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The Trobairitz Tradition Continued

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(Castelloza, BnF MS 843 f. 125)

I have been hesitant to continue my writing on the trobairitz not due to lack of interest, but in sheer awe of the corpus of works these women left behind which I have steadfastly been attempting to make my way through. While it is by no means an extensive collection, it is rich in a tradition that has remained ever so under examined. This is yet another post that humbly attempts to broach yet one more meager inch into understanding the trobairiz and what they meant to the even larger tradition of female writing.

What I find the most startling in their words is their candid tone that allows them to well overstep their social bounds and, through poetry, transgress. They do not adhere to their roles of subservience in their homes or in society, and their voices, as heard in their songs, are, for lack of a better term, saucy. The trobairitz etymologically are borne from the troubadours,those who find, and the trobairitz arguably found their voices and synchronously created their own unique poetic language and tradition that was not merely carved out from the corpus of their male counterparts.

Yet, even as they found their voices most scholarship over the last twenty years has sought to find their names – to understand their place in society, and make sense of their words and songs in terms of their various lifestyles. In a nutshell, the vast amount of critical attention the trobairitz have elicited in recent years constantly seeks to historicize them, privileging a biographical  component to their writing. However, this is no easy feat, and with each new discovery there comes debate where academics argue against the newest attributions of identity, often in light of contradictory evidence or even lack of it.

As is, the number of names attributed to the trobairitz are few, and there is little evidence to even play around with, much less debate. However, I feel the debate started in earnest when the trobairitz’s very existence was challenged, practically erased from the history of the larger Troubadour tradition. Beginning with Pierre Bec’s assertion that there were no instances of female authorship (feminite genetique, as he distinguished authorship from merely the female voice,  feminite textuelle) in twelfth and thirteenth century northern France, the hunt for female composers was set off. Nevertheless, even as scholars searched out possible medieval female writing there also appeared to be an unmistakeable acquiescence to Bec’s findings that resulted with these female figures left existing in a world of limbo – Shrodinger’s trobairitz.

(note: yes, the trobairitz are originally female poets from the South of France, but I believe current research brings to question the limitations of their spheres, and in subsequent pieces to be posted throughout the next months I will explore their influence across longitudinal borders, which should place into context my intermixing between the hemispheres of France).

From Bec’s assertion sprung numerous others outlining the impossibility of female writing. Either women were simply inept at poetry, or the question would arise as to why they would want to disturb the status quo of the predominantly male Troubadour tradition that placed them upon pedestals, forgetting the attributes ascribed to women placed them upon false pedestals reserved for poor creatures who needed vainglory above all else.

Yet, as more and more probing took place, it became apparent that these early assertions were inaccurate, and female troubadours, to be later referred to as the trobairitz, had thrived in northern France, and southern France, …and Spain, …and Italy. Unfortunately this created the other side of the spectrum where not only did these poetesses exist, but they suddenly existed everywhere, and in large quantities. One of the determining factors for considering female authorship at one point was the appearance of the feminine pronoun in the first person within the work – a cringe-worthy method that quickly created an overabundance of female attributed poems (as I previously discussed such poems created by men, namely Clement Marot).

However, while Bec asserted women in northern France were most certainly not composing poetry, he oddly did not argue a similar case for women of other nationalities. This leads to an entirely new paradox where women were seemingly composing works across Europe in the Middle Ages, except in norther France, where even Bec agreed they were most certainly performing the poems men wrote. What I immediately noticed in this rather convoluted argument was his very precise delineation between authorship and performance where the two acts were irrevocably polarized. If you have been following my female scribe and my trobairitz posts, then you will recall that this distinction if ultimately faulty. Through the process of recreation via any medium, be it written, sung, or simply spoken, there is an inherent mingling into the world of editing. I would never take this argument so far as to posit that these songs should be attributed to women simply because they changed a few words, or even improved the meter, or flow. Withal, when works are appropriated and reconfigured to convey novel ideas, then the work no longer belongs wholly to the original author.

Last time Beatritz de Dia served as the example of appropriation in her “A chantar m’er” as she strategically and wittingly railed at her lover, far outside the perameters of the Courtly Love she was supposedly mimicking, and sounded much more like our modern day H.D. Still, as I constantly use the term “appropriate,” an appropriate French idiom flies to mind, “appeler un chat un chat” (roughly, “let’s call a spade a spade”), and let us refer to “appropriate” as what it really is, “to steal.” Recalling Helene Cixous double entendre verb, voler, it is precisely through such theft of patriarchally dominant methods of communication that women can fly, or even better, soar. Thus the trobairitz took the concepts of Troubadour poetry and flew with them.

Currently I am working on translating two more trobairitz poems, not because I don’t like the translations already circulating, but because I feel most comfortable with a work once I have devised various ways of interpretation that capture the different nuances each word choice has to offer. William Padden’s work on Castelloza is presently guiding my translations as her and Azalais de Porcairagues (who is slightly more elusive) are the two poetesses I want to focus on momentarily.

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(Azalais de Porcairagues, BnF MS 854 f. 140)

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(Azalais de Porcairagues, BnF MS fr. 12473, f. 125)

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(same as above)

Sources:

Bec, Pierre. Ecrits sur les troubadours et la lyrique medievale.

Bec, Pierre. Trobairitz’ et chansons de femme.

Bogin, Meg. The Woman Troubadours.

Bruckner, Matilda Tomaryn. “Fictions of the Female Voice: The Women Troubadours.”

Gaunt, Simon. “Poetry of Exclusion: a Feminist Reading of Some Troubadour Lyrics.”

Paden, William. The Voice of the Trobairitz: Perspectives on the Women Troubadours.

Glastonbury

In continuing my Arthurian research it has, perhaps most obviously, lead me to Glastonbury Abbey. While this is not necessarily conducive to my original goals, I think to better situate Paris, BnF, fr. MS 342 within the textual tradition, a broader survey of its various components must be taken into account. As MS 342 is a part of the Lancelot cycle that focuses on the latter parts, namely L’Agravain, Queste, and Mort Artu, it the last of these episodes that draws my attention to Glastonbury.

For those of you unfamiliar with the legend, most notably told by William of Malmesbury, to briefly retrace the history, in the seventh century Glastonbury Abbey had been built in the town of Somerset that had been previously conquered by the Saxons. In the tenth century it was reformed physically and conceptually by Dunstan (yes, *that* Dunstan). Then, the next change for the Abbey came with the Norman conquest of 1066 where the church was substantially enlarged with elaborate additions, a process that spanned the next several decades. By 1086, in the Domesday book it was stated to be the most wealthy monastery in the country.

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(Stained glass of St. Dunstan- although this is not historic per se, and this particular image comes from a New York church circa 1920)

In the first century Joseph of Arimathea is said to have brought the Holy Grail containing the blood of Christ to a church, along with his body, where it was excavated in the twelfth century to produce relics of various natures in what was then known as Glastonbury Abbey. This is a fanciful account attributed to Robert de Boron, which would date the Abbey’s existence a good seven hundred years earlier. However, this legend is dubious for several more reasons, most prominently due to the fact that these findings along with other relics were found in 1191, following the fire at the abbey in 1184, drawing large crowds, and consequently funds for repair at the Abbey’s greatest time of need.

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(MS Hatton 30 at the Bodleian Library with the inscription on the last page that the book was commissioned by Dunstan)

Medieval monks associated Glastonbury Abbey with Avalon, where not only the blood of Christ and his body were at one point thought to have been stored, but also the body of Arthur that supposedly constituted the aforementioned relics.

As for the the full history and minutia associated with the Abbey, refer to to William of Malmesbury’s  On the Antiquity of Glastonbury, which actually prompted my research to diverge from its original intentions (if any could be said to have existed). I set out to find the history of Glastonbury in an attempt to assemble a tie between Arthurian legends and British history, curious as to why his legend had survived for so long on the cusp between history and fiction where historians and laymen alike desperately seemed to want his legend to be founded in fact. Surely it was due to the grandeur associated with Arthur’s court, even if not to Arthur himself, but anyone familiar with insular history will attest to the numerous real life dramas of the Middle Ages without a need to embellish further and create persons who never existed.

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(Round Table in the Great Hall of Winchester Castle)

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(Close up)

Yet Arthur weaves himself throughout various accounts, and his round table can even be found in Winchester Castle, prominently displayed on the wall of the Great Hall (see above). I began working my way through the different historiographic records, and recalled Arthur is not mentioned by Bede, but he is a prominent figure in Galfridian accounts, however these are polarized sources, so I referred back to William of Malmesbury, the catalyst for my inquiries. In doing so, I found something most strange – conflicting accounts by the same author.

This is where I am currently stumped. Unfortunately, it is the winter holiday break, leaving me with few people I can call upon for help.

The two differing accounts refer to William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum and De antiquitate Glastoniensis ecclesie. The former was composed circa 1125, while the latter came about in 1129, and therein lies the Arthurian question within a much larger historiographic problem.

In the Antiquitate, William of Malmesbury follows folkloric tradition of Arthur having been buried at Glastonbury Abbey with his remains serving as relics for medieval monks – a whimsical story for the masses, and certainly one that was quickly absorbed. However, I think it may be safely assumed that Arthur (at least as king) did not exist. William of Malmesbury’s retelling of the tale within his Antiquitate would make much more sense if it were an auxiliary work leading up to his magnum opus, Gesta Regum, where arbitrary localized legends were set aside in light of accuracy, especially considering his immediately apparent indebtedness to Bede. However, in Gesta, written later, he astutely asserts “Sed Arturis sepulchrum nusquam visitur, unde antiquita naeniarum adhuc eum venturm fabulatur,” meaning the place of Arthur’s sepulture was unknown, only to be undone by his later work, Antiquitate, where he affirms Arthur’s burial ground.

It appears he is regressing in his history, moving from a survey of British history to a myopic focus upon a single venue, complete with its history and tradition – one that includes Arthur. In fact, this is my only way of reconciling Gesta Regum with Antiquitate. I like to think they were intended for different audiences and thus catered to disparate tastes. However, this is my conjecture, and am basing this on only my reading of the works, hence my need, or perhaps want, for diverse opinions.

Essentially the question I am most stumped with is “why?” Why did a, for lack of a better term, “proper,” historian regress into popular history and pay homage to Arthur in a most factual sense as opposed to relegating him to folklore, or omitting his history altogether when discussing Glastonbury? While it would be easy to assume he may have been under the Arthurian spell that many others would be under for hundreds of years, his adamant denial of a tomb and final resting place for Arthur  in prior works attests to his denouncement of fairytales. Yet he resumes his writing less than five years later to forge a dedicated place for the once and future king of Avalon, or Glastonbury. Why?

Vox populi and Medieval PR

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(Chaucer’s pilgrims of the Canterbury Tales as depicted by William Blake)

I am probably not terribly off when stating that every medievalist has read the Canterbury Tales, and most can recite large parts, especially the beginning of the General Prologue, from memory. Lines 12-18 read:

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of engelond to caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

[Then folk long to go on pilgrimages,
And pilgrims to seek foreign shores,
To distant shrines, known in sundry lands,
And specially from every shire’s end
Of England to Canterbury they went,
To seek the holy blessed martyr,
Who helped them when they were sick.]

Here, the holy blessed martyr refers to Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury in the mid twelfth century who indeed was the influence of multiple pilgrimages to Canterbury Cathedral, and most notably the visit of Henry II that will become the focus of this post.

This may well be one of the better known incidents of history (and from what I have been told, all students in England study the conflict between Becket and Henry fairly early on), but from my own experiences few medievalists focus on Becket directly where I am, and I am not entirely sure the history between him and Henry II, who originally appointed him to the role of Archbishop of Canterbury, is often looked at these days. The intricacies of their affiliation and the various political ramifications of the post extend well past what I will attempt to do here, but there is one aspect of Becket’s history that I think has helped shape England’s relationship with kingship that I want to look at which, perhaps ironically, he was responsible for posthumously. So, as a reminder of a history each of us have perhaps learned via various means, here is a brief rehashing of an exceptional event and its consequences.

From a historiographic stance, according to four chronicles, most notably that of Edward Grim, Becket’s tie with Henry II weakened shortly after his appointment to Archbishop when he began diverging his policies from that of Henry who became disappointed that his chosen church official was not placating him. Matters become worse over time until Becket outright refused Henry’s ordinances, infuriating the king and provoking a statement that insinuated he wanted the Archbishop permanently removed. This exchange must have taken place at some point around what we would today refer to as Christmas, as only a few days later, December 29th, 1170, Thomas Becket was murdered. Whether Henry gave the command, indirectly stated he wanted the man dead, or was simply venting is unclear – accounts of his exact words vary too much for an indisputable conclusion to be drawn. As an absolutely unrelated side note, and perhaps because I just finished teaching Faust, this very much reminds me of one of the last sections where Faust mutters his wish for the death of Philemon and Baucis only to realize his words were literally understood and the couple had been murdered. Again, little in the way of evidence remains of Henry’s words, but his previous sentiments about kingship, the role of the church, and in regards to Becket himself resonate with the rumors about his alleged instigation and role in Becket’s murder. Yet, like Faust almost seven hundred years later, Henry will demonstrate his remorse. However, unlike Faust, Henry’s demonstration will be extraordinarily public, serving to highlight the importance of public opinion in the maintenance of kingship even during a time thought have been predisposed to dictatorial tendencies.

canterbury cathedral

(Stained glass from Canterbury Cathedral – Church official, most likely a bishop, is significantly depicted much larger than the lower pane, the king, demonstrating the true place of power, at least as it was perceived by the church)

Becket may have had substantial influence prior to the fateful night of his murder, but the aftermath marked the church’s place in medieval culture, and where it would remain until Henry VIII eradicated Becket’s shrine while simultaneously gaining complete control over the Church of England, essentially undoing what his predecessor two hundred years before, Henry II had no choice but to do.

Thomas Becket

(Thomas Becket’s murder by the four assassins, in the Huth Psalter)

Many more manuscript pictures of Thomas Becket and Henry II can be found here.

Becket’s murder transformed him into a martyr, and more importantly poignantly highlighted the deficiencies in the state. Upheaval ruled England with each year, and after Becket’s canonization by Pope Alexander III, his infamy spread throughout the land and all those who had qualms with Henry II’s rule emerged to voice their displeasure – the vox populi became a formidable weapon to be wielded in the face of tyranny. Henry’s reign was more threatened than perhaps all others before, including Offa, Eathelred, and William Rufus, combined. His meddling in the affairs of the church and the results were indicative of the change in climate – unlike William I and his immediate heirs, intimidation and egregious brutality were no longer enough to subdue the public, and as rioters were well out numbering royals forces, the nation’s very existence was threatened. If the fairly newly forged Anglo-Norman England was to survive, drastic measure needed to be applied.

Henry II went on a pilgrimage to Canterbury in what would probably be considered one of the earliest public relations campaigns rivaled only by his grandfather, Henry I, who went to extraordinary lengths to bridge the gap between the Normans and Anglo-Saxons. Henry II, realizing his error in alienating Becket and his supporters set out to create an example of himself as, on July 12, 1174, he fasted, and then ventured stripped in only woolen clothes and barefoot for three miles to the shrine of Thomas Becket at the Cathedral of Canterbury to ask forgiveness for his sins. He prostrated himself at the shrine, and subjected himself to a public scourging before all of the clergy present where the bishops, abbots and each of the monks of Canterbury flogged him. Afterwards, he lay all day and all night on the cold stones in front of the shrine.

His penance and public humiliation were well calculated at the exact moment they were most needed and almost immediately paid off. Henry secured his throne.

Some images of Canterbury Cathedral:

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(The sign on the floor in the above photo reads: The candle burns where the shrine of St. Thomas of Canterbury stood from 1220 to 1538 when it was destroyed by order of King Henry VIII”)

Sources:

Howlett, Richard, Ed. Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II and Richard I.

Partner, Nancy F.  Serious Entertainments:  The Writing of History in Twelfth-Century England.

Staunton, Michael. The Lives of Thomas Becket.

Stubbs, William, Ed. Chronica.

Stubbs, William, Ed. The Chronicle of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II, and Richard I, by Gervase, the Monk of Canterbury.

Walsh, P.G. and M. J. Kennedy. The History of English Affairs, Book I.

Warren, W.L. Henry II (English Monarchs).

Winston, Richard. Thomas Becket.