribus untramque sortem pari esse ratione propositam, ut sic gestorum feliciter narratione posteros ad quandam animositatem erigunt, sic infortuniorum subiectorum exemplos eosdem reddant in similibus cautiores’ (XXIII, Prologue, 32-45). 6 Pour une comparaison entre les versions latine et française, voir, outre l’article de Pryor déjà cité (1992), Langille (2002-2003) et Ost (1899). 7 Cependant, il est probable que le chapitre XIX, 12, transmis uniquement par le manuscrit de la Bibliothèque du Vatican lat. 2002 (suivi par Huygens dans son édition de la Chronique), ne faisait plus partie de la source utilisée par le traducteur français. Ce fait témoigne-t-il d’un regard occidental sur le texte de Guillaume de Tyr, commun à la version française et à quelques manuscrits latins? Il faut renoncer à trouver une réponse à cette question, tant qu’on n’aura pas identifié le texte le plus proche de la source utilisée par le traducteur. 8 ‘Quant la novele corut par les terres que la citez de Rohes estoit conquise outre les monz en vint la parole et disoit len que toute la terre de la outre se perdoit car li Tur avoient prise les citez les chastiaus garniz, chevaliers, clergie et le pueple comunement touz decoupez. Lapostoile ot mout grant pitie de cele terre et du pueple Dame Dieu que len i menoit si a mal’ (XVI, 18). On trouve l’expression ‘terre doutremer’ chez Guillaume de Tyr, mais pour désigner – il faudrait s’y attendre – l’Europe chrétienne. 9 Comparer ‘Li Rois se conseilla puis li respondi que il sestoit voez au Sepulchre et nomeement por aler la sestoit croisiez’ (XVI, 24) avec ‘… ubi videt se non proficere cum rex Ierosolimam votis ardentibus inrevocabiliter’ (XVI, 27, 31-32; c’est moi qui souligne).

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10 Comparer ‘Il tesmoignerent bien tuit cil de la terre de Surie qui là furent, que onques la Crestientez de la terre n'avoit chevauchié si perilleusement sans desconfiture, com el fist lors …’ (XVI, 13) avec ‘Non habet presentium hominum memoria quod Latinorum tempore in toto Oriente absque manifesta hostium victoria tam periculosa fuerit expeditio’ (XVI, 13, 19-22; c’est moi qui souligne). 11 En ce qui concerne les premiers, voir les périphrases ‘les anemis Nostre Seigneur’, ‘les anemis de la foi Jhesucrist’, et l’expression équivalente ‘nostre anemi’, en opposition à ‘Crestiens’ et ‘Crestiente’. Ainsi, Noradin est-il désigné ‘li plus morteus anemis que la Crestiente poist avoir’ (XVIII, 15). 12 ‘Assez i ot maintes proesces fetes que nos ne vos disons mie car nos entendons a porsivre le gros de lestoire’ (XVII, 24). 13 ‘Len ne trueve mie en nule estoire que en toute la terre dorient eust onques mes si perilleuse bataille des Latins ne si grant ocision de preudomes ne desconfiture si honteuse a toute la Crestiente’ (X, 28); ‘Porro nec prius nec postmodum in universo Oriente tempore Latinorum uspiam legitur tam periculosum fuisse prelium tantaque strages virorum fortium gentisque nostre tam ignominiosa fuga’ (X, 29).

Bibliographie Textes primaires Biblia Sacra iuxta vulgatam versionem. Ed. R. Weber et R. Gryson. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1994. Guillaume de Tyr. Chronique. 2 vols. Ed. R. B. C. Huygens. Turnhoult: Brepols, 1986. ––– Histoire générale des Croisades par les auteurs contemporains. Guillaume de Tyr et ses continuateurs. 2 vols. Ed. P. Paris. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1879-1880. Bibliographie secondaire Constable, Giles (1953). ‘The Second Crusade as Seen by Contemporaries.’ Traditio 9: 213-79. Ebels-Hoving, Bunna (1973). ‘Manuscripts of the History of Outremer by William of Tyre: a handlist.’ Scriptorium 27: 90-95. ––– (1996). ‘William of Tyre and His Patria.’ Dans Media Latinitas. A Collection of Essays to Mark the Occasion of the Retirement of L. J. Engels. Ed. R. I. A. Nip, H. van Dijk et E. M. C. van Houts. Turnhout: Brepols. 211-16. Graboïs, Aryeh (1997). ‘La bibliothèque du noble d’Outremer à Acre dans la seconde moitié du XIIIe siècle.’ Le Moyen Age 103: 53-66. Guenée, Bernard (1973). ‘Histoires, annales, chroniques. Essai sur les genres historiques au Moyen Age.’ Annales: économies, sociétés, civilisation 28 (4): 9971016. ––– (1980). Histoire et culture historique dans l'Occident médiéval. Paris: Aubier. ––– (1999). ‘Histoire.’ Dans Dictionnaire raisonné de l’Occident médiéval. Ed. Jacques Le Goff et Jean-Claude Schmitt. Paris: Fayard. 483-496. Huygens, R. B. C. (1962). ‘Guillaume de Tyr étudiant. Un chapitre (XIX, 12) de son Histoire retrouvé.’ Latomus 21: 811-29.

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(1964). ‘La tradition manuscrite de Guillaume de Tyr.’ Studi Medievali 3e s. 5: 281-373. ––– (1986). ‘Introduction.’ Voir Guillaume de Tyr. Chronique. Jacoby, David (1984). ‘La littérature française dans les Etats latins de la Méditerranée orientale à l’époque des croisades: diffusion et création.’ Dans Essor et fortune de la chanson de geste dans l’Europe et l’Orient latin. Actes du 9e Congrès de la Société Rencesvals, Padoue, 1982. Modène: Mucchi Editore. II, 617-46. Langille, Edouard (2002-2003). ‘Traduire La Chronique de Guillaume de Tyr.’ Dans Traduction, dérimation, compilation: la phraséologie. Actes du colloque international. Université McGill, Montréal, 2-3-4 octobre 2000. Ed. G. Di Stefano et R. M. Bidler. Montreal: Editions CERES. 387-94. Marnette, Sophie (1998). Narrateur et points de vue dans la littérature française médiévale: Une approche linguistique. Bernes: Peter Lang. ––– (1999). ‘Narrateur et point de vue dans les chroniques médiévales: une approche linguistique.’ Dans The Medieval Chronicle. Proceedings of the 1st International Conference on the Medieval Chronicle. Driebergen/Utrecht 13-16 July 1999. Ed. Erik Kooper. Amsterdam/Atlanta: Rodopi. 174-90. Ost, Franz (1899). Die altfranzösische Übersetzung der Geschichte der Kreuzzüge Wilhelms v. Tyrus. Halle: Druck von Wischan & Wettengel. Pryor, John H. (1992). ‘The Eracles and William of Tyre: An Interim Report.’ Dans The Horns of Hattin. Proceedings of the Second Conference of the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East, Jerusalem and Haifa, 2-6 July 1987. Ed. B. Z. Kedar. Jerusalem- London: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi-Variorum. 27093. Rousset, Paul (1963). ‘La notion de chrétienté aux XIe et XIIe siècles.’ Le Moyen Age 69: 191-203. Spiegel, Gabrielle (1993). Romancing the Past. The Rise of Vernacular Historiography in Thirteenth-Century France. Berkeley / Los Angeles / Oxford: University of California Press. Tessera, Miriam Rita (1999). ‘Guglielmo di Tiro e Bernardo di Clairvaux: uno sguardo da Oltremare sulla seconda crociata.’ Aevum 73: 247-72. –––

‘A TOUS NOBLES QUI AIMENT BEAUX FAITS ET BONNES HISTOIRES’: THE MULTIPLE TRANSFORMATIONS OF A FIFTEENTH-CENTURY FRENCH GENEALOGICAL CHRONICLE

Marigold Anne Norbye

Abstract A modest fifteenth-century French genealogical chronicle, A tous nobles qui aiment beaux faits, survives in about sixty-five copies, which are distinguished by their variations of content (over twenty different textual versions) and of appearance (manuscripts ranging from luxurious to crude, from roll to codex). This presupposes that numerous persons (‘remanieurs’) remodelled both content and format. These remanieurs might have been scribes who used their initiative or were asked by a patron to rewrite the work, or individuals who copied the book for their own use, amending their copy as they went. The remanieurs and their audiences belonged to circles where history was appreciated and unofficial history-writing took place: possibly government officials, more likely the lay aristocracy. In a period of increasing literacy and emerging national sentiment, the reshaping of historical narrative by the ‘remanieurs’ is witness to a lively culture in which history, politics and identity were closely linked.

Introduction The modern concept of ‘amateur’ historian does not really apply to the Middle Ages, when there were few, if any, who could be considered ‘professional’ chroniclers. History itself was not a subject of academic study, and most of the chronicles which have come down to us were written by men whose main occupation was not that of writing history. However, I am going to argue that, aside from the historians who produced chronicles to a ‘professional standard’ (to use a modern phrase), there may well have existed another category of men who generated historical writings, men whom we might call ‘amateurs’ or ‘dilettanti’. These persons had an interest in matters historical and genealogical,

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but did not have the access to scholarly works or the erudition of chroniclers such as Matthew Paris or Guillaume de Nangis. However, they were sufficiently cultured and literate to have written, altered or commissioned copies of historical works of a more modest scope. By doing this, they were actively contributing to forge the historical and thus political culture of their time.1 One such modest historical work is a genealogical chronicle of the kings of France, starting with the words: ‘A tous nobles qui aiment beaux faits et bonnes histoires’.2 It purports to be based on the Grandes Chroniques de France, and relates French history from its mythical Trojan origins down to 1380 and sometimes later. From the number of manuscripts which survive (about sixty-five), it was obviously popular in France in the fifteenth century. However, what is particularly striking is the sheer variety in physical format and presentation of the manuscripts, and the large amount of variants in the contents. A tous nobles exists in about twenty textual versions, with all but four of them accompanied by a genealogical tree. The work A tous nobles itself either appears in a stand-alone version, or embedded within a universal chronicle (in two thirds of the manuscripts). It is copied either in book format (in a third of the manuscripts) or on a roll. The quality of the copies varies from very plain to luxurious. As I kept encountering more manuscripts of A tous nobles – often with yet another textual version, or yet another physical format – the same basic question kept arising: why was this basically unremarkable abridged history of France, together with its slightly less common tree, subject to so many changes, both in content and appearance? Several people must have made the choice to take an existing copy of A tous nobles, and amend it in some way, whether by creating a new version of text and tree, or by presenting an existing version in a new manner. These people could be individual readers who borrowed an exemplar and changed it as they copied for themselves; patrons who commissioned a copy and asked a writer (who may or may not have been the final scribe) to make a new version for them; or scribes who used their initiative to interfere with the work they were copying. Who might these people have been, and what do their actions say about the historical culture of their time?

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 177 The audience of A tous nobles Before reflecting upon those who wrote A tous nobles, and those for whom they wrote it, it is important to extract what information one can from the manuscripts themselves on where they might have been written, and for whom. Such an investigation reveals that A tous nobles was likely to have appealed to a fairly broad audience, from royal dukes downwards, and that some versions at least reflect a definite interest in the affairs of north-western France.3 The origin and provenance of the manuscripts are in most cases not proven, for lack of evidence. Script and subject matter establish that the manuscripts were written in France throughout the fifteenth century. The style and illustrations of the universal chronicles in roll format point, if not to a single workshop, at least to common models and sources of images. There is limited evidence of the identity of any owners of the manuscripts, let alone of the original proprietors or commissioners of the works: eight names on manuscripts, two coats of arms and indirect information through medieval inventories. Most of the names are unknown, possibly of minor nobles. The known owners included Arthur de Montauban, a Breton noble who became archbishop of Bordeaux and who gave the manuscript to his order, the Celestines, Gavre de Liederkerke, who belonged to a well-known Flemish noble family, the Valois dukes of Burgundy and Jean d’Orléans, count of Angoulême. Some comments can be made about potential types of owners from the manuscripts themselves. The codicological analysis shows the large variety of physical attributes. MS Paris BnF français 5734 (version 6), scrawled in a cursive hand with no decoration in a small paper booklet, was at the cheapest end of the scale. It is also the type of book that is most likely to have perished over the centuries. It is likely to have belonged to a relatively modest reader, a mid-ranking official or clerk perhaps, or even a merchant interested in history. Higher up on the scale is ‘version 3’, which exists in six codices, the first three of which are identical in contents (including an antiEnglish polemical tract and a genealogy of the kings of England as well as A tous nobles) and very similar in their modest decoration.4 One of these three books was written for the seigneur de Bellegarde, and another was probably owned by ‘de Pommereul’.5 They could all have belonged to a type of owner interested in the current political

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debates and wealthy enough to buy a utilitarian book of reasonable quality. The other three copies of version 3 are found in paper codices together with a longer version of A tous nobles (version 4) and sundry other historical documents relating to France and Brittany.6 One of these copies, MS Paris Bibl. Sainte-Geneviève 1994, has three quarters of its contents duplicated in MS Paris Bibl. Sainte-Geneviève 1993 (which contains version 4 but not version 3). André Bossuat argued that the two Sainte-Geneviève manuscripts might be a collection of documents put together by a chronicler with the idea of using them as source material; they might be ‘une partie des notes accumulées par Jean Castel’, official historiographer in the reign of Louis XI (Bossuat 1958: 302). The argument is carefully reasoned, but Bossuat seems unaware of the existence of the other copies of versions 4 and 3. Can one really assume that several manuscripts were copied just to serve as ‘travail préparatoire’ (Bossuat 1958: 538) for a chronicler?7 Or could one argue that even if a chronicler such as Jean Castel originally put together this group of texts, it was subsequently copied for other interested parties, which might be fellow clerics, or readers of a slightly more erudite bent than those of the first three copies of version 3? Such readers were not just interested in the polemical tract, but in other pieces of historical evidence, including dry reports of embassies, trials and meetings of the Breton Parlement. Content rather than visual presentation would have been the main interest of this type of reader. On the other hand, manuscripts such as the many ‘standard’ universal chronicles on rolls, or the numerous other copies of A tous nobles, both stand-alone and within universal chronicles, in roll or in book form, which contain elaborate genealogical trees illustrated with illuminated miniatures in medallions, often with decorated initials and borders at the beginning of the text, must have appealed to an audience more sensitive to their visual aspects, who could afford such expensive manuscripts. There are some clues on the possible geographical origins of some versions of A tous nobles and their manuscripts. Version 3 (and the long version 4 usually found alongside it) and its sibling version R have genealogical trees that contain the royal cadet branches of the dukes of Brittany and counts of Alençon. The texts of these versions and of others reveal a degree of interest in the affairs of Brittany and

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 179 Normandy. Half the manuscripts in which version 3 is found also include other texts which pertain to north-western France. The most common version of the universal chronicle (version H) survives in more than twenty rolls; stylistic evidence suggests that many were produced in a workshop in the Paris area. Variations in content – the legacy of remanieurs Turning to the main contents of A tous nobles, a detailed analysis of the text’s variants enables one to identify twenty-one separate versions, to which I have assigned letters or numbers. Of these versions, some can be grouped into ‘families’, with significant textual elements common to all members of that family. The three main families into which some versions cluster are those including versions 2, 3 and R (family 23R), Y, C, A, T and W (YCATW) and H, F, U, 6 and 7 (HFU67). The other versions have numerous elements in common but do not fit into any particular clusters. There exists a core, ‘common’, text of A tous nobles which makes up part or most of the text found in all the various versions of the work. Inserted within this core are additional segments of text found in more than one version. Often such additions are shared by the members of one or several families, and help define these families. The common text seems to stop at events around 1380, as does the main acknowledged source of A tous nobles, the Grandes Chroniques de France. Some versions then contain prolongations, usually unique to a version, but sometimes shared by several. Certain versions display more ‘originality’ than others, in that they have more words unique to themselves. Some others use segments of text which also appear in other versions, but the combination of segments is unique to that version. Whilst it is possible to group many versions into families, and posit a shared model for these, the amount of ‘contamination’ between versions precludes establishing a more linear, ‘genetic’ stemma. The text was remodelled on two levels, by writers whom I shall call remanieurs (‘remodellers’) following Sylvia Huot’s example (Huot 1992: 203-33). On the first level, substantive changes were made to the intellectual content of A tous nobles. On the second, textual changes were usually minor, but, as we shall later, the remanieurs showed their creativity in other ways.

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At the first level, many of the insertions relating to historical events can be grouped by ‘family’ of versions, implying that the author of each family’s ‘archetype’ was the one who gathered and wrote up the extra narrative facts. One can postulate up to three separate remanieurs responsible for whatever ‘archetype’ served as model for the versions in each family. One should add that some other versions outside these families also show strong individual qualities. To give a few examples, the author of the largest family (HFU67) displays an interest in royal marriages, political stories about individuals, and diplomatic news. The redactor of a sub-family (versions 3 and R) is openly anti-English and anti-Burgundian. He also reveals an interest in matters pertaining to Brittany, shown in particular by the inclusion of several generations of members of the royal cadet line of Brittany in the genealogical figures. The originator of version 3 also provided original material, in the form of long sections of additional genealogical data or clarification. The writer of version O stands out by professing openly pro-English sympathies – adding extra text in later sections that reflects this. The redactor of version 7 interpolated extra paragraphs from other sources, without seeking to blend them into the original text, revealing an interest for anecdotes and tales with a moral. At the second level, the composers of the individual versions took the trouble to amend their copy further, their own interventions discernible more at the level of specific words or phrases rather than of full factual insertions. The language of the text is simple, even basic and repetitive, and many of the variants are replacements of one banal expression by another. It should not be forgotten that to each version of text corresponds a version of genealogical tree, implying that each author of a new version amended both tree and text. Remanieurs did not simply play with words or narrative contents, they also decided who was included or not in the trees: such choices, obscuring or highlighting certain significant members of the French royal dynasties, could have political implications (for example, ignoring Edward III’s claim to the throne of France through his mother). Another category of textual remaniement – prolongation – was not in evidence in every version. Five versions were content to stop towards the end of the reign of Charles V (who died in 1380), finishing on a positive note in praise of the good state of the kingdom,

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 181 sometimes supported by a prayer. However the writers of other versions produced continuations that were integrated at the end of A tous nobles. To give a few examples, all twenty-odd copies of the most popular universal chronicle in roll format (version H) share a short paragraph on the early days of Charles VI’s reign. Afterwards, the manuscripts separate into two main types of continuations, one with the rest of the detailed narrative for Charles VI, the other jumping to Charles VII at this point, and giving a fairly long account of his reign. Some copies of the first type also include additional annals to cover the reign of Charles VII. Many trees show signs of having been updated from the reign of Charles VI to that of his son or even grandson. The variety of rewritings for the continuation of this particular version might reflect the fact that this was the one which was copied in greatest numbers; some copies originate stylistically from the same workshop. It is likely that remanieurs were employed periodically to update the text and tree for this often copied work. The short paragraph from version H concerning Charles VI is also found in two other versions from two separate families (versions 2 and Y) as their continuation. The remanieurs of these versions – neither of them distinguished by their own originality of wording – must have had access to it, and added it to the end of their respective families’ common text. The author of the 3R sub-family mentioned above wrote his own account of the reigns of Charles VI and his son Charles VII, containing his most vitriolic anti-English and antiBurgundian language: this was a remanieur who fully used the continuation of the narrative as an opportunity to express himself, possibly influenced by polemical literature such as that by Alain Chartier.8 The pro-English author of version O had already departed from the common text after an initial section on Jean II, and wrote a detailed account, of military events in particular, of that king’s and his son’s reigns. It is likely that he had access to official sources, such as lists of prisoners and casualties of the various battles won by the English, and accounts of the Spanish campaigns concerning Pedro the Cruel.9 Even in the early sixteenth century, some possessors of A tous nobles still wanted the narrative prolonged. Later remanieurs duly

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provided updates, demonstrating the enduring popularity of the work.10 The extent of variations – from content to form The extent of initiative shown by the remanieurs goes beyond the intellectual content of text and tree. More strikingly, remanieurs could make their mark on the physical format and layout of the manuscripts of given versions. The format of the manuscript, roll or codex, could pose a challenge to a remanieur. If the original model of A tous nobles was in roll form with a circle and line genealogical ‘tree’, which is quite possible if one looks at potential antecedents such as Pierre de Poitiers’s Compendium or English royal genealogical rolls, then the remanieurs of the versions in codex form had to use their initiative and creativity to find a satisfactory way of conveying the same visual concept in another format whilst retaining its impact. Moreover, the differing quality of the manuscripts suggests owners of different status and wealth; this might impinge on the remanieurs who produced the versions associated to these manuscripts. Thus, to take the example of the largest family (HFU67), whoever produced the model for the luxurious universal chronicle of version H, a parchment roll decorated with illuminated miniatures in medallions placed within the genealogical tree, was aiming at a different audience from the originator of the codices of version 6, written on paper in a cursive hand without any decoration, which do not even contain the genealogical tree.11 Version 7, which is also in codex form, dispenses with the genealogical figures as well; its compiler chose instead to complement the text of A tous nobles with anecdotes of interest from another source (MS Paris BnF fr. 5696). The composer of version U, a universal chronicle in a codex, used a layout also found in some other universal chronicles in codices: one column of text, with the histories of different nations being narrated consecutively rather than in the parallel columns used in rolls, accompanied by a discontinuous tree in the vertical margin12. The redactor of version F also used the easier-to-handle codex format; however, he had the idea of reproducing the standard universal chronicle four-column layout, and found the unusual solution of turning the codex around by 90 degrees to retain the visual continuity that the roll format provided so admirably.13 His text is close to

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 183 version H, with relatively few unique elements, but his ingenious layout is found only in his version.14 In the same way, in the family 23R, each version of text corresponds to a different physical format and textual context. The versions are very close textually but the codicological evidence points out many differences. The only manuscript of version 2 is a codex (MS Paris BnF français 23019). It contains a table of virtues and vices, and a set of genealogical trees for the Old Testament, reminiscent of the first section of the universal chronicle, without the accompanying text. It then contains a short universal chronicle (starting in the Christian era) in four columns, two columns per page, corresponding to the four columns found in the rolls. The scribe, unlike the originator of version F, has not tried to improve the visual continuity, so that the text reads vertically in the normal way, with the accompanying tree being interrupted at the bottom of each page and continuing at the top of the next. It is a fine quality manuscript, with carefully decorated and illuminated initials, and miniatures within the genealogical medallions. Of all the manuscripts I have seen, it is the only one with a dated colophon. Version R (MSS Paris BnF français 6470 and Chicago Newberry Library 132) has the stand-alone A tous nobles text, in roll format. Its tree has a carefully colour-coded system of link lines, whereas the trees of other versions use one colour only. The tree also has the most comprehensive cadet branches of all the versions, in particular of the Breton ducal family. By contrast, version 3 is written in a codex, often on paper; it has genealogical figures in the form of clusters of roundels, without link lines, executed carefully in some copies, and very roughly in others. It is always co-located with numerous other texts, including a genealogy of the kings of England, usually an anti-English polemical tract, and often the longer version 4 of A tous nobles together with other historical texts of contemporary relevance. Similar comments can be made about the manuscripts making up the third main family of versions, and about the remaining versions that do not belong to any family. The dominating impression is of variety, not only of content, but even more of the layout and decoration of the individual manuscripts, especially as regards the genealogical figures. In the cases where a separate artist produced the decoration, cooperation between scribe and decorator must have been close.

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Traits of the remanieurs From an examination of the A tous nobles texts and individual manuscript characteristics, certain traits of the remanieurs begin to emerge. The first type of remanieur composed variants relating to specific episodes in the story. One could make the assumption that the ‘Urtext’ of A tous nobles contained all the events included in all the families, and that each family represented a truncated adaptation of this putative comprehensive archetype. Alternatively, one can hypothesise that the ‘Urtext’ was relatively short, made up mainly of the elements common to all or most of the versions, and that the remanieurs added extra events. In either case, the remanieur’s role was to select which historical facts he chose to put or keep in the version that he was writing. This type of remanieur engaged with the text to bring out particular facts, modelling the historical narrative to suit his own conceptions of the story he was retelling. The second type of remanieur was one who was responsible for producing individual versions, where the facts narrated were similar to other versions, but where individual phrases were reworded, expanded or omitted. As discussed above, the creativity of these particular writers was more likely to be expressed in the physical format of the manuscript, as evidenced by the copies that survive. Creativity, however modest, would not be the only trait one would expect to find in a remanieur of a historical work such as A tous nobles. The original author’s pretensions were to recount the past history of France, and this implicitly leads the modern reader to take for granted that both he and his remanieurs would have displayed historical accuracy as one of their qualities. Yet an analysis of the historical facts and of the genealogical trees has revealed that A tous nobles was riddled with small inaccuracies regarding dates, lengths of reigns, and the names and relationships of various royal persons, as well as some downright errors concerning events. This does not seem to have detracted from the popularity of the work. The original author of A tous nobles, plus any of the remanieurs who might have added to the text, displayed distinct signs of historical ignorance or confusion. What is more, very few of the other remanieurs corrected their mistakes. The most striking example of this is the error found in most versions of A tous nobles, a mix-up in the two generations following Philippe III. More surprisingly, nearly all

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 185 versions name the enemy at Crécy as the Flemings, version T being the only one correctly to refer to the English. One would have expected the memory of such a defeat, the first of many French disasters of the Hundred Years War, which was still continuing as A tous nobles was drafted, still to be alive in the minds of the original author or some of the remanieurs, and yet the error persisted. Confusions, created by a misunderstanding of the sources, or even by a scribal error such as eye-skip, also occur in several versions. However, it is possible that some ‘errors’ or omissions were deliberate, as I have discussed elsewhere (Norbye: 2007a). On the positive side, did any of the remanieurs show evidence of having carried out independent historical research? Much depends on whether the remanieurs added extra facts to the common core, or subtracted them. If they provided additional information, they would have to find a source for it. The author of the sibling versions 3 and R is the one who seems to have done some original research: he provides genealogical information for several generations of members of the ruling families of Alençon and Brittany, and writes his own, partisan, report of the reigns of Charles VI and his son. It may not be a coincidence that version 3 is the one co-located with other historical documents. The redactor of version C has investigated an obscure cadet branch, and his tree contains several entries unique to him (by contrast to his text). The pro-English author of version O has made extensive additions to the genealogical tree of the kings of England, as well as providing the most complete coverage of the cadet line of Bourbon of any version. It does seem more likely to postulate that, in these three cases at least, these remanieurs carried out genealogical research to provide such extra information, rather than assuming that this information was contained in the ‘Urtext’ (or ‘Urbaum’) and that all the other scribes deleted it. It should be noted that the writers of several versions were content to stop their narrative in 1380; they were not able or willing to carry out the task of bringing the story up to date, unlike most chroniclers and compilers of longer histories. Who were they? Thus we are in the presence of remanieurs who used their creativity in rewriting and reformatting A tous nobles. Most of them, including the original author of A tous nobles, seem to have had limited historical

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knowledge, allowing not only minor factual inaccuracies but certain fundamental mistakes to be passed on from one version to the next. On the other hand, a few remanieurs seem to have carried out individual research, in particular on the genealogical information. These same persons were perpetuating some of the major errors whilst at the same time carefully adding new data. In a society in which the concept of ‘professional historian’ did not exist, the people who produced works such as A tous nobles and its remaniements would not have been ‘experts’ in history. They were persons who were educated enough to have excerpted information from lengthy sources and summarised it into a readable brief narrative, and who in subsequent remaniements were usually able to maintain a coherent storyline. Let us not forget that someone also produced the universal chronicle in which many versions of A tous nobles are embedded. Whether or not A tous nobles pre-dated the universal chronicle, both the original author and the first compiler or remanieur showed themselves capable of handling complex historical information (in both text and genealogical figures), and transforming it in an intelligent manner, even if errors did creep in. The degree of transformation of the work by the subsequent remanieurs varies from version to version, but most showed some degree of creativity or innovation, whether in rewriting the text, or in experimenting with different physical formats. One important point to remember is that the remanieurs were certainly not mere hired copyists. Although many liberties were often taken with vernacular texts, medieval copyists were also capable of copying them with a large degree of fidelity. Indeed, there are often minimal differences between the individual manuscripts of versions of A tous nobles which exist in multiple copies.15 Moreover, it would be quicker and easier for a scribe to write down more or less what he saw or heard (we cannot discount the possibility that small variants derived from the fact that some scribes wrote under dictation) than to take the trouble to amend the text to the point of reorganising sentences or adding or deleting factual information. Therefore, it is likely that the original remanieurs were not such hired copyists, but were persons who would have had the freedom and the incentive to remodel the text and its genealogical tree. The question arises as to whether the remanieur actually wrote out his amended version himself. He could have produced rough

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 187 notes, to be used in conjunction with a manuscript of an existing version, and let a scribe make a neat copy of the new version. Dictating amendments to a copyist as he was writing is another possibility, though a cumbersome one. However, the simplest solution was probably for the remanieur himself to be the scribe of the initial copy of his new version. This raises another point: a natural (but, I would argue, unsafe) assumption, based on the generally high standard of handwriting of the extant manuscripts, is that the scribe was a ‘professional’ writer, copying for another person. In many cases, he undoubtedly was; copyists probably produced a proportion of the surviving manuscripts, by simply replicating their exemplars. However, it is not impossible that some of the manuscripts, especially those in a cursive hand, could have been written out by someone whose own profession involved writing, such as a cleric, a secretary or a chaplain to a nobleman, or a man of law. In some cases, the remanieur was not necessarily a scribe acting on behalf of an actual or potential patron – the eventual owner and reader of the manuscript –, but the possessor himself who chose to alter the text as he wrote out his personal copy of the work. The basic issue remains the same, irrespective of whether the remanieur wrote out the text for another, or was himself both scribe and owner of the manuscript: someone chose to alter the contents in a particular way whilst producing a new copy of the work. There were several social circles that are likely to have produced the remanieurs or their patrons. One is that of the royal officials from whom emanated many of the polemical treatises of the time, who used history to justify many of their arguments. Some of them became ‘improvised historians’ (‘s’improvisent historiens’), using the Grandes Chroniques as their main source (Krynen 1993: 303).16 Royal administrators like Louis and Estienne Le Blanc were ‘interested in the past and enjoyed historical research’; their ‘writings were not original but were for the most part pastiches of sources [they] found in libraries and in the royal archival repositories to which [they] had access’ (Brown 2000: 252). Royal clerks had to be aware of the ‘historical context [of] the documents with which they were dealing’ (Daly 1989: 102). This ‘professional necessity may well have stimulated curiosity about history among these officials’, some of whom went on to write their own historical works (Daly 1989: 103). However, many of their works, such as those of Noël de Fribois or

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Louis Le Blanc, tend to have a professional or a polemical element that is missing from most versions of A tous nobles.17 A more likely circle in which to find A tous nobles was that of the lay nobility, from which most of the few known owners of the manuscripts come. Thomas Wright’s hypothesis that the English ‘popular historical manuals’ equivalent to A tous nobles were used by feudal lords as a ‘book of reference on questions connected with ... history’ or for ‘the instruction of ... children’ is entirely plausible (Wright 1872: ix-x). In England, genealogical chronicles were ‘copied into gentry-owned miscellanies or produced separately in individual rolls’, and were ‘material read by gentry and urban circles, following the example of nobility and royalty’ (Radulescu 2003: 63). The more modest manuscripts of A tous nobles could be among the ‘copies « à garder sous la main », à l’usage de ceux qui en sont à l’origine’, belonging to private libraries, which appeared in the context of the ‘vaste production nobiliaire et héraldique’ of the late Middle Ages (Pons 2002: 316). Examples of such manuscripts cited by Nicole Pons include chronicles or memoirs written by noblemen themselves, useful secular information such as lists of the peers of France, religious instruction, or literary works such as L’histoire de Griseldis. Some manuscripts containing A tous nobles are typical of this type of book: MS Paris Bibl. Sainte-Geneviève 1994 has the Griselda story (fols. 140v-151v), MS Paris BnF français 1370 follows its universal chronicle with numerous short religious texts, from the life of Pontius Pilate to prayers in French (fols. 62-155), and MS Paris BnF Picardie 6 contains genealogies of two aristocratic families, and lists of the peers and nobles of France at the end (pp. 1-79, 116-123). The more elaborate manuscripts could belong to the wealthier nobles, and could combine usefulness with conspicuous display. It is likely that noblemen could have produced or commissioned remodelled versions of A tous nobles. The more literate among them might have done it themselves; most would probably have used a chaplain or another educated person in their household. The presence of religious information, such as ecclesiastical foundations and lists of early saints, suggests a likely authorial input by a cleric at one or more stages of A tous nobles’s development. Whoever did the actual remodelling, the fact that remaniement took place shows that the noble patron wanted more than just a passively reproduced copy of an

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 189 existing work, and he may well have collaborated with the actual scribe-author. Noblemen were always interested in history and genealogy, as evidenced already in the eleventh century (Duby 1967). By the end of the Middle Ages, they were reading, and in some cases writing, works covering their various spheres of interest, such as war, hunting, heraldry and chivalry (Contamine 1988). Some of them were writing chronicles, often based on personal memories.18 The manuscripts which have survived against the odds from medieval private libraries may be a tiny proportion of the literature produced for and by noblemen. Thomas Gray’s Scalacronica is only extant in one manuscript; without it, we would never have known that Gray wrote history, since the other records concerning him only mention his military activities.19 How many other noblemen were there like Thomas Gray, who in their spare time produced historical works that have not come down to us? Some of these people may not have had the time or resources to research and write a new history book as Grey did, but they might have been able and willing to adapt an existing work, such as A tous nobles. Whilst we may never be sure of the exact identity of the remanieurs of A tous nobles and their patrons, or even of who made up its audience, the extant manuscripts do tell us that A tous nobles was the subject of active remodelling by numerous people. It was the sort of work with which people engaged, which they appropriated by rewriting its contents or redesigning its appearance. It presented the entire history of France in accessible form, and its clear genealogical presentation was of particular interest in a period when royal dynastic rivalries had led to an endless war involving two countries which both started to develop a sense of national identity in the process. At this time of national crisis, it was a natural reaction for people to seek information from works that related past events, explained dynastic transmission, and reinforced one’s sense of belonging to a nation with a long and glorious past. A tous nobles did all this, even if it did contain several errors and confusions. This did not trouble the remanieurs, who seem to have been unaware of them; probably they had no access to further historical information that might have contradicted A tous nobles. Whoever the remanieurs were, they were not professional historians (a social category which hardly existed, even in the late Middle Ages),

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but simply people interested enough to want to reproduce a useful historical work while putting their personal stamp on it. The results of their labours, modest, unoriginal or downright inaccurate, are witnesses to their historical culture, and that of the people for whom they might have been writing. A tous nobles, like most medieval writings, was designed to be heard as well as read, as the prologue itself indicates.20 Illiterate as well as literate persons in the circles around the owners of the manuscripts would have been exposed to the stories told in A tous nobles; the visual impact of the genealogical trees would serve to reinforce the message. Thus the various versions of A tous nobles could have an influence on the historical culture of their audiences; they could forge their perceptions of French history, and their appreciation of the present as a result. These remaniements may be examples of a wider involvement of noblemen and their circles in history writing, for which much of the evidence is now lacking. A tous nobles may be a humble testimony to such a historiographical culture. Conclusion To conclude: the numerous copies of A tous nobles, the large number of versions and the variety of visual devices imply that the work was not just copied by professional scribes for a particular audience type (as in the case of the many universal chronicles in roll format containing version H), but was disseminated in circles where people chose to produce or commission more individual versions. These versions might distinguish themselves by extensive remodelling of the text and tree, or by a different visual appearance. Each bears the imprint of its remanieur. They are witnesses of an active historical culture, where readers and writers engaged with the manuscripts and their content, to produce results that may not always be of startling originality, but which reflect their authors’ individual reactions to the historical and visual information of the exemplar that they chose to remodel. The remanieurs and their patrons may not have displayed the erudition and intellectual rigour of some later antiquarians and amateur historians, but within their limitations, they made their contribution to the unofficial historical culture of the late Middle Ages.

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 191 Notes 1 Guenée (1981) has been a forceful advocate of the study of historiography as a means of gaining an insight into the ‘culture historique’ of medieval people, and from that, a better understanding of their political mentality. Many of the current generation of French scholars have adopted his approach; see Françoise Autrand et al. (1999). 2 Zale (1994), made a study of seven versions of A tous nobles in the context of a wider exploration of unofficial histories of France, concentrating on the textual content. For an introduction to the manuscripts of A tous nobles and some of the ideological issues relating to its contents, see Norbye (2007a). 3 There is a detailed discussion about the origins and owners of A tous nobles manuscripts in Norbye (2007b) 4 MSS Paris BnF fr. 5059, BnF fr. 10139 and BnF fr. 19561. 5 MS BnF fr. 19561, fol. 41v; MS BnF fr. 10139, fol. 33r. 6 MSS Paris BnF fr. 4990, BnF n.a.fr. 7519 and Bibl. Sainte-Geneviève 1994. 7 Lewis (1995: 314 and 318) also expresses his doubts about Bossuat’s hypothesis. 8 My thanks go to Professor Anne Curry for making this connection. It is slightly puzzling to find such an anti-Burgundian diatribe in a work whose composition can be dated, from the internal evidence of the genealogical trees, to some time between 1444 and 1447, i.e. a decade after the reconciliation in 1435 between Charles VII and the duke of Burgundy. Passionate anti-Burgundian propaganda was common in the early fifteenth century, but even before 1435 it had reduced considerably, as a less emotive, more conciliatory mood set in; see Pons (2000: 68-69). 9 He listed the hostages provided in exchange for the prisoner King Jean II in the future tense, which suggests that he may have had the terms of an Anglo-French treaty or an official newsletter on the matter at his disposal: ‘le roy de Fraunce baillera au roy d’Angleterre les hostages cy dessous nommés’ (MS Oxford Bodleian Library Bodl. Rolls 2). 10 A common prolongation was used by the continuators of MS Paris Bibl. SainteGeneviève 520 (version F) and of MS Tours Bibliothèque Municipale 1039 (version T), the former going to 1509, the latter to 1500. The manuscript of version T was to be prolonged twice more, in the 1560s and in 1675. A separate prolongation until 1506 was composed for a copy of version 5 (MS Paris BnF fr. 4991), accompanied by a very crude extension of the tree. 11 A typical example of the version H roll is MS Paris BnF fr. 15373. Version 6: MSS Paris BnF fr. 5734 and fr. 20145. There exists a ‘prototype’ copy of version H (in two parts: MSS St Petersburg National Library of Russia Fr. F.v.I.9 and Fr. F.v.IV.14) which contains no decorations and whose text finishes in 1378. This suggests two remanieurs: the one who wrote the original text and tree, and the one who subsequently chose this version to produce luxury manuscripts with illuminated miniatures and who added the short paragraph on Charles VI mentioned above (which he may or may not have composed, as it is found in other versions) to create the ‘standard’ version H. 12 MS Paris BnF fr. 23017. See MS BnF fr. 9688 (a longer universal chronicle) for a very similar layout. The other manuscript containing version U (MS Paris BnF fr. 1370) is of a lower quality and has no tree.

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13 MSS Paris BnF fr. 61, BnF n.a. fr. 5386 and Bibl. Sainte-Geneviève 520. This is such an unusual, and relatively unwieldy, solution that the most likely hypothesis is that is was based on a model in roll format. Monroe (1990: 26), reached the same conclusion, having found two codices of Pierre de Poitiers’s Compendium that also needed to be rotated to be read. 14 The text of version F also appears in a roll (MS Montpellier Bibl. Universitaire 586) whose remanieur, uniquely, used a new version for the tree rather than the one that accompanied the version F text in the codex copies. 15 One of the six copies of version 3 informs us that its copyist was an escolier, a scholar. The colophon of MS Paris BnF fr. 19561 reads: ‘Lesquelles genealogies sont escriptes de ma main, Johan le Legat, escolier, pour Monsieur de Bellegarde.’ According to Pons (1990: 39-43), this particular copy is not the oldest one. Therefore this escolier was just the copyist of this particular codex rather than a remanieur. 16 Krynen (1993: 303) refers specifically to the author of version 3 among his examples. 17 Even a polemical treatise, such as the Débats et appointements found alongside version 3 of A tous nobles, was not necessarily written by an official, according to Pons (1982: 213): ‘rien n’indique que les auteurs proviennent de milieux officiels’. 18 An example can be found in Pons (2002). 19 I owe this information to Dr Andy King, who was then preparing his edition of the Scalacronica (King 2005), and with whom I had an interesting discussion on the possibility of other noblemen having written works which are now lost. 20 Spiegel (1978: 76) commented that the audience for vernacular history was ‘immeasurably larger than those who could read’.

Manuscripts with A tous nobles Organised by versions or groups of related versions UC: universal chronicle, containing A tous nobles within it ATN: A tous nobles as stand-alone chronicle Text common with other versions, few unique features London British Library Harley roll O.1 New York Columbia University Plimpton 286 Paris BnF français 5697 Close siblings: B and P (related to 1) Brussels Bibliothèque Royale 10233-36, ff. 281r-289r Princeton University Library 56 Family 23R (+ long version 4) Paris BnF français 23019, ff. 13r-34v Paris BnF français 5059, ff. 2r-24v Paris BnF français 10139, ff. 2r-14v

Version L roll (short UC) Version L roll (short UC) Version 1 codex (ATN) Version B codex (ATN) Version P roll (ATN) Version 2 codex (short UC) Version 3 codex (ATN) Version 3 codex (ATN)

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 193

Paris BnF français 19561, ff. 2r-21r Paris BnF français 4990, ff. 42r-54r and ff. 1r39v Paris BnF nouvelle acquisition française 7519, ff. 94r-115r and ff. 15r-85v Paris Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève 1994, ff. 70r-77v and ff. 1r-62r Paris Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève 1993, ff. 5r-67v Paris BnF français 6470 Chicago Newberry Library 132 Family YCATW New Haven Yale University Beinecke Library Marston 180 Manchester John Rylands University Library Fr. 54 London British Library Cotton roll XIII.33 London British Library Additional 26769 Tours Bibliothèque Municipale 1039 New York Columbia University Smith Western 06 Related: 5 and V Paris BnF français 4991 Paris BnF Picardie 6, ff. 40r-58r (pp. 79-115) Verdun Bibliothèque Municipale 31 Family HFU67 Paris Archives Nationales AE II 419 St Petersburg National Library of Russia Fr. F.v.I.9 & Fr. F.v.IV.14 Paris BnF français 15373 Paris BnF français 15374 Paris BnF nouvelle acquisition française 1493 Paris BnF nouvelle acquisition française 1494 Paris BnF nouvelle acquisition française 1495 Paris Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève 522 Berlin Kupferstichkabinett 78 F 2 Boston Public Library Pb. Med. 3220 Brussels Bibliothèque Royale IV 1003 Cambridge Fitzwilliam Museum 176

Version 3 codex (ATN) Versions 3 & 4 codex (ATN) Versions 3 & 4 codex (ATN) Versions 3 & 4 codex (ATN) Version 4 codex (ATN) Version R roll (ATN) Version R roll (ATN) Version Y roll (short UC) Version Y roll (short UC) Version C roll (short UC) Version A roll (ATN) Version T roll (ATN) Version W accordion book (ATN) Version 5 codex (ATN) Version 5 codex (ATN) Version V roll (ATN) Version H type roll (early variant) (UC) Version H roll (prototype, 2 rolls) (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC)

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Cambridge Mass. Harvard College Library Typ. 41 Croydon Archive Services ‘Chronique du monde’ Krakow Czartoryski Library 2851 Leeds University Library Brotherton Collection 10020 London British Library Additional 27539 Manchester John Rylands University Library Fr. 99 New York J. Pierpont Morgan Library M.1157 New York Public Library MA 124 Orléans Bibliothèque Municipale 470 Orléans Centre Jeanne d’Arc 35 Princeton University Art Museum y1932-32 Rouen Bibliothèque Municipale 1137 (U.018bis) Tours Bibliothèque Municipale 975 Privately owned (Jay Walker Collection, Connecticut, USA) Arras Bibliothèque Municipale 146 Paris Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève 523 Paris BnF français 61 Paris BnF nouvelle acquisition française 5386, ff. 16r-21v Paris Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève 520 Montpellier Bibliothèque Universitaire 586 Paris BnF français 1370, ff. 1r-51v. Paris BnF français 23017 Paris BnF français 5734, ff. 93r-111v Paris BnF français 20145, ff. 2r-13v Paris BnF français 5696 Amended by pro-English author Oxford Bodleian Library Bodl. Rolls 2 Unconfirmed or destroyed “MS Samaran” sold in 1925 Tournai Bibliothèque Municipale 124

Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H roll (UC) Version H codex (UC) Version H type roll (late variant) (UC) Version F codex (UC) Version F codex (fragments) (UC) Version F codex (UC) Version F roll (UC, short?) Version U codex (UC) Version U codex (UC) Version 6 codex (ATN) Version 6 codex (ATN) Version 7 codex (ATN) Version O roll (ATN)

Version T? roll (ATN) Version ? (destroyed) (ATN)

The Transformations of a Fifteenth-Century French Chronicle 195

Tournai Bibliothèque Municipale 123 (destroyed) Sotheby sold 1906 Sold in 1976

Version H roll? (UC) Version H roll?, sold to Peach (UC) Version H roll?, sold by Giraud Badin (UC)

Bibliography Primary sources – Other manuscripts apart from ‘A tous nobles’ Paris Bibliothèque nationale Fonds français 9688 (longer universal chronicle) Secondary sources Autrand, Françoise, et al. (1999). Saint-Denis et la royauté: études offertes à Bernard Guénée, Actes du colloque “Saint-Denis et la royauté” du 2 au 4 mai 1996. Histoire ancienne et mediévale, 59. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Bossuat, André (1958). ‘Jean Castel, chroniqueur de France.’ Le Moyen Age, 4th series, 13: 285-304 and 499-538. Brown, Elizabeth A. R., and Sanford Zale (2000). ‘Louis Le Blanc, Estienne Le Blanc, and the Defense of Louis IX's Crusades, 1498-1522.’ Traditio 55: 23592. Contamine, Philippe (1988). ‘Les Traités de Guerre, de Chasse, de Blason et de Chevalerie.’ In La littérature française aux XIVe et XVe siècles. Ed. Daniel Poirion. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag. 346-67. Vol. VIII.1 of Grundriss der romanischen Literaturen des Mittelalters. Daly, Kathleen (1989). ‘Mixing Business with Leisure: Some French Royal Notaries and Secretaries and their Histories of France, c.1459-1509.’ In Power, Culture and Religion in France c.1350-c.1550. Ed. Christopher Allmand. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press. 99-115. Duby, Georges (1967). ‘Remarques sur la littérature généalogique en France aux XIe et XIIe siècles.’ In Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et des Belles-Lettres. Paris: Klincksieck. 335-45. Reprinted in Georges Duby (1973). Hommes et structures du Moyen Âge. Paris and The Hague: Mouton Éditeur. 287-98. Guenée, Bernard (1981). Politique et histoire au Moyen Âge. Recueil d’articles sur l’histoire politique et l’historiographie médiévale (1956-1981). Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Huot, Sylvia (1992). ‘Authors, Scribes, Remanieurs: A Note on the Textual History of the Romance of the Rose.’ In Rethinking the Romance of the Rose. Text, Image, Reception. Ed. Kevin Brownlee and Sylvia Huot. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. 203-33.

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King, Andy (2005). Sir Thomas Gray: Scalacronica (1272-1363). Publications of the Surtees Society vol. 209. Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer. Krynen, Jacques (1993). L’empire du roi. Idées et croyances politiques en France, XIIIe-XVe siècle. Paris: Gallimard. Lewis, Peter S. (1995). ‘Jeu de cubes: Réflexions sur quelques textes et manuscrits’. In Pratiques de la culture écrite en France au XVe siècle. Ed. Monique Ornato and Nicole Pons. Louvain-la-Neuve: Fédération Internationale des Instituts d’Études Médiévales. 313-30. Monroe, W. H. (1990). ‘13th and Early 14th Century Illustrated Genealogical Manuscripts in Roll and Codex: Peter of Poitiers’ Compendium, Universal Histories and Chronicles of the Kings of England.’ Unpublished Ph.D. Thesis. University of London, Courtauld Institute of Arts. Norbye, Marigold Anne (2007a). ‘Genealogies and dynastic awareness in the Hundred Years War: the evidence of A tous nobles qui aiment beaux faits et bonnes histoires.’ Journal of Medieval History 33: 297-319. ––– (2007b). ‘A popular example of “national literature” in the Hundred Years War: A tous nobles qui aiment beaux faits et bonnes histoires.’ Nottingham Medieval Studies 51: 121-42. Pons, Nicole (1982). ‘La propagande de guerre française avant l’apparition de Jeanne d’Arc.’ Journal des Savants, avril-juin: 191-214. ––– (1990). “L’honneur de la couronne de France”. Quatre libelles contre les Anglais (vers 1418 – vers 1429). Société de l’Histoire de France. Paris: C. Klincksieck. ––– (2000). ‘Intellectual Patterns and Affective Reactions in Defence of the Dauphin Charles, 1419-1422.’ In War, Government and Power in Late Medieval France. Ed. Christopher Allmand. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. 54-69. ––– (2002). ‘Mémoire nobiliaire et clivages politiques: le témoignage d’une courte chronique chevaleresque (1403-1442).’ Journal des Savants, juillet-décembre: 299-348. Radulescu, Raluca (2003). The gentry context for Malory’s Morte Darthur. Cambridge: Brewer. Spiegel, Gabrielle M. (1978). The chronicle tradition of Saint-Denis: a survey. Medieval classics: texts and studies, 10. Brookline, Mass. / Leyden: Classical Folia Editions. Wright, Thomas (1872). Feudal manuals of English history. London: Joseph Mayer. Zale, Sanford C. (1994). Unofficial Histories of France in the late Middle Ages. Unpublished doctoral thesis, The Ohio State University.

IAM TUNC… THE POLITICAL CONTEXT OF THE FIRST PART OF THE CHRONICLE OF HENRY OF LIVONIA

Anti Selart

Abstract Discussed is the first part (events from ca.1180-ca.1205) of the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia (written ca. 1224-1227). The chronicle is, even if factually and chronologically mostly correct, an extremely apologetic work. Henry defends the Church of Riga here, toning down its internal conflicts and keeping silent about issues unbecoming to it. Describing the very beginning of the history of the Bishopric of Riga and the military order of the Brethren of the Sword, Henry presents almost only episodes, legitimising the Rigan crusades. According to the chronicle, Riga (and not the King of Denmark, or other counterparts of Riga) had not only all legal, moral and divine authorisations, but also the historical priority in Christianisation of Livonia.

By the end of the twelfth century the crusaders reached the eastern shores of the Baltic Sea.1 The systematic narrative of the history of the Baltic countries begins with the attempts of Danish, German and Swedish clergymen, knights and rulers to spread Christianity to, and thereby seize control over, the peoples of the region. By the end of the thirteenth century, this series of crusades and other struggles resulted in the emergence of medieval Livonia, a conglomerate of ecclesiastic and secular states in a territory roughly coinciding with modern-day Estonia and Latvia. The primary base of operations of the Crusaders, on the land to be subjugated, was the lower reaches of the Daugava River. Here the first bishop of Livs, ordained in 1186, was active. The town of Riga, founded in 1201, became the political and ecclesiastic centre of Livonia. In 1202, a local Order of the Brethren of the Sword was started and rapidly grew into a considerable political and military

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power. By 1207, the Livs were subdued and baptised. The Lettgallians sided with the Rigans and after prolonged battles the Estonians were subjugated in 1227. During that period, the Baltic Crusade was not merely a war of Christians against pagans. The Livs and part of the Lettgallians had been tributes of the Russian princes, and by the Daugava the Rigans conquered the principalities of Koknese and Jersika ruled by Orthodox princes. In 1220, the King of Sweden launched an unsuccessful campaign into Estonia. There was rivalry for hegemony and territories between the Bishop of Riga and the Sword Brethren. The longest-lasting confrontation turned out to be between the King of Denmark and the Rigan crusaders. The crusading pursuits of the Danes towards Livonia actually predated similar initiatives originating from Germany. It was not without the help of the papal legate, William of Modena, who stayed in Livonia, 1225-1226, that the Rigans were able to drive the Danes out of Livonia in 1227. The central historical source of all these events is the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia (HCL), written in Latin. The chronicle is actually anonymous yet researchers unanimously attribute its authorship to Priest Henricus de Lettis (died after 1259), who is repeatedly referred to in the chronicle as an eyewitness of, and participant in the events.2 The chronicler himself claims to have written the chronicle ‘in praise of our Lord Jesus Christ … and the Blessed Virgin Mary … at the request of masters and companions …. Nothing has been put in this account except what we have seen almost entirely with our own eyes. What we have not seen with our own eyes, we have learned from those who saw it and who were there’.3 Although the reference to being an eyewitness is a common rhetorical device, it is indeed probable that Henry, who evidently was born in the Magdeburg area, came to Livonia in 1205, was ordained priest here and took part in numerous military expeditions and baptismal trips, described in the chronicle his personal experiences and communicated the accounts of other eyewitnesses.4 More complicated is the question: what were Henry’s sources when he recounted the story of Livonia prior to 1205, the story of the actual foundation of the Rigan Church and its key institutions. The documented history of Livonia began only in the twelfth century; the first known charters to have been written down here date from as late as 1207-1209.5 Henry penned his chronicle around 1224-1226 and supplemented it with the last, 30th chapter, in ca. 1227. Nevertheless,

The Political Context of the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia 199 the factual and chronological accuracy of the chronicle of Henry, insofar as it can be verified on the basis of other sources, has won a high rating. And yet the chronicle of Henry is undoubtedly an extremely polemical and apologetic work. In his chronicle, Henry defends the Rigan Church as a whole, toning down its internal conflicts and keeping silent about issues unbecoming to it. The potential Christian readership of the thirteenth century needed no abundant proof to be convinced of the threat posed by the pagans.6 What did need proof in the 1220s was the priority and exclusive right to domination over Livonia by the Rigan Church. A medieval chronicle could, in essence, have also been a legal text, that is, a text underpinning the legal pretensions of a ruler or institution (see Spiegel 1997: 83-98; Boockmann 1999: 41). During the years 1219-1223, the Danes achieved considerable success in subduing and baptising north and west Estonia, and their king pursued domination over all Livonia and thus also over the Rigan Church. The ethnical terms in the chronicle (theutonici, dani, sueci, etc.) simultaneously stand for political terms; a community was knit together not only by their common descent and language but also by their political loyalties. The task of a medieval chronicler was also to look for God’s plan in the events and make it known to his audience. In this case, God’s plan in Henry’s opinion was to help the Rigans, who selflessly did baptismal ministry among the Livonian pagans. The interpretation of the genesis of the Rigan Church, in the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, was determined by the time in which the chronicle was written. Henry’s apology for the Rigan Church is not a thing in itself but a reflection of the tensions prevalent in the Baltic region in the 1220s. These tensions formed the author’s understanding of the truth and of the past; in their service did he place his literary skills, and they were inseparably related to the author’s worldview, in which the Rigans’ success undoubtedly reflected God’s will.7 Even the very first words of the chronicle read: ‘Divine Providence … aroused in our modern times the idolatrous Livs from the sleep of idolatry and of sin in the following way’ (HCL cap. I.1). The divine plan is illustrated with episodes of the chronicle. ***

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Henry’s chronicle starts with the note that the Augustinian canon, Meinhard from Segeberg, Holstein, came to Livonia ‘with a band of merchants simply for the sake of Christ and only to preach’ (HCL cap. I.2). In 1186,8 the Archbishop of Bremen ordained Meinhard as Bishop (HCL cap. I.8). After Meinhard’s death (1196), the Christians in Livonia requested Bremen to appoint a new bishop. The Archbishop persuaded Berthold (1196-1198), the Abbot of a Cistercian monastery at Loccum, North Saxony, to accept the Livonian see (HCL cap. II.1; cf. LR 498-99). Prior to being ordained the Bishop of Livonia, Albert (1199-1229), the central character of the chronicle, had been a canon in Bremen (HCL cap. III.1; cf. LR 585-89). On the one hand Henry points to the descent of the initiators of the Livonian Crusade from northern Saxony; on the other, however, he emphasises the independence of the initiative from the Archbishop of Bremen, who, though ordaining and persuading, does so at a request from Livonia. Actually, the time was not favourable for Bremen for a faraway venture (see Jensen 2001: 122-823). Archbishop Hartwig (1185-1207) repeatedly had to flee Bremen due to conflicts in the region. It must also be remembered here that the Bishop of Riga won exemption in 1214,9 even though the attempts of Bishop Albert, to achieve the status of an Archbishop, proved unsuccessful.10 Subsequently, the Rigan Church had to defend its independence against claims from the Archbishopric of Bremen.11 Meinhard’s missionary activity was made possible by a respective licence (licencia) from Woldemarus, the Prince of Polotsk,12 to whom the pagan Livs brought tribute. The Prince also gave gifts to Meinhard (HCL cap. I.3). In 1212, Vladimir waived tribute from the Livs and recognised the rule of the Bishop of Riga, that is, the end of his own dominion over the Livs (HCL cap. XVI.2). Thus, by Henry’s account, Meinhard and Albert were not usurpers but legitimate missionaries and founders of the Rigan Church and its rule. Meinhard legally acquired a tract of land to build a church and a castle (HCL cap. I.6; cf. LR 215-16); by founding of the town of Riga ‘the Livs showed to the bishop the site of the city’ (HCL cap. IV.5; cf. Nazarova 2002: 32). The ‘foolish’ Livs were defenceless against raids by the Lithuanians, for they had no castles. Meinhard was willing to build a castle for them at IkšƷile provided they let themselves be baptised. However, the Livs deceived the missionary by refusing to receive the faith after

The Political Context of the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia 201 the castle was completed (HCL cap. I.5-I.6). The same was repeated a year later (approximately in 1186), when the castle of Holm was built (HCL cap. I.7, I.9). The Livs’ ‘stubbornness’ rendered Meinhard’s mission unfruitful and put his life at risk. Thus the Livs proved to be Judases.13 The refusal of baptism and the breaking of the promise constituted acts of apostasy, and when the messenger sent by Meinhard reached the pope ‘the supreme pontiff thought that they should not be deserted and decreed that they ought to be forced to observe the faith which they had freely promised.’ With this the pope sanctioned a crusade in support of Meinhard’s church (HCL cap. I.12), just as he authorised the crusade of 1197-1198 in aid of Berthold (HCL cap. II.2-3). The Livs persisted in their apostasy and dishonesty (HCL cap. II.8-10), however, and the pope also granted the crusading privilege to Albert (HCL cap. IV.6). Thus – from Henry – the Rigan Crusade was justified and urgently needed and had repeated authorisations from the pope. In contrast, the chronicle normally makes no mention of papal legitimisation in reference to the campaigns of the Danes and the Swedes, although it was actually there, at least in part.14 ‘Already then’ (iam tunc) (approximately 1195-1196) the Swedes and the Danes had been on looting raids to Vironia, Northern Estonia. When the Vironians were almost ready to receive the Christian faith, the Duke of the Swedes hoisted the sails and left ‘to the annoyance of the Germans’, for he preferred tribute to Christianisation (HCL cap. I.13; cf. cap. VII.1-2). This description displays direct parallels with Henry’s accusations aimed at the Danes and the Swedes in the 1220s. The leader of the campaign seems to have been dux Suecie, probably the Swedish Count Birger Brosa (died 1202). According to Danish annals, King Knud IV launched a campaign to Estonia in 1196-1197.15 It is unknown whether they represented two separate raids, one initiated by the Swedes and Theoderich, and the other by the Danes, or if for some reason Henry, who had learned about the events just by hearsay and who was consistently downplaying Danish involvement in Livonian affairs, kept silent about the participation of the King of Denmark (cf. Tarvel 1998: 56). Approval of the operations of the Rigan Church, and its Bishop Albert, was granted in 1199 by the King of Denmark Knud IV (11821202) and his brother, the future King Valdemar II (1202-1241), whom the Rigans later regarded as an enemy,16 as well as by King

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Philip of Germany (1198-1208) (HCL cap. III.2). It is noticeable that Theoderich is always presented by Henry as an assistant and ambassador of bishops of Riga, not as a missionary acting on his own.17 Similarly, in reference to the King of Denmark’s 1219 Livonian campaign, the chronicle notes that it was undertaken at the request of the Bishop of Riga, not on the King’s own initiative.18 In reality, the King’s vassal, Count Albrecht of Orlamünde, had already participated in a Livonian crusade in 1217-1218 and was a witness of the very events that Henry presents as a justification for the plea for help by Livonia.19 As a counterbalance of the Danish claims, Henry designates Livonia as a papal protectorate (HCL cap. XIX.7) and the domains of the Rigan church as an imperial feud.20 Probably in 1202, while Bishop Albert was away from Livonia, the future bishop Theoderich organised ‘certain Brothers of the Militia’, i.e., founded the Order of the Brethren of the Sword. Concerning the knights of the Order, Henry says that the pope ‘commanded that they be under the obedience of their bishop’.21 The rivalry between the Bishop’s camp and the Brethren emerged by 1207 at the latest and was expressed both in debates over the title to the areas already subjugated and in competitive military and coalition policies.22 That the military order was founded not by the Bishop but his aide may perhaps be indicative of the chronicler’s desire to play down the significance of the Brethren of the Sword and emphasise their inferiority to the Bishop. Noteworthy is also the account of the pagan Semgallians coming to the newly completed castle of IkšƷile with hawsers in their hands and, having never seen structures built of stone, attempting unsuccessfully to drag the castle into the river (HCL cap. I.6). This represents a folktale motif of international repute, which in a somewhat modified form has also been recorded in the mid-thirteenth century in connection with the beginning of the crusading history of Livonia (Colker 1979: 723; Tamm 2001: 883-84). Further, even though the Rigan Church had to experience difficulties, dangers and setbacks, its activities were always accompanied in Henry’s chronicle with God’s blessing and miraculous help: Theoderich’s fields were more fertile than those of the Livs; when the pagans wanted to execute Theoderich, the lot and God’s help spared his life; Theoderich, who ‘pounded herbs together, therefore, and, not knowing the effects of the herbs, called upon the name of the Lord’,

The Political Context of the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia 203 managed to heal a pagan, who thereafter was baptised. People saw how angels carried a neophyte’s soul to heaven (HCL cap. I.10). God forced the pagan Semgallians to make peace with the Rigans (HCL cap. VI.5). The too short coffin of a deceased priest grew longer by divine action before the eyes of the unbelievers (HCL cap. VII.6). Remarkably, accounts of miracles are more abundant in the initial part of Henry’s chronicle (see Tamm 1996). *** Historians have referred to oral information as the source for the initial part of Henry’s chronicle, and have listed his potential informants, ascribing the role of the information provider in particular to Bishop Theoderich (or to hypothetical annals or vitae of Theoderich), who indeed stands at the centre of a series of colourful episodes in the opening part of the chronicle. It is possible in fact that the author used some written tradition. Familiarity with relevant documents is implied by the chronicler’s usage (Arbusow 1950: 141-45; cf. Bauer 1955: xxvi-vii). Leonid Arbusow summarised that ‘als ‘legendenhaft’ darf kein einziger Teil der Chronik bezeichnet werden’ (Arbusow 1939: 179-80; Johansen 1953: 5). In 1206-1207, the Archbishop of Lund, Anders Sunesen, had composed an overview of the events in Livonia for the pope; a copy thereof might have been available in Riga (Kolk 2004: 51-57; cf. Nielsen 2001: 109). It is clear, however, that the initial part of Henry’s chronicle does not reflect the whole of the historical tradition concerning the period under study that was current in Riga during the writing of the chronicle. Traces of a parallel tradition originating from Livonia, but not recorded by Henry, are found in the works of Caesarius of Heisterbach (died ca. 1240), and in the Chronicle of Albericus of Troisfontaines (written in the 1230s).23 Both authors learned about news from Livonia through a relationship network among the Cistercians, and they sometimes mention their informants. Accounts of the early history of Christianised Livonia can also be found in other thirteenth-century historiographical works recorded both in Livonia and beyond.24 In writing his chronicle, Henry made a selection, which was not at all unintentional. He passed on the accounts that served the purpose of the chronicle, and considered it unnecessary, or indeed impossible, to present an exhaustive portrayal of the tradition (cf. Laakmann 1932-1934: 70-77; Johansen 1953: 4-

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6). Hence, the first chapters of his chronicle contrast with the main part of the story, where personal fascination and experience play an important role in the narration. The chronicler’s anti-Danish attitude is indeed conspicuous, and reveals itself already in the initial part of the chronicle. The chronicle emphasises that the Rigan Church is older than the crusading and missionary pursuits of the Danes. Scholars have debated whether Henry started to write his chronicle for the papal legate, William of Modena, who stayed in Livonia 1225-1226 and whose Livonian entourage also included Henry in the capacity of interpreter and assistant.25 William’s mission was to sort out, at the request of the Bishop of Riga, the discords between the participants in the Livonian Crusade and his decisions were favourable to the Bishop of Riga and the Order of the Brethren of the Sword. Still, the basic part of the chronicle appears to have been written after William’s departure. Nevertheless, the chronicle bears relation to the need to expound the priority and prerogatives of the Rigan Church in Livonia and Estonia. An institution, however, requires historical validation of its legitimacy not only for outward dissemination but also for its internal needs, for self-persuasion, for use in educational work and as a database of arguments for future debates (cf. Goetz 1999: 311-20, 378-80; 2003: 241). Henry’s chronicle betrays a juridical way of thinking. The account of the founding of the Rigan Church and of its first bishops stresses the legitimacy of the ‘Rigan’ crusade and mission compared to those of other contenders, that is to say, first of all compared to the pursuits and pretensions of the King of Denmark. The Rigan Church was legitimised by the Prince of Polotsk (‘accepta itaque licencia … a rege Woldemaro de Ploceke’, I.3), by King Knud of Denmark, by the future King Valdemar, and by the Archbishop of Lund (‘munera regis Canuti et ducis Woldemari et Absolonis archepiscopi recepit’, III.2), by the King of Germany (‘et coram eodem rege in sentencia queritur’, III.2), by the pope (‘remissionem quippe omnium peccatorum indulsit omnibus, qui ad resuscitandam immal primitivam ecclesiam accepta cruce transeant’, I.12), by Virgin Mary (‘Ecce Dei mater … quamque crudelis circa illos, qui terram ipsius invadere’, XXV.2) and by God (‘Deus … volens novellam plantacionem fidei christiane propagare’, VI.5). The enmity of the pagans and the apostasies of the neophytes (II.8) necessitated the Crusade. The mother church to Riga was not

The Political Context of the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia 205 Lund but Bremen (I.8), but even the latter was more like an assistant and supporter rather than initiator of Meinhard’s mission. Henry’s work records its contemporary perspective (cf. also Kaljundi 2004: 173-75, 182). The spread of Henry’s chronicle was, however, limited. In the thirteenth to fourteenth centuries, one manuscript was definitely available at the library of the (Arch-)Bishop or in the cathedral chapter of Riga and another one was probably in the possession of the Teutonic Order. It may also be assumed that in medieval times some manuscripts could be found in Curonia and in Prussia. The splitting of the medieval authors narrating Livonian affairs into various opposing factions was not conducive to the spread and use of the chronicle (Arbusow 1926: 285-93). Outside Livonia, the chronicle started to attract interest only as late as in the sixteenth century, when in connection with the then major wars in Northeast Europe Livonia entered into international awareness (Bauer 1955: xxxvii-xliii). Consequently, in the thirteenth century Henry’s work was perhaps not always able to fulfil the functions set for it. Nevertheless, it has been all the more successful in its role as an apologist of the Rigan Church in modern, nineteenth- and twentieth-century scholarship.

Notes 1

Research for this article was funded by ‘Eesti Teadusfond’ (grant no. 5514). See bibliography in Angermann (1986: 4-9). 3 HCL cap. XXIX.9. All English translations are from Brundage (2003). 4 Holtzmann (1922: 161-83); Arbusow (1950: 100); Johansen (1953). 5 Livländische Güterurkunden (1908: Nr. 1-2). 6 Cf. Mažeika (2002). There could be, however, the necessity to demonstrate that the enemy really is or was pagan. 7 HCL cap. XXV.2. See Epp (2003: 55, cf. 59-60); cf. Goetz (2003: 229-32). 8 Arnoldi abbatis Lubecensis chronica cap. V.30, p. 211. 9 LUB vol. 1: nos 26, 40, 41, 44, 45, 57. 10 LUB vol. 1: no. 47; LUB vol. 3: no. 42a; Hildebrand (1887: 28 no. 2 cf. no. 1). 11 About the role of Bremen in the early history of Livonia, see Johansen (1961); Niehoff (2001: 51-55); Zühlke (2002: 28-38); Leimus (2004). See also Müller (1996: 9, no. 1). 12 The history of Polotsk at the turn of the thirteenth century was a very complicated one. Prince Woldemarus (=Vladimir, died 1216; HCL cap. I.3, cap. X.1; cf. cap. V.3, cap. VII.4.), referred to in Henry’s chronicle, is never mentioned in Russian sources, and his genealogy is unknown (see Nazarova 1995: 77-79). Henry could make a 2

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mistake by dating Vladimir to around 1184, thus pushing the chronicler’s contemporary back in time. 13 Lyvones… episcopum… salutatione et animo Iude salutant, dicentes: ‘Ave rabbi’: HCL cap. I.11. 14 HCL cap. XXIV.3, cap. XXVI.2, cap. XXIII.2 cf. cap. X.13. See the bibliography in Lind (2004). 15 Annales Danici (1920: 92-93, 151, 165); DD vol. 1/5: no. 212. 16 HCL cap. XXV.2; Hilka (1933: 159-160 no. 234). 17 HCL cap. I.10, cap. I.12, cap. IV.6, cap. VI.2-4, cap. VII.3, cap. VIII.2, cap. IX.7, cap. X.1-3, cap. XI.6, cap. XV.4, cap. XV.7. 18 HCL cap. XXII.1, cap. XXIII.2 cf. cap. VII.1-2, cap. X.13. 19 DD vol. 1/5: no. 101 cf. no. 61. Henry does not mention the vassalage of Count Albrecht. 20 HCL cap. X.17. See Jähnig (2002); Schütte (2002: 423-24). 21 HCL cap. VI.4; cf. LR 595-606. See Benninghoven (1965: 39-54). 22 HCL cap. III.2, cap. XII.6, cap. XIV.9, cap. XXVI.13, cap. XXVIII.9, cap. XXIX.1, cap. XXV.3; LUB vol. 1: no. 84. 23 For Caesarius, cf. Wirth-Poelchau (1982); for Albericus, see Albrici monachi Trium Fontium Chronica (872, 879, 887, 902, 912). 24 Arbusow (1939: 167-203, 496); cf. Bruiningk (1903). See LR; Annales Stadenses (1859: 352-353); Colker (1979); Arbusow (1938); Kolk (2004). 25 Pro: Bauer (1955: xxi); Brundage (1972); contra: Arbusow (1926: 286); Vahtre (1990: 9).

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ȿɜɪɨɩɵ: ɩɟɪɟɤɪɟɫɬɤɢ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɯ ɜɡɚɢɦɨɜɥɢɹɧɢɣ. Ed. Aleksandr M. Nekrasov. Moskva: IRI RAN. 71-82. ––– (2002). ‘Ⱦɚɬɚ ɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɢɹ Ɋɢɝɢ ɜ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɟ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɤɪɟɫɬɨɜɵɯ ɩɨɯɨɞɨɜ.’ Ȼɚɥɬɨ-ɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɢɟ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɹ 15: 29-41. Niehoff, Lydia (2001). ‘Bremer Bier im Baltikum? Eine Suche nach Bremer Brauprodukten im Ostseeraum.’ Bremisches Jahrbuch 80: 51-73. Nielsen, Torben K. (2001). ‘The Missionary Man: Archbishop Anders Sunesen and the Baltic Crusade, 1206–21.’ In Crusade and Conversion on the Baltic Frontier, 1150–1500. Ed. Alan V. Murray. Aldershot: Ashgate. 95-117. Schütte, Bernd (2002). König Philipp von Schwaben. Itinerar. Urkundenvergabe. Hof. Hannover: Hahn. Spiegel, Gabrielle M. (1997). The Past as Text. The Theory and Practice of Medieval Historiography. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press. Tamm, Marek (1996). ‘Les miracles en Livonie et en Estonie à l’époque de la christianisation (fin XIIème-début XIIIème siècle.’ In Quotidianum estonicum. Aspects of Daily Life in Medieval Estonia. Ed. Jüri Kivimäe, Juhan Kreem. Krems: Medium aevum quotidianum. 29-78. ––– (2001). ‘Uus allikas Liivimaa ristiusustamisest. Ida-Baltikumi kirjeldus Descriptiones terrarum’is (u 1255).’ Keel ja Kirjandus 44: 872-84. Tarvel, Enn (1998). ‘Die dänische Ostseepolitik im 11.–13. Jahrhundert.’ In Studien zur Archäologie des Ostseeraumes. Von der Eisenzeit zum Mittelalter. Festschrift für Michael Müller-Wille. Ed. Anke Wesse. Neumünster: Wachholtz. 53-59. Vahtre, Sulev (1990). Muinasaja loojang Eestis. Vabadusvõitlus 1208–1227. Tallinn: Olion. Wirth-Poelchau, Lore (1982). ‘Caesarius von Heisterbach über Livland.’ Zeitschrift für Ostforschung 31: 481-98. Zühlke, Raoul (2002). Stadt–Land–Fluß. Bremen und Riga, zwei mittelalterliche Metropolen im Vergleich. Münster: Lit.

THE CHRONICLE ATTRIBUTED TO ‘OLIVIER VAN DIKSMUIDE’: A MISUNDERSTOOD TOWN CHRONICLE OF YPRES FROM LATE MEDIEVAL FLANDERS

Paul Trio Abstract The starting point of this research is the chronicle ascribed to Oliver of Dixmude, which deals with the period 1377-1443 and which has hitherto always been characterized as a regional ‘Flemish’ chronicle. However, the study of this often cited chronicle offers us new (after Ghent) evidence that during the fifteenth century the genre of the town chronicle was also rather successful in the Southern Low Countries, contrary to what has always been supposed. There are several reasons why the chronicle by Oliver of Dixmude has never before been given the epithet of urban chronicle. One of them is that the edition by Lambin from 1835 – the only edition of the manuscript, which was lost in 1914 – does not faithfully present the original text. Apart from omitting the annual lists of the members of the town government, Lambin also left out several of the ‘Ypres’ fragments. It is only thanks to a previously unstudied copy of the text found in the Courtrai Town Library, that these ‘lost’ passages could be retrieved. Besides, this chronicle should be studied in the context of a much broader fifteenth-century local tradition of recording important urban events in the form of a narrative account. Indeed, the hardly known chronicle ascribed to Pieter van de Letuwe, which discusses the immediately following period 14431480, is very similar in structure. Even if the authorship of the persons mentioned above can be maintained, it should be kept in mind that there existed a kind of collective authorship, the members of which belonged to the leading urban elite.

Introduction In the course of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, a fully-developed form of urban historiography originated in Italy (Vansina 2003: 32541; Van Bruaene 1998: 34-36). We use this term to refer to a genre in

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which the history of the author’s own town is strongly accentuated, and which – at the same time – strongly expresses an urban selfconsciousness (Vansina 2003: 318). During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, this genre experienced unprecedented growth.1 At that time, this type of historiography expanded beyond the borders of Italy, to take root mainly in the towns of the German Empire and the Swiss confederation of states. Outside of the aforementioned regions, only a few attempts at urban historiography were made. Apart from London and some other examples such as Bristol, the genre was not practised in England, and also for France, true exponents of the genre can be counted on the fingers of one hand. A typical case is Paris, where the first attempts at this genre were overshadowed by the royal chronicles, in which Paris merely functioned as a background. From this very succinct and rather superficial survey, it should become clear that in Western Europe the urban chronicle mainly thrived in areas where urban self-consciousness had strongly developed. Logically, these areas coincided – in broad lines – with the towns that had reached a high degree of autonomy. Considering this general tendency, one would expect that in the Southern Low Countries – and more particularly in the county of Flanders, characterized by one of the highest degrees of urbanization in medieval Western Europe, where large towns with a high degree of independence had developed (see, e.g., Nicholas 1992) – the urban chronicle as a genre would have become very successful during the Late Middle Ages. And yet, some surveys of medieval historiography in the principalities of Flanders and Brabant – the core region of the Southern Low Countries – seem to indicate rather the opposite. We quote from the survey of medieval historiography in the Southern Low Countries by Van Uytven, published in 1958: ‘No matter how strong the urban element was in the medieval culture of the Low Countries, and how great the number of urban civil servants who felt drawn to historiography, one cannot point out a single real urban chronicle dating from the golden age of the communes until ca. 1500’.2 The famous ‘Brabantine Stories’ (Brabantse Yeesten) by the Antwerp town clerk Boendale, for instance, were first and foremost a history of the duchy of Brabant, and the fortunes of the Dukes of Brabant.3 Recently Augusto Vansina did not really contradict the conclusion mentioned above, although he mentions the Annales Gandenses as an exception to the rule (Vansina 2003: 348-49). This

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chronicle contains the notes of a Ghent Franciscan friar with regard to the – mainly military – events in the county of Flanders at the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century; however, this work hardly qualifies as an urban chronicle.4 On the basis of this survey it would seem then that one has to conclude that medieval Flanders in particular and the Southern Low Countries in general were, in spite of a high degree of urbanization and urban autonomy, an exception in Europe because of their lack of contemporary urban chronicles. But was this really the case? A chronicle from, and about, the town of Ypres, dating from the fifteenth century, has almost completely escaped being characterized as an urban chronicle. Indeed, until now, none of the historians dealing with this narrative source have recognized these qualities of the chronicle.5 This is not without importance, since this chronicle is one of the medieval chronicles which are most quoted and most frequently used by historiographers of the political and military history of the county of Flanders in the fifteenth century (see, e.g., Dumolyn 2002). It is also a crucial source of information about medieval Ypres, even though its importance with regard to this subject was recognized only relatively recently (only by Oktaaf Mus; cf. Mus 1983, 1985). In order to find the reason why, we need to take a closer look at the edition of this chronicle and the attention it has received until this day. Additional material – among which a nineteenth-century copy – leads to new and different insights into the context in which it originated, its authorship, and the purport and aim of this chronicle. Finally, we will ask ourselves the question – now that we have possibly discovered a medieval urban chronicle for Ypres – whether the Ypres situation is really so unique in Flanders in particular, and in the Low Countries in general. 1. The chronicle by Oliver of Dixmude, and its edition by Lambin in 1835 One of the first historians to make use of the rich sources of the then still largely unexplored ‘medieval’ urban archives in Flanders was Jean-Jacques Lambin, town secretary of Ypres and the town’s first archivist.6 This scholar, who died in 1842 and whose life has drawn hardly any attention yet, was the first to put the archive in systematic order, and to publish numerous articles and books about it. He

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personally owned an important collection of manuscripts and books, which was dispersed throughout the world after his death. Apart from his edition of a chronicle about the county of Flanders,7 he edited the text of a chronicle which he ascribed to Oliver of Dixmude, inhabitant of Ypres, in 1835. That Lambin did not envisage an Ypres urban chronicle, but rather a Flemish one, or a chronicle of the Southern Low Countries, becomes clear from the title he gave to his edition, ‘Remarkable events, mainly in Flanders and Brabant, and also in the neighbouring regions, from 1377 until 1443, transcribed literally, after the original unpublished and untitled manuscript by Oliver of Dixmude’. In a short introduction, the editor states that this chronicle, which indeed deals with the period from 1377 to 1443, is mainly important for the history of Flanders and the surrounding regions, and he illustrates this with several examples (OvD iii-vi). He pays no attention at all to the fact that the chronicle contains much information about Ypres. The description of the manuscript is very succinct (OvD, vivii). Apart from a short addition at the end by the author Joos Bryde concerning the years 1303 to 1440, the voluminous manuscript with its 184 folios was written by one and the same hand/person.8 Even though no author is mentioned explicitly, the editor seems to know that the author of the work must have been Oliver of Dixmude (OvD i-iii). Lambin sees the fact that the author identifies himself as having been an alderman in 1423 and 1438 as sufficient support for this claim. Indeed, he concludes, since Oliver of Dixmude was the only person to hold that function in those two years, he has to be the author of the chronicle. Still according to Lambin – who could make extensive use of the rich Ypres Town Archive – Oliver of Dixmude was a member of the town government from 1423 to 1450, without interruption. He even was a number of times first alderman, the most important town official. Oliver, who died in 1458, undoubtedly owed his political career largely to the fact that he belonged to one of the old families of Ypres burghers, grown wealthy by trading in wool and cloth, and ever since the thirteenth century a force to be reckoned with in Ypres politics.9 Lambin’s comments could lead us to conclude that in Ypres, too, there existed a genre that closely resembled another tradition in Flanders and the Southern Low Countries, in which the historiographer, a member of the urban citizenry, did not emphasize the history of his

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home town in his work, but rather that of the county and of the comital dynasty.10 According to Lambin, van Dixmude supported the politics of the Dukes of Burgundy (John the Fearless and Philip the Bold), more particularly their justified policy with regard to the turbulent and headstrong towns OvD vi). In the course of the nineteenth century numerous Belgian historians concentrating on the history of Flanders would use this chronicle to support similar ideas. It was not until 1901 that this source would be more thoroughly analyzed with regard to its authorship and purport. Unfortunately, the two studies that will be mentioned here, were both based exclusively on Lambin’s edition; none of the authors made use of the manuscript itself, which – by that time – had been moved to the Town Library of Ypres (see also De Sagher 1898: 267, n. 1). One rather succinct study was written by the ‘father of Belgian historiography’, Henri Pirenne, who published quite extensively about medieval Flanders (Pirenne 1901). First and foremost, he stated that it is not entirely certain that Oliver of Dixmude is the author. Indeed, one other person was alderman in both years mentioned above, namely a certain Joris de Rijke. Moreover, he had noticed that, in the chronicle, Oliver of Dixmude is referred to in the third person, rather odd if Oliver was its author. He has no doubt that the author (or authors) was a member of the Ypres government. Furthermore, Pirenne emphasizes that Lambin did not publish the entire chronicle.11 Important within the context of this paper is that this prominent Ghent historian clearly states that this chronicle ‘does not, strictly speaking, constitute an urban chronicle, but rather a chronicle of Flanders, interspersed with information concerning Ypres’ (1901: 143).12 In this respect, Pirenne followed Lambin. Since there are few contemporary chronicles about Flanders, Pirenne felt that this chronicle deserved additional attention, even more so because it reflects the views of the patricians (haute bourgeoisie) of the Burgundian period, even though he did not explicitly indicate what those opinions or views might have been. Finally, it should be pointed out that Pirenne rather favoured the idea of there having been more than one author. He was certainly convinced that the chronicle had been composed at different points in time. Victor Fris, a student of Pirenne’s, further developed the former aspect in a more extensive paper, which appeared in the same year (Fris 1901). In his article ‘The Political Ideas of Oliver of Dixmude’, he stressed the incompleteness

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of the edition, but nevertheless kept confidence in the authorship, ascribed by Lambin to Oliver of Dixmude. He did, however, maintain that this author, a member of the urban patriciate, did not sympathize with the party of the Duke as Lambin had suggested. According to him, Oliver of Dixmude championed the autonomy of his town and widely propagated the advantages of urban particularism, as opposed to the Burgundian tendency to centralize and to install corrupt officials. Furthermore, he frequently lashed out at rival towns (Ghent and Bruges) and at the surrounding smaller – but also competing – towns and countryside. The author of the chronicle especially deplored the fact that part of the urban elite was in league with the ruler, as a consequence of which Ypres lost influence, prestige and affluence. At the onset of World War I, the entire Ypres Town Archive and the collection of old manuscripts of the Town Library – and hence also this chronicle – were lost. This explains to some extent why this chronicle was never really studied afterwards, even though it is one of the most cited chronicles as far as the history of late medieval Flanders and Flemish towns is concerned. An unpublished licentiate thesis from 1979 disclosed no new information (Vercammen 1979). As a result, Pirenne’s thesis, which states that it is not an urban but a general Flemish chronicle, has remained unchallenged until this day in the general surveys of the late medieval historiography of Flanders and of the Low Countries. Indeed, the recent survey of narrative sources from the Southern Low Countries gives the following description of the chronicle of Oliver of Dixmude: ‘memoirs mainly dealing with the political and military history of Flanders (particularly Ypres), covering 1377-1443, with some gaps in the years 1378-91, 1393-1402 and 1416-8’.13 With regard to its authorship it says: ‘presumably Oliver of Dixmude, official in Ypres († 1459)’. Clearly, the Ypres chronicle, ascribed to Oliver of Dixmude, has not yet been recognized as an urban chronicle. And yet, any close reader of the chronicle must doubt Pirenne’s claims. More than half of the chronicle is, without exaggeration, exclusively dedicated to events and facts that took place in the town of Ypres. The rest indeed deals with Flemish history, but even those parts are usually in some way connected to Ypres history, or formulated on the basis of Ypres sources, either oral or written. Also the analysis that, in most cases, the chronicle takes a pro-Ypres position

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and usually strongly reacts against all opponents – among them was royal centralism – still holds.14 Also, some of the anomalies cannot be solved on the basis of Lambin’s edition alone. The chronicle as a whole shows no unity, neither in form, nor in content. Pirenne already noticed a change in style with regard to the entry for the year 1403, when the annotations suddenly became more detailed (1901: 143). Moreover, it is almost unthinkable that the entire period spanned by the work – from 1377, or even 1366, to 1443 – was discussed by a single author. This presupposes of course – as will indeed be proved below – that the majority of the text was usually written shortly after the events described had taken place. To overcome the deadlock, the chronicle should be viewed in its local context – Ypres – as well as in its ‘regional’ context, by searching for similar works within the county of Flanders, as well as without. All the historians mentioned above have paid too little attention to the fact that the entire structure of the chronicle is dominated by the records concerning the Ypres aldermen and other urban dignitaries appointed on a yearly basis. They were misled by the absence of these lists in the edition of Lambin. And yet the title appearing on the manuscript leaves us in no doubt: ‘This is a booklet of those who have been part of the Ypres government since the year 1366.’15 2. The Ypres origin Fortunately, we were able to add some important new elements to the file, elements which were until now unknown, and which might be helpful. First and foremost, there is the nineteenth-century copy of the chronicle in the Town Library of Courtrai (n° 303), a study of which shows that this copy clearly differs from the text as edited by Lambin. Even though the existence of this copy has long been known,16 it was never the subject of detailed research, probably because it was taken for granted that it would have no additional value. This copy was made by Jacob Goethals-Vercruysse himself.17 Circa 1800, this Courtrai bibliophile went to the Ypres Town Archive to copy the text ‘as faithfully as possible’. He also added a short introduction concerning the material form and the authorship of the chronicle (fols. 5v6v).18 It is important to keep in mind that this copy was made on the basis of the manuscript which was later edited by Lambin. Furthermore, we had at our disposal the nineteen-century inventory of the Ypres Town Library which offers us a concise survey

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of several Ypres chronicles which were lost in 1914.19 Another urban chronicle, attributed to Pieter van der Letuwe, should also be included in our research, namely the chronicle titled ‘Renewal of the government of Ypres, from the year 1443 until 1480, with everything that happened there during that period’. Despite the fact that this chronicle was partially published by the then town archivist, Isidore Diegerick, in 1863 and following years, it has remained almost completely unknown to the Flemish medievalists of the past and the present. It is, for instance, not included in the aforementioned recent electronic repertory of Narrative Sources in the Low Countries, even though the information by the latter in this field is quite exhaustive (http://www. narrative-sources.be/.). This obscurity has to do with the fact that only a limited number of printed copies of the incomplete edition (it only goes until 1475 and ends abruptly in the middle of the text) were preserved. An introduction, which might have told us why the text was attributed to Pieter van de Letuwe, is also lacking. It should be understood that this chronicle is just a continuation of that attributed to Oliver of Dixmude. Not only the date, 1443, points to that conclusion, but also the similar textual structure. Here, too, the entry for each year commences with a record of the newly-appointed urban dignitaries.20 This is usually followed by some events which took place during the year of their mandate, and which were deemed worthy of mentioning. Consequently, both chronicles, together with the addition by Joos Bryde, should be seen as expressions of one and the same tradition within the ‘Ypres historiography’.21 On the basis of these data and another reading of Lambin’s edition and also as the result of a comparison with the recently investigated situation in Ghent (for which see below), we come to the following conclusions. From the end of the fourteenth century, there existed in Ypres a tradition of recording, more or less contemporaneously, memorable events and facts concerning the history of the town and its surroundings (even beyond the borders of Flanders). The necessary information was gleaned from, on the one hand, the town’s archival documents such as correspondence, privileges, sentence books and the like, and, on the other hand, from oral testimonies.22 Things were always noted down – often periodically and shortly after the event in question had taken place23 – in an approximately chronological order, in which the information for each year began with the enumeration of the composition of the renewed town government.

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Our new insight into the textual history explains why the chronicle attributed to Oliver of Dixmude, the authorship of which is in all probability multiple, forms no real unity. There are numerous arguments to support this theory. Pirenne, for instance, already pointed out the difference in style from the year 1403 onwards. Furthermore, new entries to the chronicle were not composed at regular intervals; indeed, as we have mentioned before, there are rather substantial periods of time during which nothing was added. This does not suggest the continued activity of a single author. Moreover, the fact that the events were often written down shortly after they had taken place, precludes the possibility that one author was responsible for recording the events happening during the long period with which the chronicle deals. Also, one should take into account the fact that one of its possible authors, either Oliver of Dixmude or Joris de Rijke, on some occasions refers to himself in the first person, while on other occasions using the neutral third person pronoun. It is not unusual for a medieval author to refer to himself as ‘I’, but the first person singular pronoun is usually used consistently throughout. Another important clue for multiple authorship lies in the fact that the political views of the author vary throughout the text. Convinced urban particularism predominates, but even so, there are some passages testifying to a friendly disposition towards its strong opposers, the Burgundian Duke and his supporters (Fris 1901: 319, 326). Also the fact that, apart from the text attributed to Oliver of Dixmude, other authors from the urban milieu felt the urge to (further) record important events with regard to the town, strengthens our belief that this chronicle was not the product of a single author. The list of aldermen could be consulted; indeed, certainly since 1366 they were officially noted down in a register, the so-called ‘Register of the Government Renewals’.24 So it is no coincidence that the chronicle starts with the year 1366, even though these annual lists of magistrates are not followed by additional information for the period 1366-1377. One should remember that already in this official document some short chronicle records concerning especially important political events in the town were added to the names. This jotting down of chronicle information per year was in some cases probably a well-orchestrated activity. The chronicle appears to have had a public character. How else could we explain that one of the authors of the chronicle of Oliver of Dixmude says that he cannot

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speak freely?25 This would also explain why precisely this chronicle and the continuation by Van de Letuwe were kept in the Town’s Archive, as a residu of urban administration. Indeed, these documents seem to have enjoyed a more or less official status, reflecting the views of the dominant political fraction within the town government. This is why, logically, their authors should be looked for among the members of that urban political elite. Of the possible authors mentioned above, Oliver of Dixmude, Joris de Rijke, Joos Bryde as well as Pieter van de Letuwe fit the description.26 The Ypres character of the chronicle is much greater or stronger than is to be found in the edition of 1835, because Lambin, the editor, left out several passages concerning Ypres.27 He probably assumed that Ypres events of a predominantly local character would not have appealed to the general public. For instance, apart from the yearly lists of dignitaries he also omitted quite a few events concerning the annual renewal of the town government. In total, he left out about twenty pages. The interest in local history found in the chronicle is entirely in line with genre expectations in that it is usually characterized by a strong urban consciousness and by the extolling of the author’s own urban particularism. 3. The urban historiography in other Flemish towns Very recent research for the town of Ghent has shown that also in this large medieval town – it was, after Paris, the most populated town in the north of Western Europe – a similar type of urban chronicle originated as early as the fourteenth century. In her study about ‘The Ghent Memorial Books as a Mirror of Urban Historical Consciousness (14th to 16th Centuries)’, Anne-Laure Van Bruaene has retraced some 40 different versions (Van Bruaene 1998). There is no doubt that originally it began as an official list with the details of the renewal of the town government, although it is not always clear to what extent the town itself was responsible for the official recording of its history. Gradually, and certainly towards the sixteenth century, the chronicle records sometimes began to overshadow the lists of aldermen. The fact that there were several authors, even within one version, leads us to speak of an urban consciousness of groups of individuals, rather than a general urban consciousness, and the former might be very different from the latter.

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Closer to Ypres, Valenciennes seems to have known a similar development. The two Valenciennes chronicles were started in the fourteenth century, and the first was also continued by several authors (Small 1996: 279-81; Van Bruaene 1998: 44-45). It seems hardly likely that Bruges would have just stood by, and the matter certainly deserves further investigation.28 Outside Flanders, but still within the Low Countries, Kampen and Den Bosch probably offer the best comparable examples, even though it there concerns sixteenth-century initiatives (Van Bruaene 1998: 42-43). 4. Conclusion On the basis of our research for Ypres, and by comparing the situation with that in other towns in Flanders and farther away, it is becoming increasingly clear that a certain type of urban chronicle did exist, certainly in Flanders, but probably also in the Low Countries as a whole. This historiographical phenomenon evolved from the fourteenth century onwards in some places. It was, however, at that time not yet possible to distinguish between official and private urban initiative, but there is no doubt that these contemporary chronicles testified to a strong urban self-consciousness, in which pride of one’s own town and hatred against all who threatened it, were mingled. The fact that insufficient light has been shed on this historiographical trend in Flanders and in the Southern Low Countries for such a long time, was not only due to accidental circumstances (the destruction of the Ypres Archive and the consequential loss of historical interest in the town’s past), but also to the too one-sided approach of the past and the sources by historians. It was as if the chroniclers of the Burgundian period had not dared to ply their craft to record the history of their own town, but had put themselves exclusively at the disposal of the Burgundian ruler. This view has recently been challenged by the above-mentioned study about the Ghent memorial books (Van Bruaene 1998), and it is further discredited here. These conclusions should allow us to look at these and other sources (for instance chronicles from other towns, often only preserved in post-medieval versions) from an entirely different point of view. Even though the facts and events recounted in these chronicles do not always afterwards stand up to scrutiny – as is, for instance, the case in Ghent – these urban chronicles still remain important for our knowledge of political and social thought in the late medieval urban context.

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Notes 1

For this development see Vansina (2003: 341-352), Van Bruaene (1998: 37-45). Paraphrased in English from Van Uytven (1958: 445). Van Uytven (1958: 445). For further references and literature, see http://www. narrative-sources.be/. This database offers a fairly exhaustive survey of the medieval narrative sources which originated in the Low Countries before ca. 1550. 4 About this chronicle, see http://www.narrative-sources.be/. 5 For a complete survey of the immediate literature, see http://www.narrativesources.be/. 6 We are currently preparing a study on this subject. In the meantime, see e.g. Van de Putte (1841). 7 Jan van Diksmuide (1839), also based on a manuscript in the Ypres Town Archives. For further references and literature, see http://www.narrative-sources.be/. 8 Which suggests – in the light of what follows – that it was not the original, but a neat copy. 9 For a family tree and for the political and socio-economic position of this family in late medieval Ypres, see Mus (1983: 133); Gailliard (1857: 41-53); Vercammen (1979: 8-18). 10 As was concluded by Van Uytven (1958: 448). 11 He refers to page 112 of the edition, where Lambin himself indicates that a passage was left out. Pirenne suspected – correctly, as it will turn out – that Lambin had also elsewhere presumed to take such liberties. 12 ‘Celui-ci ne constitue pas à proprement parler une chronique urbaine, mais plutôt une chronique de Flandre entremêlée de particularités relatives à Ypres.’ 13 Not correct in Vercammen (1979: 29), Pirenne (1901). Vercammen (1979: 29), dates them 1378-1387; Pirenne (1901) situates the gaps in 1386-91, 1393-1404 and 1415-1419; see OvD 9. 14 See for the correct information, Fris (1901: 316). 15 ‘Dit is een bouckxin van den ghonen die tYpre in de wet ghezyn hebben sydent dat men screef tjaer m.ccc.lxvi.’ 16 Faider (1936: 164). This manuscript is also mentioned in http://www.narrativesources.be/ with the comment ‘changed version with added annotation’. 17 About him, an avid collector of ‘Flemish’ history books and historical manuscripts, and a historiographer himself, see e.g. Vancolen (1988). 18 MS, paper, 180 fols. The fols. 163r to 175v contain an index composed by Goethals-Vercruysse. 19 Ypres, Town Archive, Acquisitions, n° 225. 20 Those are included in the edition by Diegerick. 21 It is not quite clear whether there existed other versions of urban chronicles composed in the late Middle Ages. Possibly, later urban chronicles dating from the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries, used these as a source of information regarding the Middle Ages. About such urban chronicles written after 1600, see the preliminary inventory by Moreels (2000). It is clear, however, that these later chronicles did not glean data from the medieval chronicles discussed in this article. In each case, the author was a private person. See also the next note. 2 3

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22 About the various written and oral sources, see Vercammen (1979: 34-43). In the chronicle by Pieter van de Letuwe more charters are rendered verbatim. The old Ypres Town Archive contained several compilation manuscripts with all kinds of sentences, but also more chronicle-like information; cf. De Sagher (1898: 261-63). 23 Both Fris (1901: 304) and Vercammen (1979: 44-45) offer illustrations of the fact that events were often recorded almost immediately after they had taken place. 24 De Sagher (1898: 262-63). A copy of these lists can be found in Brussels, Royal Library, Merghelynck, n° 103. 25 OvD (1835: 33, 39, 109, 125, 129, 157). 26 For the political careers of Joris de Rijke, Joos Bryde and Pieter van de Letuwe, we refer to the fact that their names, and those of members of their families, frequently appear in the lists of aldermen and other urban dignitaries; cf. Brussels, Royal Library, Merghelynck, n° 103. For the socio-political situation of these families, see e.g. Mus (1990). For Van de Letuwe, see esp. Warnkönig and Gheldolf (1864: 14). 27 We are currently preparing an edition of these ‘forgotten’ fragments. 28 The only known example is Het boeck van al ’t gene datter gheschiedt is binnen Brugghe. Quite a few Bruges town chronicles, often in a seventeenth- or eighteenthcentury version, can, for instance, be found in De Poorter (1934), Geirnaert (1984).

Bibliography Primary Sources–Archives Brussels, Royal Library, Merghelynck, n° 103: Lists with members of the Ypres town government (1366 to 1790). Courtrai, Municipal Library, Fund Goethals-Vercruysse n° 303: Chronicle OvD. Ypres, Town Archive, Acquisitions, n° 225: 19th-century inventory of the manuscripts of the Ypres Town Library. Primary Sources–Texts Het boeck van al ’t gene datter gheschiedt is binnen Brugghe, sichtent jaer 1477, 14 februarii, tot 1491. Ed. C. C. Carton. Gent: Maatschappij der Vlaamsche Bibliophilen, 1859. Diksmuide, Jan van. Dits de cronike ende genealogie van den prinsen ende graven van den foreeste van Buc, dat heet Vlaenderlant, van 836 tot 1436. Ed. JeanJacques Lambin. Ypres: Lambin en zoon, 1839. Diksmuide, Olivier van. Merkwaerdige gebeurtenissen vooral in Vlaenderen en Brabant en ook in de aengrenzende landstreken, van 1377 tot 1443, letterlyk gevolgd naer het oorspronkelyk onuitgegeven en titelloos handschrift. Ed. JeanJacques Lambin. Ypres: Lambin en zoon, 1835. Referred as OvD, followed by page numbers. Letuwe, Pieter van de. Vernieuwinge der wet van Ypre, van het jaer 1443 tot 1480, met het geene aldaer binnen desen tijd geschiet is. Ed. Isidore Diegerick. [Ypres], [1863-1878]. Narrative Sources. Repertory ‘The Narrative Sources from the Medieval Low Countries’: http://www.narrative-sources.be/.

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Secondary Literature De Poorter, A. (1934). Catalogue des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque publique de la ville de Bruges. Catalogue général des manuscrits des bibliothèques de Belgique II. Gembloux: J. Duculot - Paris: Société d’édition les belles lettres. De Sagher, Emile (1898). Notice sur les Archives communales d’Ypres et documents pour servir à l’histoire de Flandre du XIIIe au XVIe siècle. Ypres. Dumolyn, Jan (2002). ‘Dominante klassen en elites in verandering in het laatmiddeleeuwse Vlaanderen.’ Jaarboek voor middeleeuwse geschiedenis 5: 69-107. Faider, Paul and others (1936). Catalogue des manuscrits de la bibliothèque publique de la ville de Courtrai. (Bibliothèque Goethals-Vercruysse et autres fonds). Catalogue général des manuscrits des bibliothèques de Belgique III. Gembloux: J. Duculot / Paris: Société d’édition les belles lettres. Fris, Victor (1901). ‘Les idées politiques d’Olivier van Dixmude’. Bulletins de l’Académie royale de Belgique. Classe des lettres, etc. 3: 295-326. Gailliard, J. (1857), ‘Dixmude, van.’ In Bruges et le Franc ou leur magistrature est leur noblesse avec des données historiques et généalogiques sur chaque famille I, Bruges: 41-53. Geirnaert, Noël (1984). Inventaris van de handschriften in het Stadsarchief te Brugge. Brugse geschiedbronnen uitgegeven door het Gemeentebestuur van Brugge XIV. Bruges. Moreels, Renilde (2000). ‘Een web van verhaaldraden. Een onderzoek van lokale Ieperse stadskronieken over de middeleeuwse stadsgeschiedenis: historiek, verwantschap en uitgave.’ Unpublished licentiate thesis. Catholic University of Leuven. Mus, Oktaaf (1983). ‘De eerste fase van het Iepers herstelprogramma na het beleg van 1383.’ In Ieper Tuindag. Zesde eeuwfeest. Een bundel historische opstellen. Ed. Romain Vinckier. Ypres: Dejonghe. 129-80. Mus, Oktaaf (1985). ‘De geboorte van een marktplein.’ In De Ieperse markt. Een historisch fenomeen. Drie bijdragen gebundeld ter gelegenheid van de tentoonstelling in de lokalen van de Kredietbank te Ieper van 18.1.1985 tot 1.2.1985. [no ed.]. Ypres: Dejonghe. 1-27. Mus, Oktaaf (1990). ‘Mutaties in de samenstelling van de Ieperse magistraat in de 15e eeuw.’ In Getuigen in Polderklei. Huldeboek dr. Godgaf Dalle. Ed. Jacques Herregat et al. Beauvoorde: De Rode Bles. 77-92. Nicholas, David (1992). Medieval Flanders. London: Longman. Pirenne, Henri (1901). ‘Olivier de Dixmude’. Biographie nationale VI: k. 142-43. Small G. (1996). ‘Chroniqueurs et culture historique au bas Moyen Age.’ In Valenciennes aux XIVe et XVe siècles. Art et histoire. Ed. Ludovic Nys and A. Salamagne. Valenciennes. 279-81. Van Bruaene, Anne-Laure (1998). De Gentse memorieboeken als spiegel van stedelijk historisch bewustzijn (14de tot 16de eeuw). Maatschappij voor Geschiedenis en Oudheidkunde te Gent. Verhandelingen XXII. Gent. Vancolen, Paul (1988). ‘Jacques Goethals-Vercruysse als bibliograaf en historicus.’ In Jacques Goethals-Vercruysse en zijn tijd. Tentoonstellingscatalogus. [no ed.]. Courtrai. Van de Putte, Ferdinand (1841). ‘Biographie de Mr Jean-Jacques Lambin.’ Annales de la Société d’Emulation de Bruges. 1st series III: 145-70.

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Vansina, Augusto (2003). ‘Medieval Urban Historiography in Western Europe (11001500).’ In Historiography in the Middle Ages. Ed. Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis. Leiden-Boston: Brill. 317-51. Van Uytven, Raymond (1958). ‘De geschiedschrijving in de Nederlanden. 1. De ZuidNederlandse geschiedschrijving in de Middeleeuwen.’ In Algemene geschiedenis der Nederlanden. Ed. J. van Houtte et al. Utrecht: Uitgeversmaatschappij W. De Haan N.V. 440-49. Vercammen, Kristel (1979). ‘De historiografische betekenis van de kronijk van Olivier van Dixmude “Merkwaerdige gebeurtenissen vooral in Vlaenderen, Brabant en ook in de aengrenzende landstreken van 1377 tot 1443”.’ Unpublished licentiate thesis. University of Ghent. Warnkönig, L.-A., and A.-E. Gheldolf (1864). Histoire administrative et constitutionnelle des villes et châtellenies d’Ypres, Cassel, Bailleul et Warnêton jusqu’à l’an 1302. Paris: Librairie internationale.

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Oppa Swänzsko oc Oppa Dansko Studien zum Altostnordischen Herausgegeben von Harry Perridon und Arend Quak

Inhalt Vorwort Michael SCHULTE: Die Bedeutung des Schädelfragments von Ribe für die Kürzung der älteren Runenreihe Arend QUAK: Zu den altschwedischen Glossen in der Handschrift C 923 der Universitätsbibliothek Uppsala Harry PERRIDON: On the Origin of the Vestjysk Stød Gea LINDEBOOM: Kolding Bys Bog, folia 158-170, “the added pages” Susanne KRAMARZ-BEIN: Zur altostnordischen Karls- und Dietrichdichtung Eva SKAFTE JENSEN: Far thæn man kunu ær børn hafwær – On the Use of Demonstratives, Nouns and Articles in the Scanic Law of Old Danish

Amsterdam/New York, NY, 2006 VII-331 pp. (Amsterdamer Beitr¨age zur a¨ lteren Germanistik. Vol. 62) Paper € 68 / US$ 92 ISBN-10: 9042021160 ISBN-13: 9789042021167

Britta Olrik FREDERIKSEN: Et forsøg til dateringen af det gammel-danske postilhåndskrift GKS 1390 4to Kurt BRAUNMÜLLER: Wortstellung und Sprachkontakt: Untersuchungen zum Vorfeld und Nebensatz im älteren Dänischen und Schwedischen Norbert VOORWINDEN: In Memoriam Prof. Dr. C. Soeteman Besprechungen

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People and Texts Relationships in Medieval Literature Edited by Thea Summerfield and Keith Busby

Relationships between people and texts form the focus of the studies collected in this book. It was presented to Erik Kooper in recognition of his lifelong efforts to bring together people from universities worldwide. It will be of special interest to scholars and students of Arthurian and Middle English literature, codicologists, scholars interested in medieval Latin sermons and the Gesta Herewardi, in medieval drama and in texts in Middle English, among them Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Wynnere and Wastoure, Sir Eglamour, the Tale of Gamelyn, and, in Scots, the metrical chronicle of William Stewart. Articles on early twentieth-century Chaucerian scholarship and on many of the Old French Arthurian romances as well as the writings of Wace and Benoît de Sainte-Maure are also included.

Amsterdam/New York, NY, 2007. 220 pp. (Costerus NS 166) Paper € 44 / US$ 59 ISBN-13: 9789042021457

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Venus’ Owne Clerk

Amsterdam/New York, NY, 2007 VII-477 pp. (Costerus NS 167) Bound € 100 / US$ 135 ISBN-13: 9789042021501

Chaucer’s Debt to the Confessio Amantis B.W. Lindeboom

“The overall argument of Wim Lindeboom’s book is that Chaucer radically changed his development of the Canterbury Tales as a reaction to reading Gower’s Confessio. Dr Lindeboom offers a comprehensive and exciting reading of the Tales in the light of the Confessio which I find thought-provoking and insightful. On the way to this reading he provides enlightening discussion on a series of key issues in Chaucer/Gower scholarship. The book’s unconventional approach is both exciting and stimulating, not afraid to court controversy or to take issue with established views. The truly impressive grasp of detail is continually linked with a broad conception of what these poets were trying to achieve.” Jeremy J. Smith, University of Glasgow “Lindeboom has written a surprising book – and a courageous. Venus’ Owne Clerk leaves scarcely a time-honoured assumption about the GowerChaucer literary relationship unconfronted. Few, perhaps, will agree with his every conclusion, but no one who reads this book can come away unchallenged by its fresh way of seeing.” Robert F. Yeager, University of West Florida

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Italo-Celtic Origins and Prehistoric Development of the Irish Language

Amsterdam/New York, NY, 2007 XI-215 pp. (Leiden Studies in IndoEuropean 14) Bound € 46 / US$ 62 ISBN: 9789042021778

Frederik Kortlandt

This volume offers a discussion of the phonological and morphological development of Old Irish and its IndoEuropean origins. The emphasis is on the relative chronology of sound changes and on the development of the verbal system. Special attention is devoted to the origin of absolute and relative verb forms, to the rise of the mutations, to the role of thematic and athematic inflexion types in the formation of present classes, preterits, subjunctives and futures, and to the development of deponents and passive forms. Other topics include infixed and suffixed pronouns, palatalization of consonants and labialization of vowels, and the role of Continental Celtic in the reconstruction of Proto-Celtic. The final chapter provides a detailed analysis of the Latin and other Italic data which are essential to a reconstruction of Proto-Italo-Celtic. The appendix contains a full reconstruction of the Old Irish verbal paradigms, which renders the subject more easily accessible to a wider audience. The book is of interest to Celticists, Latinists, Indo-Europeanists and other historical linguists.

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