The poetics of translatio studii and conjointure: Chrétien de Troyes's Cligès 0917058119, 9780917058110

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MICHELLE A. FREEMAN

THE POETICS OF

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TRANSLATIO STUDI AND CONJOINTURE CHRETIEN DE TROYESS CLIGES

FFM 12

FRENCH FORUM, PUBLISHERS

_ Westfield College Library

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Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2023 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/poeticsoftransla0000free

THE POETICS OF TRANSLATIO STUDII AND CONJOINTURE: CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

‘

FRENCH FORUM MONOGRAPHS 12

Editors R.C. LA CHARITE and V.A. LA CHARITE

“’S

THE POETICS OF

!RANSLATIO STUDI AND CONJOINTURE

CHRETIEN DE TROYES CLIGES

by MICHELLE A. FREEMAN

FRENCH FORUM, PUBLISHERS LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY garr LN

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UNIY,

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Copyright © 1979 by French Forum, Publishers, Incorporated, P.O. Box 5108, Lexington, Kentucky 40505. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in reviews. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 78-54262

ISBN 0-917058-11-910-0 Printed in the United States of America

In memoriam

Walter Charles Freeman (1925-1962)

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This study constitutes the revised version of my doctoral dissertation, «Zranslatio studiiy and Romance Composition: The Example and Some Ramifications of Chrétien de Troyes’ Cligés (Princeton University, 1976), which benefited from the wisdom, guidance, and scholarship of Alfred Foulet and Michael Curschmann. I am indebted to the Council for Research in the Humanities of Columbia University for a grant which enabled me to make the necessary revisions of the dissertation. I am further indebted to Rupert T. Pickens of the Department of French at the University of Kentucky for his painstakingly careful reading of the typescript; most generously, he offered many pertinent corrections and suggestions. The first chapter of Part One contains in large part material from «Chrétien de Troyes’ Cligés: A Close Reading of the Prologue,» first published in the Romanic Review, 67 (1976), 89-101. I am grateful for the permission to reprint much of my original article. I also wish to thank Karl for his encouragement, interest, and suggestions which made feasible the time, energy, and confidence necessary to see this work through to its completion.

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS INTRODUCTION

11 PART ONE THE ROMANCE CONTEXT

I>

Il.

III.

THE PROLOGUE

21

Modernization of the Exemplum

Pas!

The Literariness of the Prologue

24

Allusions to Other Prologues

37

YTRANSLATIO AS PROCESS: FENICE AND THESSALA

45

Fenice and Myrrha

45

Fenice, Dido, and Lavine

49

CONJOINTURE AS STRUCTURE

ay

The Middle Section of Erec et Enide

aif

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

10

Further Implications of Conjointure

65

The Blood Drops Scene

74

PART TWO POETICIZATION

iy

Il.

THE MIDPOINT

91

Thessala and «Crestiens»

91

Analogous Parallel Configurations

98

The Potion

112

TRANSLATIO POETICIZED

128

Description and Metaphor

128

Metaphor and Ambiguity

134

CONJOINTURE IN CLIGES

140

Models of Description for Cligés

140

Descriptions in Cligés

146

CONCLUSION

168

NOTES

175

SELECTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY

193

INTRODUCTION

«Le devoir et la tache d’un écrivain sont ceux d’un traducteur.»

Marcel Proust, Le Temps retrouvé

A certain analogy may be said to link medieval literary process and the present-day study of medieval texts. The practices of poets during the high Middle Ages are, in an important sense, analogous both to the work of modern editors of Old French manuscripts and to scholarly explications of the composition of

medieval poems. Though not normally associated with one another, the three activities are hardly antagonistic or, for that matter, really even independent; each expresses a different facet of a shared belief. That belief constitutes an active faith in translatio(n). The basic tenets adhered to by this community comprised of poet, editor, and explicator may best be set down by citing John of Salisbury’s description of the literary training conducted in the cathedral schools of twelfth- and thirteenth-century France. John explains that his master, Bernard of Chartres, emphasized first the apt and harmonious joining together of words, what he called iuncturae dictionum. The principle of iunctura, applied to the smallest as well as to the largest structural units of poems, provides in itself a level of coherence to the text (1). Secondly, Bernard stressed the principle of translatio—the elaboration of metaphor. According to Bernard, whatever brilliance or distinction a given poem might display is, necessarily, due to

proper application of these fundamental principles. Consequently, his disciples were to learn to recognize these principles,

12

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

to analyze their function as they.were worked out by model auctores, and, eventually, to master them in order one day to become themselves models for posterity. This last constitutes the third fundamental pillar of the clerc’s training: the apprentices had to read—to read both critically and actively. Each day he brought to class a sample of his own work imitated from the reading of the previous day. Junctura, translatio, critical reading, John of Salisbury tells us, the and creative imitation were, clerc’s essential poetic tools (2).

By applying these methods, the apprentice clerc learned to read. He also learned to compose his own poems. By observing the harmonious ordering of a poem—an order proceeding from the smallest detail, such as a choice of adjective, to the broadest consideration of genre and meaning—an inventive medieval poet could find in an available metaphor, in a given combination of events, or in the specific workings of a genre, material into which he could properly incorporate his own poetic vision. His reading could, therefore, lead to a renewal of a text, or body of texts, in the images and language—the diction—of his own poem. His creation would stand as a poetic reading or commentary of the other text or texts (3). In the high Middle Ages, such was the service of poetry. The modern editor involved with questions of a philological and a textual nature continues in his own way this service of poetry. His work to establish a clear vision of a text presupposes a careful study of its language and of the contexts brought to a word or to a line of verse by the passage, the poem, other manu- scripts, and even other poems. Junctura and translatio concern him as well. The final version of the text which the edition represents comprises, then, a reading and a gloss. It is a carryingover of the text from one framework of reference to another, directed towards a different public, and reformulated according to new criteria. In its way the edition is a translation—a translation comparable to the Roman d’Eneas, which refashioned the Aeneid according to the conventions, language, and expectations of its twelfth-century Anglo-Norman audience. The editor preserves, continues, and builds on the document passed on to him by the scribe or scribes, adding his sorplus before communicat-

INTRODUCTION

13

ing the text to the next generation of readers. Those who take over from the editor may concern themselves with a third facet of translation. What is the meaning of the text insofar as it presents itself as a poem? How do rhetoric, genre, structure, and literary tradition,inform what the text says? The critic as translator interprets the text with regard to these additional criteria. Meaning for him is, in great part, a function of those things described by John of Salisbury, outlined by the arts of poetry, and implicit in the procedures utilized in, and illustrated by, other poems. The critic’s interpretation may proceed in a number of ways that accord with the perspectives on the formation of the clerc and his poetry which are available to him: ...et qui veut comprendre les caractéres véritables de la Chanson de Roland ou du roman de Cligés, et en rendre compte conformément 4 la réalité, doit emprunter ses principes directeurs, non pas, comme on 1’a trop fait, a des théoriciens modernes... mais, si on le peut, aux théories qui prévalaient pendant le XI® et le XII® siécle. On le peut;et pour atteindre a ces théories on dispose de moyens divers. L’examen comparatif des cuvres d’une méme époque révéle le respect de certaines régles qui, pour n’étre pas formulées dans ces ceuvres, n’en apparaissent pas avec une moindre évidence: c’est un moyen (4).

The present study will attempt to utilize such a procedure. However, the pursuit of this type of intertextualité does not merely uncover more rules not already mentioned in the arts of poetry of the period; it reveals rather a sense of the poetic process that these poems worked with and, in turn, helped generate. This sense of poetic process—however hard to define—englobes the principles of iunctura and translatio as well as the critical reading and creative imitation mentioned by John of Salisbury and of which Chrétien de Troyes, in his Cligés (ca. 1176), is highly and purposefully aware. The process is subsumed into the term translatio studii (5) and is closely related to what, previously, I called a belief in translatio(n). In Cligés Chrétien articulates and demonstrates the translatio studii poetically; this study will show in what ways and to what ends he does so. I have settled on a reading of this particular romance to describe the poetic processes at work in texts of the twelfth

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

century—particularly with respect to romance—because Cligés is a text which incorporates the translatio studii as a major theme. The romancer’s art is challenged, explored, and celebrated. To put it simply, this art constitutes in itself the matiére of the exemplary courtly avanture it ostensibly narrates. Herein lies the great originality of Cligés, a text that, therefore, may be properly said to have engendered a line of vernacular poetic and narratives—that comic narratives—essentially prose (later) include such titles as Aucassin et Nicolette, L’Escoufle, and Floire et Blanchefleur, even, perhaps, Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, Voltaire’s Candide, and Austen’s Northanger Abbey, to name but a few examples. If one is interested in this facet of commentary—i.e., in the problems of romance composition as a means of understanding how one text relates to another—and not merely in the tracking down of sources, then there is no better place to begin the analysis of these problems than a poem which adopts as its purpose a knowledge of itself. Should one desire to consider what metamorphoses poetry may conjure up, what rearrangements and new associations on every level of poetry a poem can create to bring forth new images, new constructs, and new formulations of experience, then no text is more worth investigating than this poem that stands at the threshold of such practices in the European vernaculars. If one wishes to come to an understanding of these processes and particularly if one wishes to do so in the spirit of the times which assertively explored them, then no more fertile a field of inquiry presents itself than the twelfthcentury French romance that most thoroughly reflects upon these literary practices, developing them authoritatively, and celebrating them poetically. Chrétien’s Cligés takes its brand of narrative art to its farthest limits, while turning the usual romance world upside-down and inside-out, wittily, charmingly, but lucidly, and, in so doing, it reveals the processes that generated it and certain other romance congeners while, simultaneously, it redefines these processes. No study has to date been devoted precisely to this aspect of Cligés. And yet such a study is suggested by the poem itself in its Prologue. Indeed, even the most enlightened of critical essays

INTRODUCTION dealing

with

the poem

have tended

1 to overlook

the opening

lines and consequently failed to follow Chrétien’s suggestion to consider the translatio studii as a fundamental principle of his poem (6). As a result, Cligés has all too often been considered in a fragmentary fashion; readings of the poem are begun under self-imposed limitations which impede an understanding of the overall, unifying view of the work that Chrétien goes to such lengths to articulate at the outset of his romance. Consequently, I shall undertake to read Cligés according to the system of signs and coherence outlined by the Prologue—that is, to understand Cligés in terms of the translatio studii. The perspective my study brings—or rather the perspective which it offers to translate, since Chrétien provides the perspective initially—is one that can help reintegrate the fragmented points of view on Cligés by reuniting them at their source. Through the exploitation of the clerkly topos in romance, Cligés dramatizes the poetic usefulness of «sources» such as Ovid, Wace, the Eneas, chansons de geste, etc., and provides a perspective on Chrétien’s works as an oeuvre; it comments on the Tristan (especially on the legend identified as the version commune and represented by Béroul); it initiates an exploration of the problems and possibilities of the romance genre; it displays virtuoso usage of rhetorical techniques; and it proves to be a thorough exercise in the mastery of stylistic devices such as forms of irony (7). Considerable critical attention has been devoted to the esthetics of Chrétien’s Cligés. Arthur Franz (8) was perhaps the first to realize, over a half-century ago, that the center of interest in this romance was deflected purposefully from, let us say at this juncture, usual romance concerns to what he called the «reflected action» —die reflektierte Handlung, i.e., to the spectators of the plot developments. The concerns of the poem were already once removed, already distanced to a certain degree. Since the characters themselves absorbed the emotional shocks the events provoked, the reader was freed from the role of emotional participant to observe the second level of activity and to react to the romance on a purely artistic level: «Das richtige Verhalten wird von den Mitspielern im Epos gewertet und wurde von den Lesern dsthetisch genossen. In dieser Spiegelungsm6g-

16

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

lichkeit liegt der literarische Gehalt des Benehmens» (9). Franz also clearly states that social considerations rather than moral ones dominate the characters’ worries, but he does not seek to relate this judgment to literary causes. (For example, the preoccupation with appearances, with the construction of personae, with the staging of events for the benefit of the ever curious and ready-to-gossip courtly society quite possibly could be a transposition of the plays staged in Béroul’s Tristan, by Iseut and her lover, for the benefit of Marc and the spying barons and dwarf who connive to bring about the ruin of the three principals.) Franz is, however, the first to point out the playful interventions of the poet-narrator, to discover a level of esthetic distancing at work in Cligés, and to set the record straight on morality and Cligés. Haidu has developed these points in the perspective of Chrétien’s use of irony. His examination of the levels of irony in Cligés leads him to conclude that irony is the basic method of composition in Cligés and that, consequently, the reader is ranged on the side of the author as against the characters. He outlines the many levels of play between illusion and reality, recognizing at the end of his study that this play is indeed a major theme of the romance. He adds another dimension to the perspective on esthetic distancing in his discussion of those other matters which are not directly looked at, but reflected, that capture our interest in the eye of the beholder, as it were. They include what Haidu calls «traditional literary materials» and «the formal structures of literature themselves» (p. 108). Whereas he sees the materials and structures of literature as offering possible subjects upon which Chrétien may deploy his irony (10), I see them, rather, as necessary parts of a poetic process that Cligés poeticizes. The transference of one generic method onto another generic material, the rubbing off of one literary situation onto another that had perhaps never before been associated with it, the fusion and rearrangement of literary materials in order to produce new structures, images, etc., are a result of the structure imposed by conjointure and of the process developed by translatio. Haidu comes closest to circumscribing the import of Cligés in the following statement from his

INTRODUCTION

17

Conclusion: «We take pleasure not only from our superiority in regard to the characters—a function of both verbal and structural irony—but also in the metamorphoses Chrétien rings on the artifices of literature itself» (p. 109). This spirit of metamorphosis which, as we shall-see, is based on translatio and given shape by conjointure, provides the poetic resource Chrétien capitalizes on; he makes of it a veritable literary gold mine that others may continue to draw upon in the future. The perspective of process, therefore, needs to be added to that of irony. Integrated into the poem, this perspective rests on the framework the poem builds for itself in the Prologue; moreover, it allows for the integration of other critical concerns as well. These impart to it both authenticity and comprehensiveness. Such a perspective permits us to situate Cligés simulta-

neously within the scope of medieval literature and within the subsequent development of our literary tradition. It may also help the reader comprehend the choices Chrétien made in composing his romance; why he leans so heavily on irony for tone and technique; why the romance is so artificial; and why the narrator figure surfaces with such prominence and distinction. For the viewpoint of the translatio studii provides for the reader’s apprehension of another level of play between illusion and reality, a level that encompasses all the others and establishes the framework for the hierarchy of these ironic plays: the illusion of fiction, the illusion of experiencing a romance pitted against the reality of creating it. For, although other poems also utilize the building blocks of literary tradition to their own ends, reacting to, continuing, and changing the tradition which produced them, Cligés does even more. Whereas the other, more realistic and apparently less artificial poems hold up a mirror, made up of those conventions and procedures, to «life»—that

is, to some conception of truth expressed by legend or history— Cligés holds the same mirror up to fiction. Chrétien’s poem not only represents a reading of other romances, but a reading of romance itself, a reading of his own text in its textuality. In the same way that Alexandre and Soredamor each splits into two personalities to engage in a dialogic meditation on who they are, so too does the discourse of the poet-narrator proceed on two

18

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

levels that respond to, and answer, one another. They communicate by means of a system of analogues and metaphorical descriptions; the first states a fact—narrates—whereas the second questions and comments on the first statements—on the narration. To my mind, it is this perspective—a kind of poetic exam-

ination of conscience—that provides the richest insight into the organization and meaning of the poem. It discloses a network of highpoints of description-metaphors that reveal the identity of the romancer and the nature of the dépassement of courtly behavior he is able to achieve in the avanture of his romance. In Cligés (11), Chrétien de Troyes is perhaps truest to himself and to the narrative genre he is said to have perfected. He celebrates there not the perfect knight, as he will in the Conte du Graal, nor the perfect lover, as he does in the Chevalier de la Charrette, nor even the perfect couple, as he had done in Erec et Enide, but the perfect clerc whose power and concern it is to create for these others images, in true romance fashion, worthy of remembrance.

PART I

THE ROMANCE CONTEXT

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Chapter I »

THE PROLOGUE

Modernization of the Exemplum. For the purposes of our reading of Cligés, the investigation will begin with an analysis of the narrator’s first words to the reader in light of the definitions and suggestions advanced by the Ad Herennium (1) for an exordium (2). The treatise advises that the introduction shape the state of mind of the reader so that he might willingly and fittingly undertake what lies ahead: «Exordium est principium rationis, per quod animus auditoris constituitur ad audiendum» (I. iii. 4) (3). Thus, in a very real sense, the speaker must create his audience to suit the text. He has to conquer the listener’s will and his knowledge of the world so that he might trade this world for that of the narrative, and his will and judgment for those of the speaker, thereby doing away with all superfluous objections. To this end, the Ad Herennium recommends that the prologue give the listener an entry into the new world and its values by outlining succinctly the themes, methods, and direction of the discourse and that it hold a promise of new and impressive subjects, preferably connected with the image the public has of itself or with that which it mythologizes or reveres:

oe

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES ‘

Dociles auditores habere poterimus, si summam causae breviter exponemus et si adtentos eos faciemus; nam docilis est qui adtente vult audire. Adtentos habebimus, si pollicebimur nos de rebus magnis, novis, inusitatis verba facturos, aut de iis quae ad rem publicam pertineant, aut ad eos ipsos qui audient, aut ad deorum immortalium religionem; et si rogabimus ut adtente audiant; et si numero exponemus res quibus de rebus dicturi sumus. (L.iv.7)

In his Prologue to Cligés, Chrétien follows precisely these recommendations and defines his reader by equipping him with a sense of the processes and meanings of the narrative that lies ahead. Furthermore, he promises to entertain his audience with a subject matter of great and fundamental importance to its culture, the translatio studii et imperii («de rebus magnis . . . de iis quae ad rem publicam pertineant, aut ad eos ipsos qui audient»), heralding his narrative as a novel conte, and outlining briefly the general subject matter («si summam causae breviter exponemus»). However, at the same time, he seems to play with

these directiyes. He turns part of the accepted literary rule system upside-down, thereby«changing its emphasis. For example, in the first half of the Prologue (i.e., in that section that concerns the poet, rather than the «historical» subject matter), considerations have been diverted away from gods or exemplary heroes towards the narrator’s personal literary achievements. Specifically, the statement directs the reader’s attention to the speaker as the formulator of the discourse and not as a mere instrument of the truth: «Cil qui fist .../ Un novel conte rancomance» (Il. 1 and 8). The reader is asked to begin the story by taking notice of its freshness and originality as functions of the poetically experienced speaker. Illustrious words and deeds of honored heroes of the past are shunied aside to make room for the poet-narrator’s attempt to make himself illustrious; the notion of the exemplum has been modernized, perhaps—or so it might seem—to the point of outrecuidance. Drawing attention to the speaker’s experience in matters relevant to his argument is also recommended by the Ad Herennium: Ab nostra persona benivolentiam contrahemus si nostrum officium sine adrogantia laudabimus, atque in rem publicam quales fuerimus, aut in parentes, aut in amicos, aut in eos qui audiunt aperiemus et si... alliquid

THE PROLOGUE

25

referemus, dum haec omnia ad eam ipsam rem qua de agitur sint adcommodata. (I.v.8)

However, Chrétien also takes liberties with this advised technique. Establishing one’s own character to gain the confidence and attentive ear of one’s audience is one matter; focusing the reader’s attention on the speaker as he relates only to his speechmaking, independent of the above categories, is quite another. The latter is, nevertheless, Chrétien’s choice; it constitutes a decided innovation with respect to the received Latin tradition of rhetoric as usually applied to medieval poetics. By following the general advice in reverse—i.e., by proudly proclaiming his capability and associating it not with political or social ties, but with poetic concerns—he adopts the method of Latinity, but rejects the foundation or tradition of Roman politics and religion upon which it rests. Chrétien puts the artisan and his preoccupations on a level with these more traditionally accepted matters, granting them a new status and demanding a reappraisal of the established rapport between art and a society’s values; he is, we recall, writing in the vernacular, in romans. The advised reference to experience calls to mind E.R. Curtius’ discussion of the affected modesty topic as recommended by Cicero and Quintilian: The orator’s referring to his feebleness (excusatio propter infirmitatem), to his inadequate preparation (‘si nos infirmos, imperatos... dixerimus’: Quintilian [Jnstitutio Oratoria], IV, i, 8) derives from judicial [forensic] oratory, it is intended to dispose the judges favorably (4).

Chrétien obviously employs this topos in reverse as well, since he emphasizes instead his very adequate preparation. The technique has been amusingly and shockingly turned around, presumably to serve the very different purposes of his romance. The new twist of old methods and themes underlies the strongly felt presence of the creator/speaker and immediately projects the reader into the world of the self-conscious poetnarrator who celebrates his craftsmanship. The insistence on his literary endeavors, augmented by the play on, or the reversal of, the recognizable clerkly devices, persuades the reader to turn his attention to the rules as rules, to the innovations as innovations,

24

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

and to the poetic playfulness as a celebration of an artful manipulation of the literary system (5). This revolution is achieved by a deliberate turning upside-down of the customary supports of the prologue. Chrétien creates the audience for his poem by enjoining the reader to adopt the viewpoint of a well-versed clerkly poet who is called to entertain and impress the audience. The reader is consequently allowed to see things from the very privileged point of view of those «in the know.» The Literariness of the Prologue. Let us take a look at the text of the Prologue to consider it in the order in which it presents itself: 1

Cil qui fist d’Erec et d’Enide, Et les comandemanz d’Ovide Et l’art d’amors an romans mist, Et le mors de l’espaule fist, Del roi Marc et d’Ysalt la blonde, Et de la hupe et de l’aronde

10

Et del rossignol la muance, Un novel conte rancomance D’un vaslet qui an Grece fu Del linage le roi Artu. Mes ainz que de lui rien vos die, Orroiz de son pere la vie, Dom il fu, et de quel linage. Tant fu preuz et de fier corage (6) Que por pris et por los conquerre

20

25

Ala de Grece an Engleterre, Qui lors estoit Bretaigne dite. Ceste estoire trovons escrite, Que conter vos vuel et retraire, En un des livres de l’aumaire Mon seignor saint Pere a Biauvez; De la fu li contes estrez (7) Qui tesmoingne l’estoire a voire: Por ce fet ele mialz a croire. Par les livres que nos avons Les fez des anciens savons Et del siegle qui fu jadis. Ce nos ont nostre livre apris Qu’an Grece ot de chevalerie

THE PROLOGUE 30

35

40

pls

Le premier los et de clergie. Puis vint chevalerie a Rome Et de la clergie la some, Qui or est an France venue, Dex doint qu’ele i soit maintenue Et que li leus li abelisse Tant que ja mes de France n’isse L’enors qui s’i est arestee. Dex l’avoit as altres prestee: Car des Grezois ne des Romains Ne dit an mes ne plus ne mains, D’ax est la parole remese Et estainte la vive brese. Crestiens comance son conte, Si con li livres nos reconte.... (ll. 1-44)

(«He who fashioned a narrative poem of Erec and Enide, who put Ovid’s Commandments and Art of Love into Romance, who composed the Bite of the Shoulder, King Marc and the Blond Iseut, and The Metamorphosis of the Hoopoe, The Swallow and the Nightingale, takes up again a new narrative, this time about a young man in Greece who was of the line of King Arthur. But before I tell you anything about him, you will hear tell of the life of his father, of his origins and of his ancestry. He was so noble and of such high bearing that, in order to obtain fortune and fame, he travelled from Greece to England, which at that time was called Bretaigne. We find this account which I wish to relate and recount to you written down in one of the books in the library of St. Peter of Beauvais; from there our story was extracted, which fact testifies to the authenticity of the account: for this reason, it is more easily believable. We know of the deeds of the ancients and of the world of long ago thanks to the books we possess. Our books have taught us that the original renown of arms and of letters was the property of Greece. Then military distinction moved on to Rome as well as the sum total of refined learning now arrived in France. May God grant that it be preserved and that it delight in this place so that the honor which has found a resting place in France may never move on. God had only lent it to the others, since no one says anything of any consequence about Greeks or Romans any longer; talk of them has died down and their lively, glowing embers have

26

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

been extinguished. Chrétien begins his story as the book informs us... . ») The first seven lines present a list of titles ostensibly indicating the works that the author of Cligés had previously composed. Some of these works derive from the Latin tradition; one is of Celtic origin; another compounds both traditions, Erec et Enide. (This last romance is the only one of the collection known for certain to have been written by Chrétien.) Why has Chrétien chosen to group these titles together? The list may suggest that Cligés derives from a combination of the literary traditions implied by the titles. These books could very possibly reflect the cultural context of the speaker through which will pass the Greek and Roman heritage. The poet-narrator stands at the crossroads of poetic activity coming from the Celts, the French, and the Romans influenced by his command of the vernacular. This particular situation will affect the nature of the literary transmissions Chrétien will be able to effect. Since this list, which constitutes a formal introduction to the poetnarrator, occupies the place of what usually situates the poem and hints at its meaning, we might conclude that the framework and meaning of Cligés might well be related to the reader’s becoming more closely acquainted with the poet-narrator in his role of translator of various literary traditions in a work that

seeks to be exceptional. The exemplum of the poet-narrator significantly is a selfportrait. It states concisely a narrative history that develops the _ theme of personal participation in the process of innovative translation into the vernacular of well-known love stories. Strictly speaking, the portrait is not identified. The opening lines do not include the name Crestiens. If we follow the Guiot manuscript and B.N. f. fr. 1420 (as does Micha), Chrétien’s name does not appear in the Prologue, as such, at all. This is quite unusual (8). Instead, Chrétien has chosen to speak of himself as the creator of named romances in terms of a generalized (though obliquely identified) third person: «Cil qui fist... . » It is the translations that are identified in the context of the ceuvre of him who articulates them. The catalogue of titles constitutes the hallmark Chrétien designs in order to make

THE PROLOGUE

Pa

himself known to the public and relevant to Cligés. The first issue, then, which confronts the reader is the identity of the poet-narrator as it is established through acts of poetry. Chrétien defines his narrator persona as one who has put various legends and textual borrowings, especially from celebrated Ovidian texts, into romance form, in the vernacular (an romans mist, 1. 3; this phrase possibly implies both an ambiguity and a conflation of the meanings of romans, since it may refer either to a language or to a form). The fact of poetic activity on the part of the poet-narrator—homo faber—is highlighted by the repetition of the verb feire (ll. 1 and 4) (9) which is further associated with the contextual meaning of the verb mettre by means of their rhyme positions (mist/fist, ll. 3 ff.). This emphasis, through repetition and rhyme, points out that the

defined creativity of our poet is closely allied to the problem of making a narrative poem available to a new audience by exploiting the resources of the vernacular while remaining especially faithful to Ovid. Our interpretation of this description implies more than the fact that the poet-narrator is no novice to the business of poetry. These titles can be as important to the sen of Cligés as the initial proverbs (e.g., «Ki petit semme petit quelt...») are to the Graal. Perhaps the importance of texts like Erec et Enide lies in their functioning as a model and starting place for this new romance. They inform the framework of Cligés as it continues the ceuvre of the poet-narrator. Chrétien’s art has been established and proven in the listed texts; it can be fully exercised again here and no doubt further developed. Consequently, it stands to reason that some variation and elaboration on themes and techniques already put to use in his first romance may logically be expected to find their way into Cligés. First, the technique of conjointure which Chrétien so proudly adopts as his own in Erec et Enide would be likely to characterize the structure of this romance as well. Secondly, if we view Erec et Enide as a study of the couple—i.e., as a meditation on marriage, itself considered as a celebration of nature—then it follows that it was meant to respond in some important way to the Tristan romances; indeed, it may be seen as a commentary on them.

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

28

Furthermore, then, it might make sense to view Cligés not only as a continuation, but also as a variation on this theme of poetic commentary on the Tristan material. The point is all the more plausible since Chrétien specifically mentions in the Prologue to Cligés that he is familiar with the Tristan corpus. He claims to have put all or part of the Celtic story into the romance form in the vernacular. But his romance—most curiously—centers around Marc and Iseut (it is called Marc et Ysalt for the purposes of Cligés). No mention is made of Tristan. Perhaps this title refers to the two characters as members of the married couple Tristan and the potion disrupt. Or the title may refer to Marc and Iseut as protagonists of a sort of Jai in the manner of Marie de France’s Chievrefoil, for example, which might recount the episode of the swallow which carries a strand of Iseut’s golden hair to Marc, thus predestining her to be his bride. In support of this last hypothesis, one may draw attention to the rhyme of blonde/aronde

(ll. 5-6) as well as to the obsession with blond

hair exemplified both by Soredamor and the shirt she weaves (Cligés) and by Guenevere’s comb (Charrette). Thirdly, we said earlier that Erec et Enide should also be considered as a composite of both the Latin and Celtic traditions of storytelling. It deals with the Arthurian world, finds expression in the vernacular according to principles of classical rhetoric, and is modeled on such imitators of Latin authors as the Eneas poet and Wace. The process of integrating the Celtic and the Latin together with the vernacular for a modern twelfth-century courtly audience lies at the heart of the poetic economy of Cligés. It provides the key to the richness and vitality of Chrétien’s text as well as a principle essential to the construction of individual scenes. The most elusive of the three factors—Latinity, Celtic influence, and the vernacular—is that of Latinity and, more specifically, of Ovid. The Ovidian references include «le mors de espaule» and «de la hupe et de l’aronde / Et del rossignol la muance» (Il. 3, 6-7). The first alludes to the story of Pelops, while the second describes Procne. Both stories are taken from Ovid’s Metamorphoses

the same

(Bk.

VI) (10) and

are named

here in

order established by Ovid. Must one merely assume

THE PROLOGUE

29

that Chrétien did a kind of schoolboy translation exercise of Book VI? Or are these two stories and the sixth book mentioned for a poetically relevant reason? In my view, Chrétien surely did not list these titles gratuitously. Not only is Chrétien a deliberately self-conscious artist, but his inclusion of the Ovidian titles in the highly strategic locus of the exordium is also, in and of itself, significant. Let us, therefore, take a closer look at Book VI of the Metamorphoses, especially at its introductory story, since it sets the tone for the collection; this may help us clarify Ovid’s relationship, in Cligés, to Chrétien. Ovid begins Book VI—his «Prologue»?—with an account of Minerva and Arachne; he refers particularly to their art of weaving—of weaving stories. Arachne has learned her craft from

Minerva but refuses to acknowledge the pre-eminence of her teacher. She considers herself more accomplished than her model and mistress. During their final competition, each rival weaves ancient stories, vetus argumentum, as does Chrétien. The contest gives Ovid ample opportunity to devise descriptions of their work. The crimes of men and the crimes of the gods are poeticized once by the weavers and again—to a second degree— by the narrator. The implications of these descriptions are important to the context of Cligés; they show off Ovid’s art as well as Arachne’s and Minerva’s and suggest that a description is a locus for the display of tested artifice. Secondly, not unlike Chrétien, Arachne has risen to fame hardly through family connections or by means of a claim to a superficial status («aut in parentes, aut in amicos»), but through the diligent practice of her art: «Nec factas solum vestes spectare iuvabat; / Tum quoque, cum fierent, tantus decor affuit arti» (Meta., 17-18, emphasis added)—«And it was delightful to see the tapestries, not only when they were finished, but, because the grace that accompanied the skill was so impressive, it was a joy to watch even as they were being made.» The doing, the art in the making, is deliberately emphasized, more so even than the enjoyment of the finished picture or story. Furthermore,

this unique quality distinguishes Arachne from her contemporaries and her predecessors. Her superior and tested artistry constitutes sufficient cause for her to be transformed, forever

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symbolically to be remembered in her spinning. Meanwhile, the first story from Book VI mentioned by Chrétien is that of Pelops. Pelops, we recall, is killed and cut up into pieces by his father, Tantalus, to be served as food for the gods. It is only when Demeter has already taken a bite out of the boy’s shoulder that the gods discover the outrage and decide to bring Pelops back to life. The gods put him back together again, replacing the missing slice of shoulder with a piece of ivory. It seems to me that points of similarity might well exist between this legend and Cligés; these would include the «fausse mort» and a reassembling of something in disarray with greater, or at least with more obvious, artifice than was first applied. The second of the Ovidian titles listed by Chrétien is the story of Procne. It revolves around a three-way love affair, its network of deceptions, and the revenge eventually exacted by the wronged wife. Analogies with the 7Jristan (e.g., Iseut aux Blanches Mains) could be drawn. The painstaking weaving of a tapestry which tells the tragic story of its author figures as a major event. Finally, in general, the Ovidian variations on the theme of metamorphosis—the very idea of metamorphosis—may turn out to be of fundamental relevance to Cligés. In addition to the above, Chrétien has singled out, in the masthead of Cligés, Ovid’s Ars Amatoria

(«l’art d’amors,» I. 3).

Both thematically and formally its function equals that of Tristan and Erec et Enide in its poetic import for our romance. Chrétien is more than an amateur poet with a few scholarly exercises and translations to his credit. His professional know- . ledge of Ovid and other texts, as well as his ability to interpret and use them creatively, constitute essential components of the text. Micha, Frappier, and Zumthor (11) interpret «les comandemanz d’Ovide» (1. 2) as the Remedia Amoris. This is indeed a possibility, although it does strike one as unusual to see the Remedia listed before the Ars Amatoria. In addition, I am tempted to associate the reference to the word comandemanz with Chrétien’s use of the term in his Prologue to the Charrette (12): «Mes tant dirai ge que mialz oevre / ses comandemanz an ceste oevre / que sans ne painne que g’i mete» (Il. 21-23). The Charrette passage depicts Marie de Champagne

THE PROLOGUE

oa

as Chrétien’s better half in this poetic collaboration. In a classical sense, she acts as his Muse; in the medieval sense, she is the lady he wishes to serve in his capacity as clerc. (The practical implication for the Charrette may be even stronger—although possibly, in terms of its structure, ironic. The Countess may be in complete control of the work in that she has thought out the subject matter and its style of treatment. In a sense, it may be said that she has done the work of the inventio; Chrétien has only to put the plan into effect—on parchment, eventually—by calling upon his way with words!) Similarly, the comandemanz d’Ovide may be said to guide, inspire, and exert direct control over the writing of Cligés. In any event, ll. 2-3 constitute an explicit reference to a pairing of craftsman and ceuvre; Ovid is identified in terms of his comandemanz and his art damors. This type of reference parallels and justifies in part the very procedure Chrétien is following in establishing his own—or his poet-narrator’s—identity. Following this line of argument, then, Chrétien has adopted Ovid as a master and his poetry as a model. And well he might, for in this way he does Ovid’s precise bidding: «Sed quicumque meo superarit Amazona ferro / Inscribat spoliis ‘NASO MAGISTER ERAT?» (13). The relationship duplicates—or at least is analogous to—the direct relationship between Chrétien and Marie de Champagne within the story of Lancelot’s adventures. In fact, an interesting process taking place in the Charrette Prologue is designed to inform the structure of that romance. The poet-narrator dons the outward appearances of the lover in a lyric poem by depicting-himself hyperbolically in an attitude of courtly service to a lady. He speaks directly of his experience in the first person (the lyric «je»). During the course of the Prologue, he transposes this first-person figure into the third-person Crestiens (il. 24 ff.), thereby introducing the process of narrating the story of a rather more lyric hero, Lancelot the lover, in a thirdperson framework—i.e., in a narrative, or romance, framework. In Cligés, Chrétien behaves similarly in order to clue his reader in to the process his romance will follow. By beginning the Prologue with the words «Cil qui fist d’Erec et d’Enide.../ Un novel conte rancomance» (ll. | and 8), Chrétien identifies the

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

persona of his poet-narrator in terms of the work of writing fiction and in terms of specific works so that the reader knows definitely who he is and to what tradition he is faithful. More important still, and more to the point, he has taken a description of himself from the «real world» and has subordinated it to his fiction. He transposes the factual reality of Chrétien into the terms of the fictional world of Cligés. By speaking of the poet-narrator in the third person, without naming names, Chrétien transforms himself into his narrator persona and, simultaneously, into a character of the romance. He poeticizes—that is, he draws into the textual world of romance fiction—the clerkly figure who forges the fiction. This act of poeticization, achieved in the Prologue, becomes, as we shall see, an important constant of the romance. By identifying himself only in terms of past literary accomplishments, the poet-narrator surrounds himself and his role with a certain amount of mystery. The absence of a name (until the very end of the Prologue), especially in light of the fact that the name of the ostensible hero is also never mentioned in the Prologue, should bring to mind the nameless hero whose identity is finally revealed only at the midpoint of the Charrette (1. 3660). We shall have occasion to examine the midpoint of Cligés in light of the problem of identity. For the moment, however, Cligés, verse 1, merits attention, since, we have observed, yet another romance, Frec et Enide, is named. Already

in Erec et Enide, Chrétien had considered himself most seriously as a professional, as a clerc with a definite role to perform: Specifically, Cligés’ «Cil qui fist d’Erec et d’Enide» is the one who «tret d’un conte d’avanture / une molt bele conjointure» (il. 13-14) (14). He is professionally concerned with artistic order, with the poetic organization of his courtly narrative, in conjunction with the concept of avanture. These concerns are even more pronounced in Cligés. Moreover, they constitute the principal interest of Cligés. The titles provided do not prove a

great interest either in chevalerie or in the service performed in its honor and name. They testify, rather—and even ostentatiously—to a concern for the continuation of a certain poetic tradition that is French and to stories which celebrate artifice.

THE PROLOGUE

33

To some degree, Chrétien’s listing of titles may be viewed as throwing back to a similar technique of list-making often used in Erec et Enide. Both instances constitute in all likelihood a pastiche of analogous procedures used by Wace, as, for example, in Arthur’s coronation scene. Yet we should note the important distinction between the nature of the lists involved: in Erec et Enide, the poet-narrator enumerated endless names and titles of chevaliers; in Cligés, he itemizes titles of clerkly accomplishments. The lauded place of chevalerie is here accorded to clergie. If the accumulation of titles is to be considered as a modernization of the exemplum, rather than of a knight from the Round Table, we may view the romance as celebrating a clerc at the court of Marie de Champagne. Indeed, seen in this way, the list of titles itself becomes exemplary, inspiring imitation and thereby generating the construction of the remaining sections of the Prologue. In the same way that the poet-narrator briefly goes over his own literary history, he gives the history of the two heroes in the next ten lines (ll. 8-17). The story of the manuscript of the «original» Cligés follows in the next seven (ll. 18-24); a source—or an authority—for our story «exists» and its fortuitous discovery is described. The next eighteen lines—at

least as these have traditionally been explained—outline how chevalerie and clergie came to settle at long last in France. No mention is made, however, of specific cities such as Troy or of specific ancestors or heroes. They have become too well known to be mentioned. Cligés alludes to the Eneas poetically but makes no reference to Eneas as a hero; rather, it chooses to name more obviously fictional—that is, non-«historical»—persons such as Tristan or Narcissus. After these four detours, Chrétien arrives at what ostensibly is his intended subject matter (ll. 43 ff.). However, he fixes on a topic to be developed at 1. 62 —Cligés—only to begin the story of Alexandre, the father. Each of these four sections of the Prologue can be understood as telling the history of a different aspect or component of the romance. The notion of history becomes important as it serves the fiction. The descriptions always include the idea of a model that precedes and influences the subject to be developed;

34

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

they always inform the reader of how the story of Cligés arrived at its present state. In addition to asking why all sections, with the apparent exception of the shortest, which deals with the characters, treat the literary aspects of the topic, we should ask ourselves why the figure of the exemplum and its corollary features of history and imitation are all-pervasive in the composition of this Prologue. Perhaps the explanation lies in the last division of our text, which is the most broadly developed and the most frequently quoted passage of the poem. I refer to ll. 25-42, the lines that present and describe the translatio studii et imperii topos (15). As a general term, translatio implies the concept of transfer. As a doctrine, the translatio studii et imperii implies that a kingdom and its learning (its historical existence and its idealized representation) continue from one people to another. For example, Rome as a state, as a religion, and as a culture with a universal mission is renewed—and rivalled—by a new Rome. As a topos, the translatio studii proclaims that when put to the service of truth and cultural values, poetic activity is of the highest dignity. But the statement, in Cligés, of belief in the efficacy of writing in order to preserve and transmit political, historical, or religious truth both is and is not what it seems. We readily assume that, as a clerc at the court of Marie de Champagne, Chrétien took his professional responsibilities seriously; he no doubt worked to maintain the integrity of his art and the security of his position. He could easily call upon the translatio studii in its close relationship to the translatio imperii and to the ideals of chevalerie held by his patrons at court in order to establish the legitimacy of his craft and the value of his endeavor. However, this tradition concomitantly provided the clerk-poet with the possibility of an ironic stance to be exploited by the same narrator (16). The clerc is in the position of serving a political myth which, in fact, he may only partially believe or which, at least in some measure, he questions. It is, after all, those of his class who create and perpetuate the myths of heroes. He may then choose to set the story, legend, or myth in a new and critical light, so that its credibility might thereby be weakened or put in a more proper perspective. In Cligés, Chré-

THE PROLOGUE

30

tien draws on this specific value of clergie to emphasize the workmanship of translatio studii which contributes to these myths. In an ostensible fashion, Cligés will deal with the history of kings whose efforts helped to shape a lasting kingdom. Chrétien’s book promises to report on the accomplishments of our ancestors, but the accomplishments of Cligés and his father contrast sharply, even comically, with the boastful claims made for them by the Prologue. If one keeps in mind the lofty sentiments expressed by the topos—«Par les livres que nos avons / Les fez des anciens savons» (ll. 25-26)—and match them to the actual fez described by the romance in light of their fictional treatment, one would have to agree that the laudatory tone of the Prologue is at least in part mockingly ironic. There is surely an intended conflict between the topos given at face value and what, in fact, it prepares us for in the adventures to come. (Note as well that the translatio studii statement in ll. 25 ff. derives from Wace’s Rou and exists here as a recognizable romance element used to another, poetically more sophisticated purpose.) What remains true is the mediating role of books between the past and the present. The romance is only apparently quite ordinary. As is customary, it will relate the adventures of a knight at King Arthur’s court. This topic is certainly what an audience would expect from Chrétien. But when we concentrate on what is told about this hero, only two facts seem peculiarly pertinent. This knight is Arthur’s grand-nephew and a Greek. The degree of contrivance of a romance convention is compounded; Cligés is the nephew of the nephew, Gauvain. The salient point the narrator hastens to make is that his protagonist’s function in the poem is to embody and dramatize simplistically the myth/topos of the translatio studii et imperii. Cligés is the living proof and progeny of the happy marriage of the Classic and the Celtic who makes the journey from Greece to Bretaigne (but he does so only to return The differ he is

to Greece). heroes of Cligés are not the usual romance characters who significantly from the stereotype. Cligés is the stereotype; most certainly no Lancelot, Erec, or Perceval. His very distinction resides in his conventionality. In this way, his impor-

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

tance and his essential «irrelevancé» are assured. No one in the audience is expected to take immediate offence when Cligés appears ridiculous; he is not a recognizable hero. The implications will dawn later. And so we see that the shortest of the sections of the Prologue also treats a literary topos, since the nature of the hero is limited to the fact that he incarnates a literary topos and the realm of his activity fits neatly within the scope of romance convention. Thus, each and every part of the Prologue to Cligés introduces the reader to the subject matter by treating its literary facets exclusively. The entire Prologue is unified by the idea and by the ideal of the book, seen for the first time not as history, but as artifice. Chrétien (theoretically) is rewriting Cligés, a text he found in a room full of books, a library. He singles it out as his own, just as the Lover selects the Rose as the flower of flowers in Guillaume de Lorris’ garden. The reader may come into contact with the adventures of Cligés only through the reports made by the omnipresent author. All the events are deliberately filtered through the poet-narrator’s perspective, and he has shown himself to be a clerc with faith in the value and power of literary discourse, who wishes to testify to it (17).

It should be evident by now that Chrétien’s Cligés serves to elucidate the topos of the translatio studii. It should be equally clear that, as a myth, it has been reduced to providing the fundamentals of a parody of a romance’s plot and characters (18). Cligés has to be read consistently .and, so to speak, simultaneously on two parallel levels: the literary topos and romance ” convention on the surface and, on a deeper level, how they are poeticized by a romance which analyzes and celebrates itself. Chrétien has extracted the myth from the context of historical truth and transposed it so that it is completely circumscribed and defined by the world of romance fiction. Cligés turns the traditional relationship between translatio studii and translatio imperii upside-down, so that the history of warriors and rulers serves the glory of the writers of fiction. Concomitantly, Chrétien accords the new genre of the self-referential romance a new status, raising it to the level of dignity usually afforded translatio studii poems. No longer may the stipulation hold that poetry

THE PROLOGUE

37

always and only serve—or pretend to serve—an exterior truth and not poetic achievement itself. Consequently, we may assume that the deeds or fez alluded to in «Par les livres que nos avons

/ Les fez des anciens savons»

are not principally the fez

of chevalerie, but rather those of clergie. Allusions to Other Prologues.

The literariness of the Prologue, celebrated in contradistinction to history, manifests itself still more in the conscious echoing of other prologues to «historical» romances, making allusions to them as prologues. In particular, the Prologue to Cligés draws upon Wace, Benoit de Sainte-Maure, the Roman de Thebes, and Lambert le Tort’s Alexandre en Orient. For example, the rhyme mist/fist perhaps does not surprise the reader of this clerkly Prologue since it is possible that it derives from the rhymes used in the first laisse of a romance that may be contemporary to Cligés, Alexandre en Orient (ca. 1175-85) (19): De Daire lo persant qu’Alixandre conquist, De Porus lo rei d’Inde qu’il chaica e quist E des bones Arcus que il cercha e quist E de la fort citté Babiloine qu’asist E de la voiz des arbres qui de sa mort li dist E si cum Apelés s’image contrefist, De Got et de Margot que il enclaust e prist, Que ge mais n’en istrunt trosqu’au tens Anticrist, Del duc de Palatine qu’il pendi e ocist E si cum Aristotes l’entroduist et aprist, La verté de l’estoire si cum li reis l’escrist, Uns clers de Chasteldum, Lamberz li Torz, la fist, De latin 0 ele ere qui en romanz la mist. (ll. 1-13)

These thirteen lines may also have suggested to Chrétien the technique of reversing the listing of chivalric deeds to include only poetic accomplishments. The similarity of the construction used—«De..., et de... »-—would also seem to support the hypothesis that Chrétien was inspired by this version of Alexandre en Orient. This possible influence is that much more interesting since the first part of Chrétien’s second romance concerns an Alexandre as well. Secondly, the prerogative of the poet-

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

narrator to change deliberately the subject of his story, from the character just introduced to a member of a previous generation of the character’s family, is a technique used in the Prologue of the Roman de Thebes (20): Des dous fréres ore a present Ne parlerai plus longement, Car ma raison vueil comencier D’un lor aiuel dont vueil traitier. (1. 33-36; cf. Cligés, 9-17)

In his Roman de Brut (21), Wace follows the same principle of narrative organization based on the chronological order of generations of kings. Wace also includes other elements found in the Prologue to Cligés; namely, that the narrator tells the truth,

that his text faithfully follows another text which is an accepted literary authority, that he writes a history and, therefore, is concerned about the telling of the characters’ geographic and familial origins. What is more, the idea of the trans/atio is developed both in terms of the characters’ adventures and in terms of the poet’s craft. Wace uses the term translater to describe his activity: Ki vult oir e vult saveir

De rei en rei e d’eir en eir Ki cil furent e dunt il vindrent Ki Engleterre primes tindrent Quels reis i ad en ordre ei,

Ki anceis e ki puis i fu, Maistre Wace l’ad translaté Ki en conte la verité. Si cum li livres le devise... . (Brut, 1-9)

Furthermore, what follows concerning Brutus is an account of a

young Roman exiled from his home who consequently does, in fact, make the trip from Greece to Bretaigne by way of France! This would seem to be particularly pertinent when one considers the significance and the choice of the toponyms in our Prologue. Chrétien’s heroes make the same journey that Brutus did, but with obviously far less important historical results. The

THE PROLOGUE

39

ultimate influence of the lives of Alexandre and Cligés is upon their successors. But this influence is trivial: the emperors of Constantinople learn that, in order to have peace of mind, they must not allow their wives to remain free, but must, instead, keep them locked up and guarded by those who can present no physical threat to their virtue. This ending is but another poeticized clerkly anti-feminist cliché. History has been nicely upstaged by the fabliau. Engleterre is mentioned in our Prologue, but its historicity is no doubt undercut, since its import is clarified in the next line (1. 17), where Chrétien reminds us that Engleterre is relevant to the story only in its romance context: «Engleterre / Qui lors estoit Bretaigne dite.» This reference in itself undoubtedly harkens back to Wace’s own translatio studii Prologue at the start of his Roman de Rou, a very moving statement. There Wace reminds his royal public of the worth of clerkly activity in terms of its achievements in the preservation of civilization. He illustrates this point by singling out the names of those places which would have been long forgotten if it had not been for the writings of the clerc. Among his examples we find the following, which Chrétien’s own 1. 17 echoes: Par lung(s) tens e par lungs eages E par muement de languages Unt perdu lur premereins nuns Viles plusurs e regiuns. Engleterre Bretainne out nun. (Rou, 11-15)

Greece is mentioned a second time in the Prologue within the context of the lineage of clergie and chevalerie. However, in contrast to the initial reference to Greece as the point of departure for a translatio, in this case the destination is not Britain, but France. But none of any significant action of Cligés ever takes place in France. The importance of the translatio topos in Chrétien’s poem is, nevertheless, decidedly and ultimately connected with France as an extension of Latinity. The action or activity that does take place in France is that of narration, the poet’s work or clergie. It is in France that the writing of the romance occurs. It is possible to surmise in this context that

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the singular verbs and pronouns in ll. 33 ff. refer only to clergie, excluding chevalerie (22). This would constitute an exploitation of the ambiguity in the use of a singular verb after a composite subject, a possibility in Old French. It is my opinion that clergie is poetically opposed to chevalerie in the context of what might be called Chrétien’s patriotism; clergie is what takes place here and quite seriously in France. Chevalerie, on the other hand, may be ridiculed or criticized in what follows; therefore, the choice of rival courts—England and Constanti-

nople—seems less likely to offend. With respect to this concern for French poetic activity, I offer the following tentative explanation of ll. 39-42. The statement that one no longer talks about Greeks and Romans seems out of place in a Prologue which cites translations of Ovid and introduces the story of two generations of Greeks. Perhaps these verses allude to a particular type of subject matter (and/or genres) to which romances will no longer adhere, perhaps the romans antiques such as Thébes and Troie, so as to concentrate on the Arthurian world (23). The statement «D’ax est la parole remese» may only repeat the above, but it may add another dimension to the Prologue. The line may well mean that the parole of the Greeks (and that of the Romans) has been left behind or superseded, that their languages, as poetic instruments, ‘are no longer viable. The implications may, then, be that poets should now turn to the vernacular, since Latin and Greek no longer provide that spark of life—«vive brese»—of a cultivated, ° spoken language capable of sustaining poetic activity. Clergie, now that she has arrived in France, will have new subjects and a fresh manner of expression. What Chrétien borrows from Benoit de Sainte-Maure (24) develops much more elaborately Wace’s idea of redoing a text and of a continuity of described translators. Just as Chrétien gives an account of how his story of Cligés came to be and just as he relates his happy discovery of the text in the library of «saint Pere a Biauvez,» so Benoft de Sainte-Maure relates how his story came into being. The history of his text follows more

precisely the lines of the translatio studii. The account existed as an eye-witness report of the destruction of Troy, set down by

THE PROLOGUE

41

a Trojan, Dares by name, in Greek. Benoit gives the following description of this reporter: En lui aveit clerc merveillos

E des set arz escientos: Por co qu’il vit si grant l’afaire Que ainz ne puis ne fu nus maire, Si voust les faiz metre en memoire: En grezeis en escrist l’estoire. Chascun jor ensi l’escriveit Com il o ses ieuz le veeit. (Troie, 99-106)

and: Onc por amor ne s’en voust taire

De Por Ne Ne De

la verté dire e retreire. co s’il ert des Troiens, s’en pendie plus vers les suens, mais que vers les Grezeis fist: l’estoire le veir escrist. (Troie, 111-16)

This description of Dares’ integrity lends credence to the veracity and objectivity of Benoit’s story. He continues his history of the text, recording its disappearance and subsequent discovery by an illustrious clerc, Cornelius, who happened on the text while looking for grammar books in a library: Lonc tens fu sis livres perduz, Qu’il ne fu trovez ne veliz; Mais a Athenes le trova Cornelius, quil translata: De greu le torna en latin Par son sen e son engin. (Troie, 117-22)

(Such are the rewards of a scholar who spends time where he should. The lesson was apparently not lost on Chrétien.) It is this Latin version of the story of Troy that Benoit puts into the vernacular and into the romance form: E por co me vueil travaillier En une estoire comencier,

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES Que de latin, ou jo la truis, Se j’ai le sen e se jo puis, La voudrai si en romanz metre. (Troie ,33-37)

In the last two passages, the words trova (perhaps a pun), ¢ranslata, sen and engin, estoire comencier, (again sen), are interrelated and are all connected with the exigencies of a new literary language and poetic form. A kind of magic transformation is operated at each step, a kind of metamorphosis: «De greu le torna en latin»; «Que de latin. ../ ... La voudrai si en romanz metre.» The parallels between Benoit’s Prologue and Chrétien’s text are very close. Chrétien defines his poet-narrator as a clerc in the tradition of Cornelius and Benoit de Sainte-Maure. Furthermore, what Troie presents, in part in the guise of historical fact, Chrétien adopts as a model for the fashioning of the personal history of his romance narrator. This is another instance of the fictionalization of a convention laden with historical pretensions. The Prologue to Cligés establishes a skillful and innovative exploitation of rhetorical conventions and procedures as well as of textual examples. It does so through the implications of the arrangement of facts chosen, the associations they suggest, and the inferred allusions to the workings of the other prologues—in short, through its poetic organization. In this way, the example of the Prologue informs the reader of the concerns of the romance that follows: the world-upside-down device, metamor-’ phosis, translation, the celebration of artifice, and the relation of these things to the translatio studii. The political rhetoric of Latinity has been adopted, as we have seen, from the suggestions given in the Ad Herennium, but it has been turned upside-down and applied to more properly Ovidian concerns. The double procedures of continuity and reversal extend very possibly to the poem’s method of redoing other poems. The passages selected from the Metamorphoses suggest that reshaping and new associations between events take place with celebration of artistry in mind. Artifice in the stories of Pelops and of Procne figured importantly—even centrally—in order to put things right. Reassembling, symbolic

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representation, and craftsmanship lie at the heart of these narratives. The device of an aristocratic birthright or of special status or social connections represented by Arachne’s acclaim, won for her by the exercise of her artistry alone, supports what is implied by the allusions to the prologues of other «historical» romances. The works are seen as poems first, as representations of history second. The histories are depicted in the number of transformations they undergo, in the number of poeticizations they receive as they pass from the shape of one language into the next and in relationship to the clerkly narrators who described them. Similarly, the poems of our Prologue are named in their association with their formulator-translator and in their association with each other. They are identified as part of a characterizable cuvre and as manifestations of an artisan. The exercise of craft—in this case, poetic artistry—draws attention to itself in contradistinction to the glories claimed by birthright or social status—translatio imperii. It characterizes itself in terms of a reassembling of a number of traditions: a new metamorphosis worthy of symbolic representation and poetic celebration. As we gleaned from the story of Arachne, descriptions can be a locus for the manifestation and poeticization of craft, the place for a «squaring» of the process of transformation that art wields on history. The description of the poet-narrator’s selfportrait, we saw, was the first step in Cligés of this same type of process. It could perhaps not be too demanding of us to expect to find the follow-up to this beginning in subsequent special descriptions that would highlight the techniques identified in the prologues to Erec et Enide and Cligés as these relate

to a translation and reordering of the Tristan. As the poetnarrator, by describing himself in the third person and thereby poeticizing his relationship to the composition he puts together, takes stock of himself at a distance, so he invites the reader to become better acquainted with him in the esthetic distancing that a poeticized view of his identity reveals. This invitation, coming as it does in the place often consecrated to the exemplum, modernizes and changes the realm appropriate for the exemplum. The author of Cligés invents a new hero and a new history worthy of commemoration. Just as the first lines of

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the Prologue engendered the others, and just as the Prologue begets the romance, so does Cligés invite successive generations of romances to celebrate artifice and extol the virtues of the poet-narrator-artificer. By the exemplum of Cligés, the translatio studii et imperii is redefined; the Prologue has indeed held out a promise to us to speak of things new, great, and unusual.

Chapter IT

TRANSLATIO AND PROCESS: FENICE AND THESSALA

Fenice and Myrrha Chrétien’s participation in an established literary tradition, as represented by authors such as Ovid and the Eneas poet, will become evident in the following brief analysis of the scene where Thessala first appears to us in a dialogue with Fenice (ll. 2962-3194). Here the method used involves a process of transformation or, more precisely, an intentional rearrangement and innovative association of literary precedents found in other poems. It is necessary to examine this process with care so that Chrétien’s relationship to the translatio studii may be understood in a general fashion and, in particular, with regard to Cligés. To this end, let us compare the consultation between Fenice and Thessala with its probable Ovidian model found in the story of Myrrha (Meta., X, 298-517). To my mind, the remarkable similarities are due to plan, as is certainly the change in tone from dark to light, which influences our interpretation of the romance. Ovid’s heroine terrifies while arousing pity. The reader watches Myrrha as in desperation she attempts to seek refuge in the arms of suicide from the tyranny of her incestuous desire.

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Her path to escape is blocked as her nurse, though having rushed to her rescue, contributes unwittingly at every step to

the playing out of the tragedy. In Cligés, the reader no longer participates emotionally; instead, he observes Fenice in a detached fashion. Her situation does not present him with a drama of fatal passion, but rather with a fascinating and amusing intel-

lectual puzzle. The classification of Fenice’s passion as adultery is conveniently and pleasantly avoided by the poet-narrator’s efforts to construct a complicated series of situations and by Fenice’s remarkable powers of rationalization as she exploits the complexities she comprehends only too well. Contrary to the accidental interference on the part of Myrrha’s nurse, Fenice purposely enlists the aid of her governess. The young lady directs her ingenuity towards defining the judgment of spectators in order to camouflage the appearances of scandal. Her concern is the control of outward appearances and not an inward emotional or moral conflict typical of Myrrha. No moral judgment, no inner struggle, no fatal passion moves the reader either to fear or to pity when he faces Fenice. Unlike Iseut, she is not worried by the consequences either of alienating one close to her who is worthy of her respect and affection —Alis is no King Marc—or of facing the threat of death by fire, despite the scene with the Doctors of Salerno. Fenice does not hypnotize the reader with the magical drama of her tragedy; she intrigues him instead with the contrivances she invents or inspires in order to circumvent the rules of the game. Her only problem is one of method, not of substance or of intent. However, she lacks the powers of invention and the resources of tried technique to implement her fancy. In short, Fenice is a devious, but untalented aristocrat with a whim to be indulged, and she has the good fortune to possess an accomplished servant devoted to the realization of her desires. Enter Thessala. Like Myrrha’s nurse, Thessala has been close to the heroine since her birth: «Sa mestre avoit non Thessala, / Qui l’avoit norrie en anfance» (Il. 2962-63); she is, therefore, sensitive to her every change of mood. Like her predecessor, she realizes the trouble in two stages: first, she notices that something has upset her ward and she hazards a wrong guess ; later, she discovers the

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truth, and a confession ensues. Thessala first suspects that Fenice has fallen ill or that she is under a magic spell; only subsequently does she realize that the lady is in love—and with the wrong man. Myrrha’s nurse, perhaps because she inhabits the sophisticated Ovidian world, immediately suspects that Myrrha is in love. She is permitted to reach this conclusion as a first step, whereas Thessala is not allowed to do so, because the tragic state of Myrrha’s affairs far outweighs that of the situation in Cligés. We must get to the point faster. So, up to this juncture, the two nurses play the same role and the situation is, in general terms, one familiar to the fictional world. The description of a young girl’s falling in love and the subsequent revelation of the identity of the dangerous object of her affections presented by these two poems is a recognizable Ovidian situation which was taken up, as well, by the celebrated scene between Lavine and her mother in Eneas (ll. 7857-8662) (1). This last probably also exerted its influence on Chrétien’s scene. The Eneas poet cast the literary donnée in a framework of historical importance with a happy ending, whereas, previously, for Myrrha’s story, the convention had received a tragic setting. Cligés, however, interprets the scene comically: the transformation reaches completion with Chrétien. It becomes effective in this last text entirely by means of the translatio studii process. For example, Thessala exemplifies the new, lighter tone through the implied revelations of her affiliations with Myrrha’s nurse. She is a commentary on, and a development of, the Ovidian nurse-figure; the import of her role depends to a large extent upon the reader’s perception of this specific textual relationship. Let me explain further. Ovid’s character has faith in magic. When the nurse has interpreted Myrrha’s feelings incorrectly, she makes Myrrha the following promise: «Seu furor est, habeo quae carmine sanet et herbis; / Sive aliquis nocuit, magico lustrabere ritu» (Meta., X, 397-98) («lf it is a passionate love, I know a woman who may cure you with a spell and with herbs; or if someone has harmed you, you will be purified by a magical rite»). As the conversation begins to approach the truth, Myrrha is encouraged to rely on her nurse to provide her with a solution: «‘Sensimus,’ inquit,

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‘amas. Et in hoc mea, pone timorem, / Sedulitas erit apta tibi’» (Il. 408-09) («‘I have discovered that you are in love,’ she said. ‘Put aside your fear, for in this matter my unceasing efforts will be adequate to your needs’»). Similarly, Thessala’s diagnosis picks up on a theme suggested by the Metamorphoses passage and reveals the fundamental principle of her new role: «Dex, fet ele, estes vos fesniee, | Ma dolce dameisele chiere, / Qui si avez tainte la chiere?» (Il. 297476, emphasis added). Although Ovid’s nurse incorporates the theme of magic spells and potion in her advice to Myrrha, the association between the nurse-figure and magic is made indirectly. It is viewed solely as a cure to illness in general, including love sickness, and as a remedy to be procured elsewhere. For the role of Thessala, the nurse-figure has been fused with the sorceress-figure, only briefly alluded to in the story of Myrrha.

Magic spells—the secret craft of incantations and the practiced ancient art of creating illusions in order to control someone’s behavior against his will—is immediately associated with Thessala and linked to Fenice’s worries. To it are attributed the cure and the cause of disturbed behavior. The change effected in Cligés, with respect to Ovid, has shifted the focus from problems of passion to problems of artifice. The focus is all the sharper because the reader has clearly been made aware of the change. The use of fesniee is justified, therefore, in the above context and all the more appropriate to this scene when one considers

the Tristan overtones included here. We recall that Iseut is passionately in love with the wrong man precisely because she is under a magic spell. Fenice is suspected of being trapped in a similar situation. In point of fact, no potion is as yet in use; instead, Fenice is in complete and reasoned control of her aims and desires. She has freely accepted to fall in love. Furthermore, whereas Brangien unwittingly allows the love potion to be administered to Iseut and can offer no magical antidote, Fenice has recourse to magic potions to further her love and to remedy her difficulties. Nor is Thessala a bungling, ignorant Brangien; she plans and creates the potions administered in Cligés. Here free will, implemented by controlled artifice, has replaced tragic

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passion induced by fate. The elements associated with tragic irony in 7ristan have been metamorphosed, in Cligés, to the instruments of the comic irony of romance. Our comparison, then, between this key episode of Cligés and an Ovidian model (and/or analogue), when associated with obvious Tristan implications, hints at the levels of complexity latent in the smallest detail of Cligés. The juxtaposition and/or fusion of elements from different texts and the casting of familiar conventions into new contexts enrich their respective meanings while organizing the perspective of the narrative. When we perceive the putting together of an episode within a framework of this sort, a whole set of plays and references becomes clear; a system of literary commentary reveals itself and offers a valid interpretation of, or entry into, Chrétien’s text. Fenice, Dido, and Lavine

Let us proceed further with the dynamics of the scene in Cligés by considering the additional references made here to the Roman d’Eneas. What follows Thessala’s question to Fenice resembles the statement of reassurance that the nurse delivered to Myrrha. Thessala’s words amplify the points of availability and effectiveness of magic as well as the theme of faithful service implied by sedulitas. Chrétien has Thessala develop the aspect of the well-intentioned, but ignorant nurse by casting her initial reaction in the terms of the on-looking, uninformed characters who populate Cligés. She judges the situation, at first, exclusively on the basis of misleading appearances. For example, the metaphors conventionally associated with the attributes of love are introduced in their literal context by Thessala, who tries to console her patient by cataloguing her knowledge of medecine: A moi vos an poez atandre, Car bien vos savrai santé randre. Je sai bien garir d’itropique, Si sai garir de l’arcetique, De quinancie et de cuerpous; Tant sai d’orines (2) et de pous Que ja mar avroiz autre mire. (ll. 2981-87)

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The one-sided evocation of the love-sickness metaphor playfully weaves into the scene the motif invented by the dialogue between Lavine and her mother (Eneas). There the queen describes for her daughter—a dédaigneuse d’amour like Soredamor—the nature and effects of love in the antithetical terms of a sweet sickness. Lavine’s eventual falling in love in conformity with her mother’s description seems to originate from her mother’s powerful, detailed suggestions. Literature is the model for reality; the description brings forth the character who embodies it. The success of the portrayal receives confirmation from the author of the description. The queen immediately recognizes that Lavine is in love because she gives such concrete and unmistakable evidence of all the established symptoms. Thessala soon rectifies her initial impression by quickly following her regal model’s example. She immediately recognizes the Ovidian love-sickness symptoms for what they are. Fenice, however, does not imitate Lavine’s naiveté and embarrassment. She offers only the more perfunctory resistance to the disclosing of her true feelings. The reader is made to feel that her request of Thessala to diagnose and describe her illness is only conventional, required by form—i.e., required principally by the renowned precedence of the Roman d’Eneas. She has no need for Thessala’s explanation of love because she already knows all

about it. Fenice

is complacent in her role as one of Cupid’s

elect. Indeed, she takes pride in being a very privileged member of that elite, since she realizes that she is the hero’s girl: Qui [Fenice]an son cuer grant joie en ot, Por ce c’or ne puet ele mie

Dire qu’Amors l’ait eschernie, Ne de rien ne se puet clamer; Car le plus bel li fet amer, Le plus cortois et le plus preu Que l’en poist trover nul leu. (Il. 2940-46)

It is as if Fenice were preparing Thessala psychologically to receive willingly, and to react appropriately, to the request she has already decided to make. She masterfully forges for herself an identity based on a complex network of romance characters that had previously found themselves in analogous situations in

TRANSLATIO AND PROCESS

a

order to map out the direction she, Thessala, and, incidentally, Cligés will follow. It is as if Fenice were knowingly playing the part of Myrrha, while affecting the innocence of Lavine, in order to elicit from a very capable Thessala the response of Myrrha’s nurse! This devious and amusing tour de force permitted by the translatio studii is effected ostensibly for one purpose: to prevent others from casting Fenice definitively in the similar romance role of the condemned and tragic Iseut. The deft weaving together of the roles of the celebrated heroines, in order to construct an image of a fascinating, modern lady, leaves the reader with one response: pleasurable admiration.

But the scene is richer still; another episode from the Eneas has been incorporated here by Chrétien. I refer to the last moments of the story of Dido (especially Il. 1905 ff.). Fenice, as we know, is caught in a love triangle involving herself, her betrothed and eventual husband, and her future husband’s nephew, Cligés (a stranger to the Holy Roman Empire). A corresponding love triangle precipitates the action in the Eneas scene; it comprises Dido, her dead husband (to whom she has promised to remain faithful), and Eneas (a stranger to Carthage). Both Cligés

and Eneas represent an illegitimate love to which the heroine succumbs. Dido, we recall, surrenders when, while kissing the boy Ascanius, she unknowingly partakes of a kind of magic potion: Venus i ot sa flame mise. Dido l’estraint, qui est esprise; mortal poison la dame boit, de son grant duel ne s’apercoit. (ll. 809-12)

The potion used as metaphor is interesting indeed to a reader familiar with Tristan. Alternatively, Chrétien’s romance provides an elaborate and complicated reasoning in order to justify, only on a superficial and political level, Fenice’s abandonment of her husband. On a more profound—that is, non-political— level, this reasoning is based on two themes important to the romance. The first is the theme of will. Fenice’s will prevails; she is not a victim of fate as are Dido and Iseut. The second is

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the theme of appearances and reality. Fenice claims that, if Thessala does her bidding, Alis will unknowingly be forced to

conform to his promise not to marry, although outwardly he seems to break his commitment. The means of this game are furnished by the first potion concocted by Thessala. It is presented to Alis at his wedding feast as an anonymous gift. (This anonymity is in accord with the absence of names in the Prologue.) The episode centers on the mockery of the wedding night with the help of an extensive word play on neant. (The ironic description may indeed have been intended to play on the wedding night of Erec and Enide.) No analogous system of justification is elaborated for Dido. The reader, instead, is asked to feel pity for her because she is Love’s victim; she is but an episode in the course of Eneas’ grand destiny, a tragic figure defeated by Venus. But, like most tragic figures, she is a strong fictional character, for a while the star of the performance, and, therefore, temporarily she commands our allegiance. In contrast to Eneas, she is at once courtly and passionate. Her dramatic performance leaves Eneas in the shadows. He has as yet manifested none of the qualities of the courtly romance hero. For the moment, he serves only as a link carrying the reader from one episode to the next. Our attention, interest, and sympathy focus entirely on Dido. During the course of the episode, the narrator insists repeatedly on what might be called the fact of Dido’s disgrace. Her kingdom grows weak, her reputation is damaged. She calls Eneas her husband, even though she and everyone else know this is a pathetic fantasy. Rumors are spread about her entanglement with Eneas. As a result, her previously rejected suitors become declared enemies. Dido is never in control of her actions or of their consequences. She does everything openly and cares

not who knows her story: ne li chalt mes que que lan die (I. 1536). Her behavior can, therefore, be understood as directly opposed to that of Fenice. When compared to the queen of Carthage—and the romance calls upon us to make the comparison—Fenice has nothing of the tragic heroine about her. Her priorities are entirely reversed. As Eneas prepares to leave Carthage, Dido seeks a way out;

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33

she wants either to make him come back to her or, failing that, to forget him completely. In order to act on the second alternative, she confides in her sister Anna, much as Fenice confides in Thessala. Dido manipulates her sister into being an agent of her plan in the following way: she tells her sister that she has consulted a sorceress and convincingly describes her extraordinary powers over nature, emotions, and future events. Dido claims that the sorceress has promised to make her forget Eneas. She has advised the preparation of a pyre built up of their lovebed and of all Eneas’ belongings, including his sword. Anna is convinced. She sets about preparing the pyre, not knowing that it will be her sister’s deathbed. Like Dido, Fenice also consults a sorceress. In Cligés, however, the roles of Anna and the fictive sorceress are fused into

the one person of Thessala. A tragic situation thereby becomes once again comically ironic. Magic is real and effective in Chrétien’s romance; it has been only a wishful dream, a poignant metaphor in the Eneas. Dido decides on death to put an end to her disgrace and frustration. Eventually Fenice will do the same. She decides on a second potion which allows her to assume the appearance of death. By adopting this extreme measure, Fenice believes that she will be able to ensure her spotless reputation while living in an artificial paradise with her lover. In Cligés, Thessala takes over from Dido the description of the powers of a sorceress. The description of her capabilities convinces Fenice to persist in her plan while relying on Thessala, much as Dido’s description of the magician convinces Anna to build the pyre. The ruse in the Eneas prepares the reader for the tragic death scene, whereas, in Cligés, the cunning is evoked in order to prepare the reader for the comically ironic wedding night, the episode of the doctors of Salerno, and the end of the romance. Everything is obtained through magic, through the creation of illusions. Everything is staged and simulated; nothing can be taken at face value. The entangled web of Fenice’s deception is intended to produce sophisticated amusement, both her own and ours. Once again, I repeat, it is essential to understand that, in these episodes, Chrétien has not followed one model, but has woven

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together several examples: Ovid, the Eneas, and Tristan. We cannot cope with these models by using the traditional means of dealing with sources, particularly when, as is the case with so much twelfth-century romance narrative, datings are at best approximate. Attention is best paid to systems of response and analogues. The twin facts of juxtaposition and imitative undercutting are, thus, of primary importance to Cligés. But we might observe that the Eneas poet had himself also followed more than one model: Vergil, Ovid, and the tradition of the chansons de geste. His romance—almost certainly earlier than Cligés—is also a synthesis of literary precedents. But Chrétien’s translatio studii process serves to trivialize even more emphatically some things which his probable models had criticized only implicitly. He deletes the political view, allowing it to serve only as a sham excuse to rationalize certain behavior. The questions of morality, politics, and destiny matter little to the characters or to the story. They are only evoked for the sake of what does matter, the game of appearances and reality. The Cligés narrator filters out of the imported romance scenes their tragic or dramatic elements, elements which for the most part are justified in the other texts by their historical or moral pretensions. These pretensions do not exist in Cligés except as masks that counterfeit behavior. Chrétien abstracts from the borrowed, or analogous, scenes those elements they hold in common. When these abstracted elements are recombined to provide the framework of the two ruses constructed by Fenice and Thessala, they assume the status of purified «non-referential» romance elements. The two episodes borrowed from the Eneas provide the framework for the kernel of the story: «Comant Fenice Alis

decut, / Primes par la poison qu’il but, / Et puis par l’autre traison» (Il. 6649-51). The process of filtering or making clear the romance elements allows for the removal of such impurities as pathos, sentimentality, and the like, from a story otherwise very much similar to those of Dido and of Lavine. However, this process does not deny the reader the satisfaction afforded by his participation in the narrative. He takes delight in another system achieved by this process. The sense of scenes, their organization, and the pleasure they afford the reader depend on his

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reading, as it were, between the textual components. All comprehension of a given scene, and all possibilities for moving the reader to complicity or to laughter depend on relationships perceived between texts, relationships created and sustained by the

translatio studii extended to the limits of a poetic principle. The reader may perceive this process provided he collaborates with the poet-narrator rather than identify himself with the characters. The reader’s understanding of the characters, of the plot, and of the romance structure are dependent upon his acceptance of the topos applied poetically. They are a summation, a new combination of the existing possibilities found in the Eneas, for example, but organized anew by Chrétien within a framework of self-conscious artistry.

Yet it would not be proper for us to maintain that Chrétien’s innovations in Cligés were his discovery alone. His transposition from the tragic, mythological example to a comic, more urbane narrative, involving direct emphasis on celebration of the poet’s work, constitutes, undoubtedly, another side to his interpretation and imitation of Ovid. At the outset of his Remedia Amoris (we remember that Frappier and others believe that the «commandemanz d’Ovide» were possibly synonymous with the Remedia), Ovid tells his readers that playfulness and games alone should interest Cupid, not the tragic matters of lovers’ suicides. He claims to compose the Remedia in order to provide an escape from love if all seems hopeless. He cleverly argues that this escape is in keeping with the spirit of Cupid. Ovid assures his readers that one has only to read his books and follow the precepts they teach in order to be delivered from the tragedy rooted in an ill-fated love affair: Nec moriens Dido summa vidisset ab arce Dardanias vento vela dedisse rates; Nec dolor armasset contra sua viscera matrem, Quae socii damno sanguinis ulta virum est. Arte mea Tereus, quamvis Philomela placeret,

Per facinus fieri non meruisset avis. Da mihi Pasiphaén, jam tauri ponet amorem: Da Phaedram, Phaedrae turpis abibit amor. Redde Parim nobis, Helenen Menelaus habebit, Nec manibus Danais Pergama victa cadent.

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES Impia si nostros legisset Scylla libellos, Haesisset capiti purpura, Nise, tuo. Me duce damnosas, homines, conpescite curas, Rectaque cum sociis me duce navis eat. (Remedia Amoris, 57-70)

(«...nor would dying Dido have seen from her citadel’s height the Dardan vessels spread their sails to the wind; nor would anger have armed against her own offspring the mother who took vengeance on her husband with the loss of kindred blood. By my act Tereus, though Philomel found favor, had not deserved by crime to become a bird. Give me Pasiphae: soon will she love the bull no more; give me Phaedra: Phaedra’s shameful love will disappear. Give Paris to me: Menelaus will keep Helen, nor will vanquished Pargamum fall by Danaan hands. Had impious Scylla read my verse the purple had stayed on thy head, O Nisus. Under my guidance, ye men, control your ruinous passion and under my guidance let ship and crew run

straight») (3).

If Dido, Medea, Philomela (characters well known within the Cligés world) were entrusted to Ovid’s care, his art could prevail against their fate. His playful, highly contrived, elegiac verse could metamorphose these characters and their stories. His poetic treatment could transpose the character from the world of tragedy to the world of romance. Poetic form wielded by a self-conscious and self-celebrative poet-narrator is the Ovidian key, and Chrétien has borrowed it to unlock the treasures of his Cligés.

Chapter IIT

CONJOINTURE AS STRUCTURE

The Middle Section of Erec et Enide

As we have just observed, the scenes between Thessala and Fenice illustrate well Chrétien’s creative putting together of Ovid and the Eneas so as to refashion the romance situation in Cligés according to a comic, rather than a tragic mode. The process works very similarly to Ovid’s own handling of the description of Arachne. Both Chrétien and Ovid emphasize the excellence of the artist’s craft by drawing our attention to the operations of the craft and to the simultaneous production of the art object as it is being made. The focus on the putting together of the poem is central to our understanding of it. These scenes in Cligés specifically demand our attention because they fall at the central moment in the course of the narrative. The scenes which so aptly illustrate the translatio studii principle, in fact, are planned to happen at the midpoint of the poem, roughly speaking: Il. 3000-3330, in a romance of some 6600 lines. At first glance, the importance of a midpoint may not seem very significant. However, when we consider Cligés within the context of Chrétien’s other romances, the midpoint must be viewed as crucially important. Several questions come to mind. How has Chrétien structured his Erec et Enide,

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for example? Are there moments in other romances, such as the Conte du Graal, which are particularly important to what Chrétien terms conjointure (Erec et Enide, |. 14)? And, if such moments do occur, does a pattern emerge concerning either what the episodes contain—their value—or where they occur— their function—that may help us more adequately to read the central scenes of Cligés, to give them meaning within the internal

organization of the poem? For reasons of limitations of space, let us confine our analysis to these two poems, Chrétien’s first and last romances. The structure of Erec et Enide, unlike that of Cligés, is, in my opinion, tripartite; each of the three parts culminates in a moment of dépassement. Consequently, to speak of the precise midpoint of this text would be less revelatory of its structure than to examine in some detail the organization of the entire middle section.

)

Erec et Enide depicts the quest for the identity of a—perhaps the—married couple. In order to see how this depiction functions, it would be appropriate to examine the rhythmical pauses occurring during the two passages comprised, respectively, by Il. 2430-2763 and ll. 4815-4900. These passages may be considered together with what precedes the often quoted «ici fenist li premiers vers» (1. 1796); this line concludes the initial portion

of Chrétien’s text—the part devoted to the first quest. The «premiers vers» designates a time in the couple’s history that is characterized by beginnings, by the lack of risk and the absence | of reflection, and by the establishment of various highly conventional conditions against which the rest of the poem is projected (1). Meanwhile, ll. 2430-65 and 4815-4900 delineate the framework scenes marking off the middle section. These two passages answer and complete one another, forming, as we shall see, a discernible conjointure in the couple’s history. The middle section could thus be termed Erec and Enide’s period of adjustment. At the close of the first passage (i.e., by 1. 2763), they find themselves in exile from the court and isolated from one another: «or m’estuet aler en essil» (1. 2592), as Enide tells herself, foreshadowing what will take place. Their first moment of

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bliss has subsided because they have not continued to take an active and responsible part in the world, or value system, of chevalerie. Temporarily, there is no movement towards dépassement and they have ceased to go anywhere as a couple. Other knights condemn Erec as recreant and blame Enide for deterring him from knightly adventures. A further rift occurs between the couple when Enide herself realizes their failings and personally brings the matter to Erec’s attention. There follow tears, unhappiness, wounded pride, and loneliness. The happiness the two enjoyed unthinkingly needs to be awarded its proper value by the couple if they are to enjoy it again. Their happiness has to be redeemed, through suffering, and maintained, through personal effort—that is, through chivalric avanture. As Enide reminds us, «ne set qu’est biens qui mal n’essaie» (1. 2606). Let us look at some of the structural elements of the two passages to see how the situation comes about and how it is resolved. In the first of the two scenes, Enide suffers from the condemnation of Erec’s recreantise. While in bed with Erec, who has fallen asleep, she laments their failure, crying and talking aloud to herself. The last words of her lament, «Amis, con mar fus» (1. 2503), finally arouse Erec and his curiosity. When Erec at last manages to extricate the truth from Enide (2), his shame prompts him to take immediate action; he repeats several times «que trop me fet demorer ci» (1. 2664). He in full armor, and Enide in full courtly dress, set out unaccompanied, silent, and in single file in search of adventure: «Erec s’an va, sa fame an moinne, / ne set ou, mes en avanture» (ll. 2762-63). The couple is, to a degree, disintegrated and disoriented; they choose the course of isolation from court, apparently leaving behind all happiness and security. Beauty and chevalerie in the respective persons of Enide and Erec are separated from one another; there is no longer any communication between husband and wife. Erec devises a set of rules for Enide, for he wishes to generate the constancy of a barrier between them. She is not to address him unless spoken to. Her decision to obey or to disobey her husband’s command and in what circumstances will, therefore, constitute an integral part of her avanture. She will have to

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define and redeem herself in terms of Erec’s test of her judgment and obedience. To summarize, the moment of decision and the first step to avanture are associated with the following narrative elements: Erec is asleep, unaware of the danger that threatens his marriage;

Enide keeps awake and articulates the difficulties that confront them, accidentally alerting her husband; disparaging rumors precipitate their mistrust of one another and their decision to take remedial action; Enide is not to help her husband in any way; she can only provoke attacks by riding well ahead of her companion; lastly, the couple detaches itself from the Arthurian world by setting out towards the unknown, the two of them quite estranged from one another. After a series of confrontations with various assailants, and after a number of encounters with couples whose problems closely mirror their own, Erec and Enide at last reach their definitive test. The final scene of the mid-section dovetails, so to speak, with the initial decision to seek adventure. A comparison of the two scenes will clarify the process of conjointure that they exemplify. The final scene focuses primarily on Enide. She is alone in the forest, grieving over her (apparently) dead husband. Captivated by her beauty, a count carries her off to his court and forces her into marriage. He shows no concern for Enide’s wishes or well-being, but only issues her orders, expecting her to conform to his desires. When she defies him, he slaps her, incur- ring strong reproaches even from his own men. Mutual respect, free will, and love are given no place in this false representation, or ignoble parody, of marriage. Enide asserts herself against the count, shouting that, despite whatever torture he may subject her to, she will refuse to be subservient to him. Unlike Dido, she chooses to remain faithful to her «deceased» husband. Her words of defiance arouse Erec at the right moment from his death-sleep: Antre ces diz et ces tancons revint Erec de pasmeisons, ausi come hom qui s’esvoille. Sil s’esbahi, ne fu mervoille,

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des genz qu’il vit an viron lui; mes grant duel a et grant enui, quant la voiz sa fame entandi. (Il. 4815-21)

This passage deliberately parallels the lines of the first scene: Et cil ne dormi pas formant, la voiz oi tot an dormant; de la parole s’esveilla et de ce molt se merveilla que si formant plorer la vit. (il. 2505-09)

In each case, Erec is awakened by the voice of a distressed Enide. The initial scene depicts Erec as literally awakening from sleep as well as metaphorically becoming aware of the problem facing his marriage. In the second scene, he appears to come back to life, returning from the limbo of self-doubt and solitude, as his wife’s voice completely assures him of her loyalty. It is as if Erec hears and understands for the first time the truth of what Enide has to say. Enide and the count form the last of this section’s series of couples which act as projections of Erec and Enide’s own problems—problems they successfully confront and, of course, resolve. Erec meets the threatening count head on with as much immediate determination as he showed in his decision to leave his father’s court. He destroys this final threat —before a court full of witnesses—with complete confidence. Erec’s triumph and Enide’s participation in this last symbolic couple bridge the gap between the outer series of couples and the couple that they are themselves, making the reconciliation complete. The finality and lastingness of the reconciliation are strengthened by the specific associations made between the first and the last of our two scenes. Chrétien explicitly invites the reader to make a close connection between the two events, first by virtue of their positions in the narrative, as they fit into a general pattern established by the initial section of the romance, and then by the description in the last scene of Erec reviving «ausi com hom qui s’esvoille» (1. 4217). The association is tightened through recurrent word patterns. The third and

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fourth lines of each passage repeat, with a temporal variation, the same rhyme words: s‘esveilla/merveilla and s esvoille/mervoille. The word voiz appears in both passages as a repeated key motif. Certain symbolic circumstances have been clearly reversed in the second scene. The entire society of Arthur’s court con-

demned Erec as recreant: Or se vont tuit de vos gabant, juesne et chenu, petit et grant; recreant vos apelent tuit.

(Il. 2549-51)

But all who witness his «resurrection» turn coward and flee: N’i remaint juesnes ne chenuz, car molt furent esmaié tuit;

li uns devant l’autre s’an fuit quanqu’il pient a grant eslais. (ll. 4834-37)

(The binomial expression juesnes ne chenuz/juesne et chenu, which occurs in both scenes, emphasizes that the public’s judgment of Erec is, in each instance, a unanimous opinion.) In the later scene, then, Erec establishes himself as the indisputable hero in his role as husband. At the outset of their adventure, Enide was warned not to speak to Erec. At each opportunity she chooses to disobey in order to alert her husband to danger. Each time she is scolded . severely and the warning is repeated, but her acts of disobedience have a cumulative effect on Erec, gradually assuring him of her loyalty and concern. By the time of the final scene, the narrator makes clear that the couple is forcefully united to meet all challenges, including those presented by chevalerie. Erec’s faith in his wife has been completely restored, and Enide assumes her rightful place as Erec’s conpaignon (1. 2689): Erec corrut son escu prandre, par la guige a son col le pant; et Enyde la lance prant;

si s’an vienent par mi la cort. (il. 4848-51)

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Their reconciliation and their deeper love receive a symbolic representation at the hands of Chrétien. Whereas Erec and Enide had ridden side by side when they first arrived at Arthur’s court, and in single file at a distance from one another at their departure from King Lac’s court, now they escape seated together on the same horse: Erec monte antre les arcons, puis se prant Enide a l’estrier et saut sor le col del destrier, si con li comanda et dist Erec, qui sus monter la fist. Li chevaz andeus les anporte. (il. 4866-71)

The closing description of sensual love associated so closely with fearless active participation in chevalerie recalls the description of the couple’s wedding night, but integrates the couple’s enjoyment of one another into a higher, more lasting social order. This new level of dépassement will be dramatized and more richly celebrated in the romance’s third section, the Joie de la Cort. Erec carries Enide away with him—an porte—in a different manner from that in which he led her off into adventure—an moinne (1. 2762). Furthermore, the middle section closes with Erec’s speech of forgiveness expressly juxtaposed to Enide’s words of worry and accusation which initiated it. A final touch rounds out the balanced juxtaposition between these two framework episodes. A decided change has occurred in the sort of rumors spread about the couple: «Tost est alee la novele, / que riens nule n’est si isnele» (Il. 4901-02). This new report counteracts the rumors of recreantise that helped precipitate their troubles. The workings of this scene resolve the problems that characterized the beginning of Erec and Enide’s quest in their elaboration of an analogous situation: Erec seemingly sleeps the sleep of death, unaware of the danger that threatens his wife; Enide asserts herself by making her loyalty to Erec definitively known both to him and to the count’s court; her passionately bold articulation accidentally arouses her husband from his swoon, prompting immediate action on the part of both against the

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danger that threatens them; they act in unison, as a couple, to

exercise and preserve the fact of their couplehood; their sorrow resolves itself into joie; all doubt and insecurity are dissipated; their faith in one another is restored and their love strengthened; Enide truly shows herself to be her husband’s companion, inspiring him to, and aiding him in, chivalrous deeds; the rumors about them have undergone a complete and favorable change; and, although they set out once again for the unknown, they are no longer afraid or reluctant to take on new challenges.

These scenes exemplify what Chrétien, in his Prologue, promises to achieve: «une molt bele conjointure.» The deliberate reverberations of words, themes, situations, and motifs that occur in these framework scenes of the middle section are not the results of an ordinary well-timed repetition. The second scene redefines the elements of the first scene within the context of their original circumstances. The intentional associa-

tion with the initial statement of those circumstances attending the formation of the couple enriches the significance and the changes established by the close of the middle section. Similarly, the loyalty to literary tradition exhibited by Chrétien adds to the nobility of the forays into new areas of poetry that such loyalty allows. Both of these achievements seem to conform to a general ideal of dépassement which is constantly operating in the elaboration of the sen of each romance by Chrétien de Troyes. It incumbs upon the reader, therefore, actively to perceivethe implied associations between these two scenes in order to accord them the additional meanings that neither episode, considered alone, could possibly convey. Chrétien sets up the possibilities that allow us to make the connections and to draw out the meaning. In the company of the poet-narrator, the reader himself «tret d’un conte d’avanture / une molt bele conjointure» (Il. 13-14). The poet-narrator provides the components of the story, and, by means of the Prologue, furnishes the reader with a method of reading; the reader, by means of a close and faithful reading of the text, maneuvers the weft across the warp so as to articulate the pattern and its possible meanings. Poet and reader thus collaborate. It is through this kind of active,

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informed, and joint participation that the bele conjointure is actualized between the various corresponding parts of the text, between the parts and the whole, and between the poet-narrator and the reader. Further Implications of Conjointure

Other meanings attributed to conjointure may be equally relevant to Chrétien’s use of the term and, therefore, to our grasp of his art. Thus, conjointure may encompass the birth of a unified couple conceived and brought forth by means of their having to share a number of experiences. The principle behind conjointure is, after all, a binary one, reflected in such Latin words as conjux («spouse»). When we consult arts of poetry, such as those of Horace and Bernard of Chartres, we learn that conjointure is closely associated with the term iunctura as used by Bernard of Chartres in the phrase «iunctura dictionum»— that is, the art of the joining together of words. Horace’s Ars Poetica speaks of junctura in the same context, as a rhetorical combination of words. Here are two examples offered by Horace, through the school tradition, to the medieval clerc: In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis, dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum reddiderit iunctura novum (ll. 46-49) («Moreover, with a nice taste and care in weaving words together, you will

express yourself most happily, if a skillful setting makes a familiar word new»);

and the following: Ex noto fictum carmen sequar, ut sibi quivis speret idem, sudet multum frustraque laboret ausus idem: tantum series iuncturaque pollet, tantum de medio sumptis accedit honoris (ll. 240-43) («My aim shall be poetry, so moulded from the familiar that anybody may hope for the same success, may sweat much and yet toil in vain when attempting the same: such is the power of order and connection, such the beauty that may crown the commonplace»).

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Both admonitions suggest that it is the degree of the poet’s skill to combine words that distinguishes poetic originality worthy of imitation from mediocre attempts at verse. The components of word patterns, of images, of narrative events, extracted from the familiar and associated in a new ordering, make for other visions, other meanings. Horace singles out «order and connection» and a «skillful setting.» The topography and sequence of the narrative inform the associations, the translations, at every

degree; together they sustain renewals of poetic invention. These two factors, along with memory, which supplies the continuity both between poems and within the poem, constitute major principles of the poetics practiced in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in France. Iunctura (dictionum) constitutes indeed a most important poetic skill. Its exercise separates the clerc from the profitoriented, unskilled entertainer, a fact of which Chrétien so clearly reminds us in his Prologue to Erec et Enide when we compare the following declarations: et tret d’un conte d’avanture une molt bele conjointure.

d’Erec le fil Lac, est li contes, que devant rois et devant contes, depecier et corronpre suelent

cil qui de conter vivre vuelent. (ll. 13-14, 19-22)

The same commonplaces and frequently used material can—and often do—come to nothing in the hands of one who is concerned only with what «poetry» can do for him. Or they can provide the material and the possibilities of technique out of which a beautiful and pleasing combination of patterns, ideas, and images can be wrought. Stress must be placed, then, on the creative and the individual. It would appear that Horace and Chrétien are in agreement in these matters and have recourse to

similar—indeed, related—vocabulary to instruct their readers. The first does so in a more abstract sense; the second, in a more concrete manner; the first, by didactic theory; the second, by poetic example. Both fulfill the role of auctoritas.

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We have learned that the framework scenes of the middle section of Erec et Enide elaborate, on many levels, the meaning of an essential term in Chrétien’s theoretical and critical lexicon, a term that, significantly, is introduced to the Chrétien reader in the middle couplet of the Prologue to his first romance. The couplet, conceived of as two equal verses grasped as a unit, intimately linked through their form and through the meaning they convey by virtue of their central positioning made stronger by the rhyme words, affirms through poetic means the importance of conjointure and its mode of operation. In Erec et Enide, the term is closely linked to the core of the romance—to its sen, or meaning—as well as to the reader’s way of grasping this meaning. Thus, one arrives at a more complete comprehension of conjointure by observing Chrétien’s handling of it, for he defines the term, by his use of it, as a principle which shapes his narrative. Chrétien’s poetic activity, we recall, then, is specifically defined and exercised in clear opposition to depecier et corronpre. He does not tear up, destroy, or mutilate his material, making it unnatural, dissonant, or perverted in meaning. Rather, he is faithful to the general sen of the work, always keeping it in sight and working to create or restore harmony.

His poem is not hastily or carelessly done; it does not fall apart at the seams, but is, instead, tightly woven, according to a preconceived plan, into a durable, lasting tapestry or «text.» Conjointure and its congeners, as used in other texts, as well as the cluster of meanings attributed to their Latin source conjunctio (from conjungere), provide us with additional possible interpretations. The general, or basic meaning of conjointure is «that which unites or joins.» Tobler-Lommatzsch gives two examples that, while conforming to that general definition, relate specifically to «grammar»: «. . . gramare / Qui nos ensegne en quel maniere / On doit escrire les figures / Et asambler les congointures» (Philippe Mousket, 9405-08); and «qu’est conjonction? C’est une partie d’oreson qui conjoint et desjoint les autres parties d’oreson en ordre» (quoted by Thurot on Hermes, 193). And let us not imagine that this reference to «grammar» is merely linguistic, in the modern sense; for medieval poets, grammar—the first member of the trivium—was essentially lit-

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erary study—theory and practice. These examples point out, therefore, the major role played by the notion of order within the system of meanings contained in conjointure. The principle of conjointure functions only in such constructs as assign pertinently a place for each thing, where, in short, hierarchy and logic are consistently respected. The principle itself suggests how this system may best be delineated. Its ordering is based on pairs whose single components enter into «mergers» and/or juxtapositions. These fusions or oppositions subsequently become new single—or compounded—units. Thus, the preliminary binary process leads to further binarisms, new fusions and juxtapositions involving still other, often larger, units. The processes are dynamic, infusing the text with movement, with a sense of development. An interrelationship between the parts is built right into the workings of the system; the first event is subsumed into the second and the second colors the first. The connection which the reader is invited to draw between the two is much stronger than a simple line of tension. It exists as a kind of arch in which each event, or component, interprets and reverberates upon the other(s). Indeed, the connection resembles the Gothic arch in that the action produced by each event on the other(s) creates, when taken all together, something existing on a plane higher than either of the areas occupied by the individual narrative moments. Seen and interpreted as an ensemble, the elements of the conjointure can, in their meeting—a meeting characterized by both fusion and . juxtaposition—support a greater weight. This is perhaps why, in the first romances, a conjointure so often effects, structurally, a dépassement. What I have just said also extends, as it were, the definition of conjointure given by the FEW: «joindre ensemble, faire adhérer réciproquement» (sv. conjungere, emphasis added). Thanks to conjointure, things which are normally considered to exist in a disjointed fashion may become meaningfully simultaneous. For example, the reader may be made aware of the past, the present, and an impetus for future development all at the same time. Not surprisingly, we also find «to join in marriage, to be married» as yet another concept related to conjoin-

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ture: the point is hardly irrelevant for Erec et Enide. An understanding of marriage is certainly explored in a dramatic-way for us by the two principal characters. Three literal definitions, not necessarily literary by nature, may have caught Chrétien’s attention and been subsequently incorporated into his system of poeticization. When we recall the details of the placement of the horses and their riders at the beginning and at the end of the middle section of Erec et Enide, it is interesting to discover that conjungere has been defined as «to place side by side, to bring alongside» (Oxford Latin Dictionary, p. 408). As noted earlier, Chrétien first depicts the lovers as separated, yet associated; later, literally and figuratively, he brings them together. At the close of the section, they ride off into the moonlight, seated on the same horse, Enide safely nestled in her husband’s arms. The same motif of reconciliation, coupled with the attainment of recognized equality between husband and wife, is reiterated at once metonymically (i.e., through contiguity) and metaphorically (the dépassement implied) in the coronation scene by the description of the two thrones which are placed side by side (ll. 6651-72 and 6769-73). Secondly, if we accept as a hallmark of the romance the «happy ending»—that is, the achievement of a state of harmony and order—and if we also accept the premise that conjointure in large part depends upon the reader’s memory and powers of discernment with respect to relationships between remembered details, then we should probably agree that Chrétien’s Erec et Enide easily conforms to the following definition of conjungere: «to connect in idea, to associate; to bring into harmony» (OLD, p. 409). «To connect in idea, to associate» surely stands as a concise description of the general function of metaphor, the essential figure of poetry, as well as that of metonymy, the essentially narrative figure. When it is associated with «to bring into harmony,» one may argue that this particular definition of conjungere elaborates a meaning that is not at all foreign to poetic activity and, on the contrary, that is specifically pertinent to romance. Thirdly, conjunctio has been defined in a way that brings to mind that technique of Chrétien which critics have called entrelacement; namely, «a joint occurrence, combi-

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nation» (OLD, p. 408). We recall that tiie «Hunt for the White Stag» is interrupted by Erec’s encounter with Enide. The two adventures occur simultaneously in the narrative time span. (The first, institutionalized adventure is initiated by Arthur; the second—a more spontaneous and more individualized adventure—is encouraged by Guenevere, facts which establish the pattern of dramatic activity subsequently to be enacted by the couple.) The reader is asked to concentrate his attention only on one narrative strand at a time while, though never forgetting it, he keeps the other in abeyance. We note, then, that the two strands entwine in an interesting way at the end of li premiers vers (1. 1796). Enide, the focal point of Erec’s adventure, becomes the solution to the problem posed at court. She is decidedly the prettiest girl there and the one chosen to give Arthur his reward for the capture of the white stag. The end of the traditional hunt and the selection of the most beautiful damoiselle coincide with Erec and Enide’s marriage celebration. In two ways, then, and at the same time, the knot is very charmingly tied. Conjointure defined as «ce qui est joint a une chose, en la complétant» (FEW, p. 1054) adds a nuance of «completeness,» a quality which can provide the reader with a sense of satisfaction resulting from a balanced association between parts. The first statement of the conjointure complex is not complete by itself, but necessarily calls forth the second statement, in the way a question demands an answer. The narrator thus has means at his disposal enabling him to maintain control over his material. He leads the reader, who is almost completely unaware of his manipulation, from the planned question to the prescribed answer, presenting the connection between the two as inevitable. Meanwhile—to continue further—Schlussfolgerung (3), meaning «conclusion, deduction, inference,» defines conjointure as the interpretation the reader gives to the narrative, derived strictly from the organization of the material. From these two definitions, we realize that conjointure suggests a total process controlled by the poet-narrator which begins with the statement of a problem, continues with a movement towards a satisfying, balanced resolution, and concludes with an interpretation of the

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narrative which, in turn, is not specifically stated, but, nevertheless, is perceivable in the reader’s experience of the individual narrative moments as they interact. Eugéne Vinaver judges—trightly, I think—the term conjointure to be closely related to Marie de France’s gloser la letre (and to her Je sorplus metre). These two theoretical concepts sum up the creativity of the translatio studii poet. They also inform the reader of his duty towards the text: he can elaborate the sen of the poem only by putting something of himself into the fiction, by actively participating in the putting together of the narrative. This participation, in effect, constitutes a reconstruction and a renewal of the text. Like the clerc, the reader must be critically creative in the art of reading. By participating in the process of conjointure, the reader adds a new and necessary dimension to the poem, for he transforms the time and space of the narrative beyond its linear possibility, allowing it height, breadth, depth, and the possibility of infinity. The building of this metastructure by means of an involved and informed reading constitutes the basis for a continuation of the poem, in the medieval sense, whether the continuation be ephemeral, lasting only for the time required by a reading, or whether it endure, taking the shape of another, related poem. This last possibility is the ultimate fruition that the conjointure process brings about (4). A specific and very important example of the use of conti-

nuer in Old French is provided by the Romance of the Rose. Let us take a close look at this example as well as at its source in classical Latin poetry. This will help us better to understand the implications of conjointure as poetic process and to come to an informed conclusion. At the midpoint of the two combined texts that constitute the Romance of the Rose (5)—those, respectively, of Guillaume de Lorris and Jehan de Meun—Amors delivers a keynote speech which serves as a kind of second prologue to the romance wherein the poem is renamed Le Miroér aus Amoreus (1. 10621). Amors is concerned about the fate of Bel Accueil and about his servant Amant who finds himself helpless and in danger of death without the aid of his friend and mediator. The god laments the fate of other lyric poets who were faithful to him,

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but who died in his service: Tibullus, Gallus, Catullus, and Ovid (in that order). (Perhaps each of these poets represents a style and a tradition of lyric poetry.) Amors names Guillaume de Lorris as next in line of his servants, saying that he began the romance which contains all of Love’s commands, but he, too, will die one day. However, there is a ray of hope for Amors, for poetry. Amors prophesies: «Puis vendra Johans Chopinel» (1. 10535). Of course, we realize that these are, in fact, Jehan de Meun’s words. But we also realize that he has successfully adopted Guillaume de Lorris’ technique as an effective model. Amors continues to be in apparent control of the characters in the poem; his commandments are followed, his prophecies come true. Just as the je of the Prologue turned himself into a third-person romance character—Amant—all the while retaining the right to speak for himself, so the clerkly lover-poet Guillaume de Lorris becomes a character of the «second» romance, as does Jehan himself. He takes the place of Lorris as the clerkly poet-narrator and as the lover who will pluck the Rose. It is important that Jehan de Meun’s characterization is possible only through the continuation of the role of Guillaume de Lorris. He projects himself as poet into the romance fiction at the midpoint, describing himself as a believer in the translatio studii. He does not see himself in opposition to his predecessor, but considers himself rather as a brother or friend who believes in, and who continues, Guillaume’s work in an authentic way. He goes so far as to adopt the same techniques invented by his. predecessor in order to be given an identity and a role to play and in order to name his own poem. What greater tribute? What finer continuation? Jehan has Amors proclaim: Cist avra le romanz si chier Qu’il le voudra tout parfenir, Se tens e leus l’en puet venir, Car, quant Guillaumes cessera, Jehans le continuera. (Il. 10554-58, emphasis added)

It is interesting to note that just as these two poets celebrate and expand upon Ovid’s Art of Love in this romanc e, so this

particular passage which describes their sense of self as poets

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also has, at its roots, their understanding of Ovid, specifically in the Tristia: ...nec avara Tibullo tempus amicitiae fata dedere meae. successor fuit hic tibi, Galle, Propertius illi; quartus ab his serie temporis ipse fui. utque ego maiores, sic me coluere minores, notaque non tarde facta Thalia mea est. (IV. x. 51-56) («and to was thy order of younger,

Tibullus greedy fate gave no time for friendship with me. Tibullus successor, Gallus, and Propertius his; after them came I, fourth in time. And as I reverenced older poets so was I reverenced by the for my Thalia was not slow to become renowned») (6).

Ovid situates himself in an order of elegiac poets. It is an order which closely resembles that given by Amors: Gallus, Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, as compared to Tibullus, Gallus, Catullus, Ovid. In each case, Ovid is fourth in a direct line of succession of which he is conscious and proud. These poets have things in common, most especially their belief in poetic discourse. It is significant that, in the poem that is the most specifically autobiographical of his compositions, Ovid writes most proudly about himself as a poet elected to a rich tradition and worthy of imitation. He takes his greatest comfort in the fact that he is, as it were, a translatio studii poet and chooses to describe himself as such. Ovid regrets Tibullus’ death much in the same way that Amors laments the death of these four Latin elegiac poets. Like Guillaume, after he has placed himself in a distinguished tradition, thereby establishing his authority ,Ovid proceeds to tell his own personal story. Like a Guillaume de Lorris, like a Rutebeuf, Ovid is alone except for his poetic belief, except for his tradition. He finds himself in exile and is the voice of the lyric poet who laments an age which no longer believes in poetry. Common to all three poets is a belief in poetic discourse and a desire freely rendered to Amors which perpetuates itself by means of faithful and creative continuity.

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The Blood Drops Scene in the Conte du Graal

With the gamut of possible meanings of conjointure now in mind, I should like to observe what may take place at a specific point of conjointure. We recall that the division of Erec et Enide into three parts facilitated our examination of the role of conjointure in that romance. A close textual reading afforded an insight into the workings of individual scenes as well as an understanding of the complex relationships between scenes in their reverberations upon each other and in their reflection of the romance as a whole. Eventually, as an order—that is, a narrative sequence—emerges,

so also does a sense of the text. Certain

scenes, certain narrative moments stand out. They take on the role of crucial events in the experience of the poem, becoming elements to be related in a pattern of meaning. We begin to see the design of the text by recognizing and perceiving the function of these clefs de votite—i.e., those scenes where the weight of the matiére is supported. However, when we accept the challenge that a reading of the unfinished Conte du Graal presents, our task becomes far more difficult. We do not have the context of a completed design against which we can project and to which we can relate the workings of individual scenes. The exercise of critical judgment regarding this poem must necessarily, because of the very nature of the text, comprise some assumptions and hypotheses on the part of the critic. With this caveat in mind, I have selected a passage of Chrétien’s Conte du Graal which I propose to analyze in light of the conclusions reached regarding our romancer’s first poem. Both texts appear to be built of three major components. A key to the tripartite structure of Chrétien’s last romance may be found in the comparison between Alexander the Great and Philippe d’Alsace insisted upon by the Prologue. It introduces the contrast between Gauvain and Perceval, by analogy, which the body of the romance will dramatize. The first 4816 lines tell the story of the immature Perceval—his initial journey to Arthur’s court and his experience at the Fisher King’s castle. This first movement of the new adventure culminates in what has been entitled the Blood Drops on the Snow scene (7), which, at

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its close, returns reader and characters to Arthur’s court (8). At ll. 4813-15, the poet-narrator interrupts our observation of Perceval to announce: Et messire Gavains s’en va.

Des aventures qu’il trova M’orrés conter molt longuemant (9).

At this point, Chrétien temporarily abandons his account of Perceval’s adventures in order to concentrate on Gauvain’s activities, thereby providing his reader with a contrast to Perceval (who is seemingly uninterested in the mystery of the Grail until 1. 6216). Perceval then commands our attention for the next 300 lines, when five years have elapsed and we learn that, during this interval, Perceval has also forgotten himself with respect to the holy and redemptive nature of his quest: Perchevax, ce nos dist l’estoire Ot si perdue la miemoire Que de Dieu ne li sovient mais. (Il. 6217-19)

At 1. 6516, Chrétien returns our attention to Gauvain: Ainz avrez molt ancois oi De monseignor Gavain parler Que rien de lui [Perceval] conter.

(Il. 6516-18)

By maintaining our focus, then, on the contrast drawn between Perceval and Gauvain, especially with respect to their relative shares in the progression of the narrative, we obtain the following pattern:

Part One: Perceval (Prologue to 1. Part Two (not yet completed): Gauvain (ll. 4816-6216) Perceval (ll. 6216-6516) Gauvain (ll. 6516-9232)

4816) = 4816 lines

= 1401 lines = 301 lines = 2717 lines

We will not speculate any further on how these verses should be

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grouped, except to add two brief remarks. First, the section on Gauvain which ends at 1. 9232 is, obviously, not finished; second, there seem to be grounds for surmising that at least a third section was planned either to deal with Perceval exclusively (mirroring the first part) or to reach a conclusion concerning chevalerie by achieving some sort of reconciliation between Perceval and Gauvain. In any event, it is unquestionable that 1. 4816 marks the end of a very important section of the Conte du Graal. A clear pause and a transition in the narrative occur during the scene of the Blood Drops on the Snow. In order to discuss the narrative possibilities of the scene, it is necessary to situate the passage (Il. 4162-4500) in its immediate surroundings and to relate it to other scenes according to Chrétien’s pattern of conjointure. The Blood Drops scene is bordered on either side by descriptions of Arthur and his court. By means of the scene’s narrative context, Perceval is effectively isolated for our viewing. He is detached from Arthur and his court, all the while claiming their and our close attention. Their discovery of him, his relationship in juxtaposition to Arthur’s court, and his vision are the issues that command our attention. For one brief, shining moment, Perceval is frozen in a pose which the reader is invited to consider and to learn from, much

as he would be taught by the principal figure of a stained-glass window dominated by shades of vermillion and flooded with early-morning sunlight. At this moment, Perceval has come upon an unexpected turn on his road to adventure which allows him to travel inwardly over space and time to reach, in a kind of moment privilégié, his beloved. This vision-experience opens the door to the unfathomed mystery of his quest for the Grail. This scene, according to Chrétien’s principles of romance composition, requires analogues which might deepen the experience of the vision for Perceval and for the reader. These analogous scenes will make themselves known by means of the recurrence of the compositional elements of motif that are functional here—namely, the colors red and white, the brilliant light, and a regard for chevalerie defined with respect to the values of Arthur’s court. Several analogues can be found prior to the occurrence of the Blood Drops scene (10); certainly at

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least one must have been planned to follow it (11). A notable analogue to this scene—one holding many specific parallels to Perceval’s chance meeting with Arthur—is the scene of Perceval’s first arrival at Arthur’s castle (Il. 907 ff.). In this first encounter with Arthur, Perceval deliberately seeks out the king in order to have himself dubbed a knight. Arthur is saddened by the disgrace the Red Knight has brought upon his court and sits in silence, meditating on this new problem, unmindful of Perceval’s arrival in the middle of the hall, on horseback. Perceval fails to recognize Arthur, despite the fact that the king sits at the head of the table; he must be told which knight is the king. He soon makes his plans known to Arthur, but in the rudest, most demanding way imaginable. Upon his departure to challenge the Red Knight, the incident between Keu, the Fool, and the pucele occurs, predicting Perceval’s destiny. In the Blood Drops scene, it is Arthur and his knights who deliberately seek Perceval, who ask him questions, who fail to recognize him, who encounter a silent Perceval musing on a joyful, promising subject, who treat him rudely, and who see the prophecy come to fulfillment. Whereas Perceval previously sought to obtain an identity as a knight from Arthur in an immediate, superficial, easy way, he has now obtained an identity as a knight for and by himself. Whereas he was the object of ridicule and ignorant of the customs of combat, he easily defeats each knight in turn and is welcomed with open arms by Gauvain as a respected equal. Whereas the Red Knight previously disgraced Arthur and his knights, he, as Perceval, now brings glory and joy to their company. We appreciate the workings of the Blood Drops scene much more when we read it with the previous encounter with Arthur in mind. The conjointure provides a means of comparison, all the while forging links of association in the narrative sequence and creating a progression of achievement in the hero’s story, these being associated with meaning and value in the mind of the reader. The reader’s view of Perceval during this scene contrasts sharply with Arthur’s misapprehension of what takes place

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before his very eyes. The contrast itself is made apparent to the reader, affording him a memorable moment of dramatic irony wherein the drama of Perceval’s identity is heightened and Arthur’s symbolic role is undercut. The Blood Drops scene is flanked on either side, and strategically interrupted, by scenes of commotion and pageantry which are to no intrinsic purpose. Arthur and his court are displaced, encamped on the edge of the forest, searching for this wondrous knight whom they misjudged at first meeting, but whose renown has been subsequently confirmed by reports from the outside. Although Perceval is just beyond

their reach on the morning of the Blood Drops scene,

they consistently fail to identify him. Ironically, it is presumably Perceval’s armor which impedes their recognizing him. Arthur’s court, despite great efforts and good intentions, still fails to make the connection between Perceval and chevalerie. They have still not understood that the innocent country boy who came to them, desperate to be one of their company, is, in fact—or will be—«li meillor chevalier . . . en trestot le monde» (ll. 1043 and 1041). The fact that Perceval does not conform to the usual stereotype of Arthurian knighthood blinds Arthur and his knights to Perceval’s true identity. (In all fairness, one must also admit that Arthur and his knights are not familiar with a

Perceval who, uncharacteristically, now appears serene and contemplative.) The irony is heightened for the reader if he recalls that, when Arthur and company notice the stranger meditating in the open field, he—Perceval—is undoubtedly wearing the suit of armor he took from the Red Knight. Arthur, Keu, Sagremor, and Gauvain awaken to the spectacle of a knight clad in vermillion armor, at a standstill in the morning sunlight against a backdrop of snow. They fail to put together the elements of the vision offered them in a way that could afford them significant insight. They fail to understand a vision characterized by red, white, and brilliance that is paraded before their eyes, a vision much less complex, much less mystifying than the vision of the Grail procession that had challenged Perceval. They lack the grace given to Perceval, who is able to do with his vision what they cannot do with theirs, on a simpler level. In addition, Arthur and his knights are not granted the privileged position

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to

that the reader occupies due to the efforts of the poet-narrator. Arthur and what he and his knights represent can, therefore, no _ longer be seen as sources of truth (12). The reader must rely on

Perceval, as he can come to know him through the narrator as well as through

the poet’s artful juxtaposition of scenes and

recurring motifs.

The timing of the experience, in fact, serves to retard Perceval’s encounter with Arthur and his court; by inference, it diminishes the intrinsic value of the encounter. The Blood Drops scene, in its interruption of the normal course of events (i.e., the interaction of the hero with Arthur and his knights), must

color what follows in the subsequent scenes as well as interpret for us who this new Perceval is when he accepts the renewed challenge of the Grail mystery. What is the purpose of this retard and apparent interruption of the course of the narrative? How does the slowing down interpret the point of intersection of Perceval’s path with those of the other knights? What can be its purpose, except to isolate and, by so doing, to reveal by contrast? The moment silhouettes Perceval against the backdrop of the Arthurian court. It captures the first significant step of Perceval’s transformation and dépassement, for he is at once associated with and disassociated from the Arthurian company. The episode has served to redefine Perceval in terms of his past and in terms of Arthur’s court, especially with respect to Gauvain. From this point on, he may participate in new adventures which may manifest, develop, and exploit what he has become. The dramatic and lyric qualities of the Blood Drops scene require a closer look at its details of recurring motifs where they appear in relation to Perceval’s identity and quest. These motifs are purposefully related to one another and brought to the reader’s attention by means of the poet’s intricate manipulation of rhyme patterns. Examples follow. The transition between the chaotic, purposeless commotion of Arthur’s retinue and the calm, meaningful pause of Perceval’s private vision is effected by the following verses which describe the setting in terms of time, place, and season: «Les une forest sont logié. /Au matin ot molt bien negié» (ll. 4161-62, emphasis added). The reader’s attention then shifts directly to Perceval;

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his connection with Arthur is referred to only obliquely, to the point that the court becomes an almost insignificant part of the scenery. The type of connection existing between the two parties and the importance of the setting of Perceval’s vision are reinforced by the following verses which occur exactly eight lines from the first example. The elements alluded to by the four lines quoted achieve greater significance as the scene progresses: «...la praerie, / Qui fu gelee et ennegie, / Ou l’os le roi estoit Jogie» (ll. 4168-70, emphasis added).

The important symbolic motifs woven into the scene as the stage is set are the blood and the snow, the red and the white. At first, the motifs are purposely fused, which prepares the reader for what will ensue. One motif is evoked literally, the other figuratively: «Si sainna trois goutes de sanc / Qui espandirent sor le blanc» (ll. 4187-88, emphasis added). The common denominators of the four elements are discreetly underlined in the next verse: «Si sa[m]bla natural color» (1. 4189, emphasis added), without specification as to who is aware of the factors held in common. It is fairly safe to assume that, once the statement is made, the relationship is generally perceived by Perceval, the poet-narrator, and the reader. The next mention of the motifs involved occurs, again, exactly eight lines later: «Le noif sor coi la jante jut, / Et le sane qui entor parut» (Il. 4195-96, emphasis added). This time, both elements alluded to are meant literally. They occur at the beginning, instead of at the end, of the verses, in reverse order with respect to the previous example, thereby affording a kind of criss-cross pattern similar to the previous criss-cross pattern based on rhyme words (logié/bien negié, ennegie/logie). (The line that immediately follows upon this variation refers to Perceval’s lance, associating it—and, consequently, chevalerie—with the above-mentioned motifs.) The first development of Perceval’s vision elaborates the complete association between the concrete pretexts of the vision and what they lead to on an imaginative level. The first line of this development allows both of the concrete symbols to occupy the space of an entire verse: «Que li sanz et la nois ensamble» (1. 4199). The corresponding figurative or abstract terms fill

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out an entire line five verses later: «Si pense tant qu’il s’oblie, / Qu’autresi

estoit

en son

vis / Li vermels

sor le blanc assis»

(ll. 4202-04, emphasis added). They are associated together in the description of Perceval as he loses himself in the vision brought about for him by the carefully planned association of the four elements. Their mingling—i.e., the carrying over from the concrete, natural surroundings, by the use of the abstract common denominators, to those concrete elements existing on a higher plane in a special moment in the past—receives dramatic intricate treatment at the hands of Chrétien, a treatment worthy of the most exquisite lyric poem. These lines constitute nothing less than a lyric moment shared by the poet-narrator, the hero, and the reader, achieved by the dramatization, on a very detailed scale, of a translatio—that is, of a metaphor—as it takes place. The reader is privileged to see both sides of the transfer as well as the transfer itself. He is granted an even greater insight in that he is permitted to participate, to a certain degree, in the lyric heights of fantasy and emotion that the transfer creates for the hero, on the one hand, and, on the other, in the tour de force that the dramatization represents for the clerkly poet-narrator. Clergie and chevalerie are on a par; they equally support one another and are equally celebrated: «le meillor conte / Qui soit contez a cort roial» (Il. 63-64) is worth «le meillor chevalier ...en trestot le monde» (ll. 1043 and 1041). The metaphor is carefully interlaced with references to Perceval’s name. The translatio is, therefore, an ultimate occasion of revelation (13). The reader recognizes necessarily that the Blood Drops scene is a crucial narrative moment in the time span of the Conte du Graal. The scene exploits the figures of translatio and iunctura (or conjointure) so that the event might fit clearly into the narrative sequence—the historicity—of the text; thus, the event can participate simultaneously in the creation of a new level of «being,» of experience, and of meaning. The method of conjointure proceeds hand in hand with the achievement of translatio. The deliberate association between scenes or narrative events enables Chrétien to work out a successful translatio—i.e., a progression and a dépassement within a particular continuity. The two

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scenes making up the conjointure mutually «comment» upon one another, as we saw was the case in Erec et Enide. But, in

addition, a decided change takes place in the development of the second event with respect to the first. Because the events exist also in a linear relationship—the narrative sequence—the second event must be considered a redoing of the first pattern of motifs and/or narrative situation. If well done, it is a progression with respect to the first scene; but it is understandable as such—as translatio—only in its relationship—in its conjointure— with the first scene. The reader is made to understand the import of what one might call the isolated character of the Blood Drops scene-event. The scene interrupts, in fact, the flow of plot—namely, the story of Arthur’s search for Perceval. Yet the very isolation of the scene is what allows the reader to integrate, within his own time, the event recounted. This is explained by the fact that it

is the reader who must make the association between the first and the second of Perceval’s encounters with Arthur and his court (as well as between these and certain other scenes). Arthur, as spectator and interpreter of an event, is opposed deliberately and effectively to the reader as spectator and interpreter of the same event. Herein lies the significance of the roles of conjointure and translatio in the elaboration of individual scenes and in the forging of clear patterns of meaning (or unity) in romance narrative. We have observed that the Blood Drops scene marks an important turning point in Perceval’s story. He is at the threshhold of a new life. He is now the «compleat» knight, finally ready to embark upon a universally meaningful, though mysterious and private, romance adventure. The Blood Drops scene, viewed as an «interruption,» displays the typical romance device of «string pulling»: the romancer’s intervention is blatant. However, this intervention is not adventitious; it is poetically sound. The Blood Drops scene is essentially a scene of redefinition, of transition, and of transformation. Indeed, it would be accurate to speak of metamorphosis, not the creation of something from nothing, but the creation of something new and different, derived from something known and familiar. The scene formu-

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lates Perceval’s prise de conscience; he achieves awareness at last of his own identity. This moment of definition, of understanding, is pertinently integrated into the fiber of the text, for the romancer has fully exploited the motifs of colors and the particular narrative strands that composed other significant points of the pattern (14). In each of the examples cited, the reader, cast in the role of spectator, witnessed a revelation disclosed as process. The process involved one or a combination of the following: a repetition and heightening of a particular motif to the point where it becomes asymbol (the red and the white in the Conte du Graal), a variation on a pattern (the framework scenes of the middle section of Erec et Enide), the temporary isolation of the protagonist (or protagonists), and a relationship between the spectators within the text, and between these and the ones outside the text, involving a certain degree of juxtaposition of viewpoints as well as possibilities of their conflation (Arthur and reader in the Conte du Graal; Erec and reader in Erec et Enide). It is not unusual to feel the marked presence of the poet-narrator at one of these moments. He may be in charge of a key description or allow himself to interrupt the narration, indicating by his direct narrator-to-reader intervention that the passage is, indeed, crucial. The unexpectedness of his remarks, the singular concentration on the isolated hero, and the usual juxtaposition of perspectives on the hero, taken together during these significant scenes, serve to define the hero and the values of the particular romance with respect to previous scenes and earlier examples of behavior. They may, in fact, allow the passage to undercut conventional values or viewpoints—most likely represented by the spectators and commentators within the hero’s world. By means of such characteristics, the scene clearly and interestingly defines the hero by means of its poetic organization. The problem of the hero’s identity is complexly presented, expressed in terms of romance components as articulated by the individual text. The process of transformation witnessed by the reader often involves some kind of binary relationship between sleeping and waking, sometimes taking on the aspect of a false death. This seems to be a preferred motif of Chrétien, since it

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appears in each of his romances. The motif and its significance have already been discussed at some length with respect to Erec et Enide. There it involved a variation of the myth of Psyche and Cupid (the first framework scene) as well as an exploitation of the false death convention (second framework scene), perhaps a variation of Pyramus and Thisbe. The reader will also note several other moments in that romance when Enide watches—aware of, or on the alert for, possible dangers—while Erec sleeps. In the Chevalier au Lion, it is Arthur who dramatizes this particular topos. During the court’s Pentecostal celebration, Arthur suddenly—and rudely—leaves his guests to retire with his wife to their bedroom. Guenevere leaves Arthur asleep to listen to Calogrenant’s story of the magic fountain. In a certain sense, Yvain’s state of folie in the forest may also be considered as a sort of trance, or sleep, from which he eventually awakens to perform proper acts of chevalerie which finally redeem him in the eyes of Laudine. Lancelot is repeatedly depicted as one in a trance so that he appears to all who watch him as if he is asleep. At one unforgettable moment, he feigns sleepiness and appears to be on the point of retiring when, in fact, he intends to spend the entire night very much awake in Guenevere’s bed. This romance adopts the false death motif of Erec et Enide (and of Cligés) when both Lancelot and the queen hear false reports of each other’s demise and try—Guenevere only half-heartedly—to commit suicide, unsuccessfully. The Chevalier de la Charrette may, in turn, have afforded Chrétien a theme to develop in his Conte du Graal. Lancelot, dressed in © red armor, meditating on his beloved so that he is not at all in touch with the reality shared by his spectators, necessarily reminds us of the Perceval of the Blood Drops scene. Whereas Lancelot’s trances were portrayed with a certain degree of good humor, the Blood Drops scene marks an important turning point in the Conte du Graal, where the reader no longer smiles or laughs at Perceval, but realizes instead that something profound is transpiring. The knights of the court, as on-lookers, return the reader, in part, to the scene of the Pentecost feast. Again Arthur is fast asleep, in sharp contrast with the Red Knight for whom it is customary to awaken with the sun and to

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proceed with his search for new adventures. Arthur, in fact, is the last to learn the identity of the Red Knight (15). To make the point of the hero’s identity even more clearly, Chrétien often emphasizes in some fashion the name and/or the naming of his hero. Enide is first named by the narrator on her wedding day. Her role is obviously that of wife (conjointure). Yvain is well known by name; his new identity comes about when, soon after his deliverance from folie, he rescues the lion (symbol of nobility and chevalerie) from the jaws of the poisonous serpent (perhaps a symbol of losengiers represented by those such as Keu). After his victory over the giant, Yvain calls himself «li chevalier au lyon» (1. 4285). In the Chevalier de la Charrette, the principal mystery is the identity of this unusual knight who shows himself to be the best and the worst of knights. All who see him ask his name, wish to know his history. For once, even the reader is as ignorant as the characters of the romance. He does not know the knight’s name or where he is from. The knight is acquainted with Gauvain, is almost mystically in love with the queen, and is the deliverer of the captives of Logres. The technique employed by Chrétien in this romance is somewhat the reverse of that adhered to in Yvain. The character is associated, from the beginning of the adventure, with the shameful cart; the mysterious knight is called by all—characters, reader, and poet-narrator alike—«li chevaliers de la charrette» (1. 867) or «li charretons» (1. 884). It is not until the champion comes face to face with his inspiration, when he is engaged in the combat he has been seeking, that he sinks into another réverie and wins the duel after hearing his name. The reader hears the knight called Lancelot first by Guenevere herself—who is the only person in the romance consistently «in the know.» It is another astute and observant pucele who shouts out «Lancelot!» and thus calls his attention to the ladies watching him; she brings him that much closer to her whom he seeks. Once the name has been revealed, the scene abounds with references to «Lancelot.» This technique is also somewhat reminiscent of the pattern of repetition of Perceval’s name in the Blood Drops scene already discussed. In addition, within the structuring of Chrétien’s romances, a

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certain convention is observed which is dependent upon the placement, or logistics, of scenes. The very location of a scene may, in and of itself, be a further indication to the reader of its importance in the poem-statement—e.g., the beginning (or Prologue),

the framework

scenes, and... the midpoint.

Chrétien

has particularly favored this last possibility. To see how he makes use of this choice within the general functioning of «crucial narrative moments,» we have only to consider his Yvain and his Lancelot. At the midpoint, Yvain shows concern for another for the first time without any expectation of reward. Instead, he places himself in danger for a matter of principle. This is a rather miraculous transformation of Yvain’s character. The reverence, the tears, and the pledge of loyalty made to Yvain by the lion also prove the miraculous transformation of the lion’s nature. A noble, but wild beast behaves as a courtly knight. In fact, the lion plays a role similar to Enide’s in that he watches over Yvain as he sleeps, accompanies him, travelling at his side, and helps him out in dangerous circumstances. Yvain’s identity is redefined in terms of his «companion,» much as Erec is redefined in terms of the couple he and his companion make. The adventure with the lion immediately precedes the arrival at the magic fountain, just as the new couple finally created by the second framework scene in Chrétien’s first romance leads almost directly to the Joie de la Cort. The significant adventure in the isolation of the forest which leads to -Yvain’s new name and prepares him for his reconciliation with Laudine occurs at the mid- ~ point of the romance (Il. 3337-3478 in a poem of 6808 lines). The midpoint is, therefore, a dramatic moment and a possible time for the revelation of the new (or real) identity of the hero and a poetic definition of his mission. In the last of a series of scenes of puceles who realize Lancelot’s motivation and who ask him to behave in a certain manner in order to deliver them from a knight who disgraces them, Lancelot hears himself called by name. This scene depicts him once again in such a way that the public hesitates between joy and despair, between praise of their champion and his condemnation. Lancelot enjoys the contemplation of Guenevere, remains

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in a trance-like state, and puts the vision and his obedience to his Lady above the glory of victory, above winning the rewards of a recognized and successful chevalier (this is perhaps the principal difference between Lancelot and Gauvain). Lancelot’s apparent system of values poses, in a sense, the problem explored by the romance. How is one to judge, know, or imitate a Lancelot? He does not act according to the customary dictates of conscience of a principled chevalier like Gauvain. He prefers to prove himself, or to assert himself, in a kind of voluptuous obedience in an intimate, partly hidden, feminine world. Other knights, other kings, and the populace in general hesitate to accord Lancelot a definitive judgment. He is extreme and inconsistent when judged by their norms. On the other hand, he finds favor and understanding with just about every pucele he meets. He acts according to their rule system—even according to their caprice—and they, in turn, recognize him and judge him favorably. The concentration on the motifs characteristic of previous scenes, together with the first and repeated mention of Lancelot’s name, occur at the midpoint of the romance (1. 3660, compared to a total of 7112 verses). This fact invites the reader to

consider the central scene as a—or even the—crucial narrative moment of the romance. It is perhaps significant that it is the combat between Lancelot and Meleaganz that occupies the place of honor in the narrative, which grants Lancelot the opportunity to be named out loud, and not the love scene with Guenevere. The implications of the particular scene, we notice, are -always dependent upon, or expressed in terms of, relationships —relationships drawn in terms of conjointure and translatio. In the second part of this study, I shall illustrate concretely these principles which have so far provided the context of our discussion of Cligés. We shall observe how translatio as process and conjointure as structure do, in fact, provide for an informed reading of Chrétien’s second romance. Thus, the following chapter will evaluate first the midpoint of Cligés in light of our findings with respect to the Prologue—as, in other words, the Prologue reveals a central concern of the poem: the poeticiza-

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tion of the process of translatio. Next, we shall integrate our discoveries into an appreciation of how the Prologue/midpoint configuration participates, in turn, within a pattern of narrative conjointures that, as we shall see subsequently, perform similar «acts of poeticization» of romance narrative procedures. Thereby, the peculiar artistry that is Cligés will, I trust, be illuminated.

PART II

POETICIZATION

Chapter I

THE MIDPOINT

Thessala and «Crestiens»

In the second half of this study, I hope to demonstrate convincingly that the midpoint of Cligés (Il. 3195-3330) functions as a locus of revelation of the poem’s meaning. The practice of paying this degree of attention to the centrally located passage of a romance is authorized, in Chrétien’s cuvre, by his Chevalier de la Charrette and his Chevalier au Lion, as we have observed. Our reading of the midpoint of Cligés will resemble the explications of the framework scenes of Erec et Enide and of the Blood Drops scene in the Conte du Graal in that it will consider the organization of the midpoint in terms of translatio and conjointure, as they have been used to describe, respectively, process and structure. Secondly, our reading of the midpoint will take into account the poem’s generating principles as the Prologue presents them. In particular, I am interested in the development of the example of the poet-narrator, his self-description as he exercises his craft, and the simultaneity of creation and commentary through the organization of poetic discourse, supported by a belief in poetic continuity. The following arguments are designed to prove that the midpoint of Cligés (a) exemplifies

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the premises adumbrated in the Prologue, (b) reveals the iden-

tity of the true hero of the translatio studii romance, and (c) discloses the basis of the conjointure patterns woven into the poem. A brief recollection of the setting of this scene will help to situate the remarks that follow. In this scene, Fenice tells her confidante: Mialz voldroie estre desmanbree Que de nos deus fust remanbree

L’amors d’Ysolt et de Tristan, Don mainte folie dit an, Et honte en est a reconter.

(11. 3105-09)

The annominatio in the first two lines on the past participle (feminine) -manbree plays with the idea of Fenice’s being remembered. How will the community who hears her story and witnesses her example view her? What kind of a model will her example afford future generations? Just as knights preparing for battle worry about how their conduct on the field will later be described, or how they themselves will be able to boast of their exploits when they return home, so Fenice experiences similar worries as she plans to take steps to resolve her predicament. To my mind, the moral question here is really of little consequence. The preparation of a conflict between appearances and reality is more interestingly at issue. Fenice does not want her life to be a dull or scandalous imitation of Iseut’s fictional legacy; like’ Moliére’s Alceste, elle veut qu'on la distingue, but only in opposition to Iseut. Fenice looks to Thessala’s art (1. 3137) to rescue

her. She would have her servant situate her in a romance structured differently from the familiar story of the ill-fated lovers. In her new setting, the problems of the 7ristan romance would be solved in an original fashion, by means of skilled artifice. Fenice requests that her wishes be respected, but in such a way that she remains a creature of Thessala: «Mestre, or vos an entremetez, / Por ce que toz jorz vostre soie» (ll. 3154-5 5). The relationship of patroness and servant is respected, as well as that of character and romancer.

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At the midpoint, then, the poet-narrator turns to Thessala’s response to her mistress’ request, to the sorceress as she brews her magic potion. In doing so, he forgoes a more usual set-piece description perhaps more generally appropriate to Arthurian romance—the sumptuous and politically significant wedding of Alis and Fenice. He decides to abandon a discussion of the wedding preparations precisely at the time when a dialogue concerning a treaty takes place between the two Emperors. He shifts our attention from the «upstairs» aristocrats and their matters of power politics to the «downstairs» serving-girl who surreptitiously subverts their plans all on her own. He shuns pomp and circumstance, displayed for all the courtly world to admire, in order to point out, instead, what is seen by no one and, consequently, is accomplished anonymously. The deliberateness of the poet-narrator’s choice receives emphasis; the reader cannot fail to notice the break in the narrative and to draw his own conclusions concerning the material chosen and the reasons motivating the new decision. The role of the poet-narrator receives attention concomitantly, since it is he who ostentatiously voices his decision to change his mind (il. 3199-3208). The sudden shift in emphases—sporting an apparent inability to make smooth transitions—constitutes the prelude to, or the context for, the description. The poet-narrator draws attention away from the nobility—the supposed heroes—to himself. He depicts himself in the midst of a number of narrative choices at any given moment. The pace and path the narrative adopts are revealed to the reader as anything but predetermined or inevitable. The focus falls squarely on narrativity; the reader’s knowledge and interpretation of events are in the hands of the narrator. History does not dictate to the poet-narrator; he dictates

«history,»

in that what we know of

history depends on his accounting of it. In Cligés, there is none of the epic foreshadowing characteristic of La Chanson de Roland of which Béroul makes clever use in order to endow his 7ristan with a tragic and «believable» —j.e., «historical»— ambiance. The passage in which the omniscient, sympathizing narrator voices his dread and dismay about the events which will inevitably come to pass are here replaced

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by the poet-narrator’s self-conscious interruptions about what he might like to tell about next. Chrétien seems to be turning the Béroul world upside-down and inside-out to his own advantage, while indirectly commenting upon these well-developed narrative techniques adeptly, but perhaps covertly, pressed into service by Béroul. The matters are brought into focus as Chrétien fixes on the sorceress. He chooses not to report on every single (perhaps boring?) detail, such as emperors and politics, but decides to highlight the most fascinating events—the magician and her secret task. Truth is less important here than the bedazzlement of the reader. As implied earlier by references to the nimble side-stepping enacted in the Prologue, Chrétien tells his audience that his romance concerns itself neither with history nor with politics. Translatio imperii is again rudely booted out to make way for illusion and craft. A more direct look at the passage is now in order. The poetnarrator voluntarily interrupts his text as follows: Que vos iroie tot contant? Lor afeire vont apruichant Li dui empereor ansanble, Que li mariages asanble, Et la joie el palés comance; Mes n’i voel feire demorance De parler de chascune chose; A Thesala qui ne repose Des poisons feire et atranprer Voel ma parole retorner. (il. 3199-3208)

We recall that, in the Prologue, the poet-narrator deliberately chose to describe himself in terms of his previous accomplishments before beginning his new work. He did so by speaking of himself in the third person, thereby projecting Chrétien the author into the persona of the poet-narrator, a character of the fiction. So here the poet-narrator persona, now speaking in the first person, in turn associates himself with a third-person character, Thessala, and associates his work—«parlery and «ma parole» —with her craft, also identified by means of description.

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The words familiar from the Prologue—feire and vuel—find their way into this passage as well. Once again, the narrator abandons the story of Cligés unexpectedly to take up the matters of another, presumably more necessary character. The verb feire is now used in connection with both the poet-narrator persona and with Thessala. Although admittedly an ordinary word, it is, nevertheless, the verb of the poem’s opening line. In this new context, feire is specifically linked with the verb atranprer in the same line, as if the two words were interchangeable. Whereas the poet-narrator’s activity was earlier translated by rancomance and by an romans mist, in this passage feire is associated with Thessala’s occupation and translated by atranprer, a term which will be repeated in the description and which figures importantly in its meaning. It should be pointed out that the description of Thessala is part of a series of three scenes where she is seen, first, in connection with Fenice and, lastly, with Cligés. The midpoint passage singles her out, alone, at the center of the triptych as well as at the center of the romance. The initial scene of the middle episode depicts Thessala in dialogue with Fenice, in such a way that the reader is necessarily reminded of Ovid and of the Eneas. Her very existence as a character is a product of the translatio studii process. She is brought forth by the translatio studii and incarnates it, but in a way different from that used to describe Cligés in the Prologue. The character of Cligés is reduced to a simple, comic representation of the cliché. Thessala, on the other hand, dramatizes, in her professional activity, the possibilities of the translatio process, bringing it to fictional life. The first scene of the triptych follows immediately on the understanding that Fenice, wan and pale, is not having her way

with respect to Cligés. The poet-narrator then introduces Thessala by her title and her name in one line: «Sa mestre avoit non Thessala» (1. 2962). He further identifies her by way of her professional training: «Si savoit molt de nigromance» (I. 2964), reemphasizing her name along with the explanation behind it: She is called Thessala, naturally enough, since she was born in Thessaly. Her birthplace, however, is interestingly defined in terms of the art practiced there:

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In the space of only six octosyllables, Chrétien has repeated Thessala’s name, given her a personal history in terms of country and craft, characterizing her métier further by underscoring its respectability and its long feminine tradition. He has emphasized her art on three occasions, varying the nomenclature each time. (He has also twice worked in a form of the verb feire: ll. 2967 and 2970.) This brief description functions here as a part of the narration. It is then repeated and amplified upon, being transposed into the direct discourse of Thessala, as she tries to earn Fenice’s confidence. Assuming at first that Fenice is merely ill, Thessala informs her of all her tested medical knowledge, listing the diseases she can dispel. At last she dares even to divulge her secret training in witchcraft. Her words closely parallel those already spoken of her by the poet-narrator: Et sai, se je l’osoie dire, D’anchantemanz et de charaies Bien esprovees et veraies Plus c’onques Medea n’an sot. (Il. 2988-91)

Her strategy, planned to win Fenice over to her methods, is to devise a self-description. She speaks of herself with respect to her ability to restore happiness by controlling the actions of others in an undetectable, anonymous, traditionally learned way. Her words are similar to those of the poet-narrator not only in tone and vocabulary, but also in method of argument. Just as the reader’s introduction to the poet-narrator was facilitated by a self-description in terms of professional craft, supported by an impressive listing of accomplishments, so his first meeting with Thessala includes her self-description—fundamentally in agreement with the poet-narrator’s pronouncements

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concerning her and strengthened by a listing of her various talents. In both cases, each divulges what is most immediately useful only at the last moment: the new romance and the unique potion. Thessala also sees fit to interject the name of that archetype translatio studii personage who has performed the most notable exploits in her field. Similar to the poet-narrator’s attitude towards Ovid (and to Arachne’s towards Minerva), Thessala boasts that she outdoes her model: «Et sai. ../ Plus c’onques Medea n’en sot» (1). The technique of parallelism, whereby the narrator’s testimony is echoed by Thessala, continues throughout the descriptions of the potion (compare Il. 3209-16 with Il. 3239-66). Once again the vocabulary is nearly identical. It seems evident that, where the application of Thessala’s art is concerned, the sorceress and the poet-narrator share similar points of view. Their words, procedures, and strategy show that they are in agreement and reinforce one another at a key narrative moment. The poet-narrator prepares us to pay attention to Thessala’s words and actions by means of his close association with her. The technique is similar to that used in the Blood Drops scene in the Conte du Graal, where Perceval’s description of his vision parallels, quite closely, the description already given by the narrator. There the technique was significant because it emphasized that, in this instance, Perceval’s actions were not being undercut. In both passages, the poet-narrator has granted his character a share in that process typically identified with him: the art of descriptio. In Perceval’s case, we recall, that description was particularly revealing due to the process of the translation of metaphor from the Ovidian text into a concrete fictional setting and the subsequent creation from this setting of a new, but related metaphor (2). The descriptions of Thessala and her potion also concern themselves with metaphor and with the «translation» of another text. When we consider this possibility, it will be situated in this context of the close association and parallels drawn between poet-narrator and Thessala.

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Analogous Parallel Configurations *

The parallels I have drawn attention to deserve still closer investigation as parallels, for they have a historical context which may further enlighten our understanding of the configuration. For our purposes, the context of analogous examples will include La Vie de saint Alexis (3) and Béroul’s Tristan. The narrator of the Alexis (4) does not choose to introduce his public to the saint by name until he relates that historical moment at which Alexis officially receives a Christian name— that is, at his baptism. Prior to this event, the saint has been referred to, not unlike Cligés, in terms of his lineage: «Si fut uns

sire de Rome la citet; / Riches om fut, de grant nobilitet: / Por col vos di d’un son fil vueil parler» (Il. 13-15) (5). We know that the first appearance of a protagonist’s name in a medieval poem is characteristically invoked when his identity or role in the narrative is revealed. In this case, the saint’s official entrance into the Christian community is not associated with those attributes that distinguish his father’s role in the Roman community, but rather with that training he received in his youth which prepares him to serve the same community: Batisiez fut, si out nom Alexis: Qui l’out portet volentiers le nodrit; Puis li bons pedre ad escole le mist: Tant aprist letres que bien en fut guarniz; Puis vait li enfes l’emperedour servir. (ll. 31-35)

The humanistic, or liberal arts, education that Alexis acquires receives still further attention by means of a subtly suggested association with one organizational aspect of the poem based on the symbolic number thirty-three. The two verses that concern themselves with Alexis’ schooling are verses 33 and 34. The number thirty-four here may carry an equally symbolic weight, since it is explicitly stated that Alexis spends a total of thirtyfour years in the service of God: seventeen years away from home and seventeen years under his father’s staircase (Il. 161 and 276). Not unlike a clerc, given the necessarily political

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orientation of his projected career, Alexis is no doubt properly schooled in the art of rhetoric. The stanza quoted above implies this sort of training which the narrator has deliberately joined to the name and to the principal role of the saint. The reader is made more Keenly aware of the unexpected turn Alexis’ stewardship will take, immediately after the arrangements for his wedding have been made and the nuptials have taken place. Oddly enough, the timing of the revelation of important matters is not unlike that which takes place in Cligés. There is, in fact, a certain similarity between the narration that immediately precedes the description of Thessala and the following preparatory lines of the Alexis: «Ensemble en vont li dui pedre parler: / Lour dous enfanz vuelent faire assembler» (Il. 44-

45). Other similarities of narrative organization pertain. The arresting speech Alexis makes to his bride upon taking leave of her does not take the reader completely by surprise, since it closely parallels the sentiments the narrator has already expressed in the Prologue (compare stanzas I and II with stanza XIV). This kind of association between Prologue and crucial narrative moment, between narrator and protagonist, is one we also witness between the Prologue and the midpoint of Cligés, between the poet-narrator and Thessala. However, if the actions of the narrator-figure of the Alexis do seem to grant credence to the words, actions, and beliefs exemplified by Alexis, the narrator also shows himself not to be omniscient or in complete control—for example, «Mais co ne sai com longes i converset» (1. 84). The narrator is not portrayed as the final authority in the text, although his clerkly role, and clerkliness in general, remain essential to the workings of the poem. The import of the parallel between the words of the narrator and those of the protagonist is, therefore, not identical to that of the parallel drawn in Cligés. I will return later to this distinction. Although Alexis dissociates himself from his father’s legacy of fame, wealth, and nobility, he does finally make use of the training in letters his father saw fit to give him. His dying effort is to put in writing the story of his life. His own written words will testify to the holy character of his existence. He fuses his participation in the Christian community, begun at baptism,

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with his service to the Emperor by means of his writings or clergie. All the implications, contained in that early stanza, of the saint’s reception into the Christian community reach fulfillment as he bids it farewell. The saint’s example will be most authentically convincing when revered in the context in which it was concretely revealed—i.e., by a continual transmission, in a written/read form, of the life of Alexis to the Christian community. This reenactment of the saint’s gift of himself in death to those he loved is already begun by the narrator’s description of the Roman community’s discovery of Alexis. The pope takes the chartre from the saint’s hand and has its contents read to the people by a clerk, specifically identified as such. Other clerks will continue to do the same «in memory of him.» They will tell the story as Alexis told it; they will teach Christians as Alexis taught his bride. In this way, the Alexis raises clerkly activity to a level of an instrument which, though narrative, aids in the process of sanctification—a relic. The narrative is organized in such a fashion that the saint appears to be the auctoritas of the clerkly narrator. The narrator-figure results from an example projected from the center of the poem to its perimeters, from the relationship that pertains between one character and another (Alexis and his bride) to the «peripheral» relationship that pertains between the narrator and the community. He mediates between Alexis and the Christian community at large by means of the written tradition communicated by the clerk to those who will listen, and he thus perpetuates the life/story in the same way as it was lived/written. The role of the clerk-narrator is made that much more reliable, since it is predicated on the example and the authority of the saintly figure himself. It is important to note, in this context, that the Alexis also

does not underplay the actual writing of the chartre. On the contrary, the poem underscores the event dramatically and concretely, dignifying even the writing implements themselves by means of a direct quotation from the saint at the hour of his death: «Quier mei, bels fredre, et enque e parchemin Ed une pene, co pri, toue mercit.»

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Cil li aportet, receit les Alexis; De sei medisme tote la chartre escrist, Com s’en alat e come il s’en revint. (Il. 281-85)

The last line of the stanza captures the essence of the general movement of Alexis’ story in a concentrated form. The poem expounds further on the events at the time the chartre is read aloud to the people, its contents being summarized more lengthily by the narrator (stanzas LXXVI and LXXVII). At no time, however, is the chartre quoted verbatim. There is no deliberate attempt to reproduce a facsimile of the principal relic connected with the saint. The narrator, of course, does not need to reproduce the letter at any one particular moment—the evocation of its effect on the listeners is sufficient to the scene— because the poem as an entity reproduces or reenacts the chartre each time it is read. The text is organized in such a fashion that the reader is to understand that it has derived from the chartre, not that the episode of the saint’s dying words is generated by the necessities of the fiction. The veracity and historicity of the life of the saint become that much stronger in the mind of the reader as the process of the reenactment of an historical event—the reinvention of a saintly monument or relic—becomes increasingly ingrained in his mind while he reads the poem. Béroul’s Tristan (6) affiliates itself, so to speak, with the procedures of the Alexis by virtue of the construction of parallels between the narrator and a character, although it introduces significant variations. As one discussion of parallels in the Alexis was aided by associating the narrator with the values of clerkliness, so, before embarking on a discussion of the use of parallelism in Béroul’s Tristan, will it be necessary to define his narrator-figure in a comparable way. In the fragment that remains of this version, the poet-narrator names himself twice. Upon both occasions, the signature cor- ° roborates the establishment of an auctoritas that similarly characterizes the claims to authenticity made by the unnamed Alexis narrator. For example, Béroul insists that his account of Tristan is soundly based on a written document which he, like the eye-

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witness who brings pen and parchment to the saint, has seen. The implication is that Béroul’s poem is, therefore, true; it is a history, presumably like the story of Cligés which, in turn, is «mialz a croire» because Chrétien has seen the original document in the library at Beauvais.

Béroul’s

claim to veracity goes as follows:

«Ne, si conme

V’estoire dit, / La ou Berox le vit escrit, / nule gent tant ne s’entramerent» (ll. 1789-91). At the time that Béroul first names himself—and we have already noted that this is a moment to take stock of in medieval narratives—he depicts himself as one who respects, and who is actively concerned with, chartres. He reads «historical» accounts and willingly participates in their transmission. The second allusion Béroul makes to himself does not concern his source, but his poetic abilities. It undertakes to prove that

Béroul’s version of Tristan should be preferred above all others. Béroul dissociates himself from a certain group of would-be chroniclers in order to bolster the effect his narrator persona will have. This resembles a similar disassociation practiced by Chrétien in his Prologue to Erec et Enide. However, Béroul bases the distinction on what might be called content, whereas Chrétien stresses matter or form. The difference is an important one. Béroul focuses his reader’s attention on the matiére, on the legend or history of the lovers. This focus tends to obstruct the reader’s view of other matters, distracting him from the numerous sleights of hand the poet operates in the exercise of his craft. Supposedly, the reader must be «involved» and must «believe» if he is to enjoy the Tristan story. In this second reference to himself, Béroul does not seem to emphasize his role for its own sake, but introduces his claim to superiority in order to make a point about Tristan. He characterizes his role as one that is subservient to the faithful depiction of the historical personage: Li conteor dient qu’Yvain Firent nier, qui sont vilain; N’en sevent mie bien l’estoire, Berox l’a mex en sen memoire, Trop ert Tristran preuz et cortois A ocirre gent de tes lois. (Il. 1265-70, emphasis added)

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It would seem that, in Béroul’s case, efforts are directed to de-emphasize the activity of the poet in order to stress, by comparison, the role of the accurate narrator-chronicler that much more. Verse 1268 is still more remarkable in that it recalls a memorable line to be found in the conclusion of the Alexis: «Aiems, seignour, cest saint ome en memorie» (1. 621). «[Tenir] en memorie

(en memoire)»

and a written, reliable source are two

factors these narratives have in common. They are, in fact, related. The saint or his life’s story can be preserved or kept in the collective memory of a culture by being cast in some sort of concrete presence like the written poem. What is striking is that, in his imitation of these points characteristic of hagiography, Béroul puts the legend of Tristan and Iseut on the same level of believability—and honorability—reserved for a holy man or, a la rigueur, for a national hero/martyr like Roland. (In fact, epic formulas abound in Béroul’s text, as well as other narrative techniques familiar to epic poetry such as the repetition of certain plot developments, elaborated by Béroul in a way that borders on the narrative function of the Jaisse; the deliberate and dramatic foreshadowing frequent in the Roland; and the easy classification of characters into the categories of «heroes» and «villains.») In addition, one encounters, in the landscape of Béroul’s poem, a number of monuments which stand as proofs of the link between the characters’ past and the reader’s present. Béroul cleverly alludes to two «relics» which are intended further to convince the reader of the fact of Tristan’s and Iseut’s previous historical existence: the chasuble presented by Iseut at the church of St. Sansom and the rock outside the chapel where Tristan jumped to freedom (7). These objects which the reader has seen in the narrative, according to the poet, still exist. Béroul is making a conscious effort to camou-

flage his romance matiére with the trappings of a saint’s life or of an epic. His artifice has attained a state of perfection: opposites are reconciled; what is «vain et plaisant» dons the garb of that which is «sage et de sens aprendant.» What may have struck some

as shocking

changeability—structurally

or objectionable

speaking—of

is the implied inter-

values

that

normally

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do not cross the boundaries of génres. Passionate, adulterous love is served and, to a degree, celebrated by means of the deployment of those techniques inherent in epic and in hagiography, in the same way that love of God or love of Christendom is exalted in the Alexis or the Roland. A necessary prerequisite of the latter texts is, however, conveniently and artfully dismissed by Béroul’s version of the Tristan. The individual’s decision, his exercise of free will to make a conscious choice in favor of self-sacrifice, which, in turn, justifies the poem’s service of the legend, is nowhere present in any narrative commemoration of Tristan. The potion does away with any such possibilities. Surely, then, the call to imitate, to admire, or to envy Tristan or Iseut cannot be present either. What imitatio, what dépassement may Béroul call for in his poem? What community finds itself addressed? If the behavior to be adopted is not implied by the exemplary behavior of the hero and heroine, the reader no doubt seeks them, or something like them, elsewhere. For the moment, let us attend to the specific parallels between Béroul’s poet-narrator and a character of his romance. His exploitation of the procedure, in my opinion, places itself. in relationship to the Alexis, on the one hand, and to Cligés, on the other, perhaps equidistant between them, linking them in a sort of literary continuum. Rarely, if ever, in Béroul’s poem, do Tristan and Iseut return to a place they have been. This fact is underlined once the couple has entered the Morrois forest. They are constantly on the move lest they be discovered: «Sol une nuit sont enun leu» — (1. 1430). However, there is one specific place that Tristan and Iseut revisit—and for a particular purpose. These recurrences revolve around the person of Ogrin the hermit. The first interview establishes what appears to be a possibility for repentence and pardon that, at the time, seems unattainable. The second visit could perhaps be viewed as the second half of the narrative conjointure, since it answers and completes the first scene. The two together frame the experiences in the Morrois forest; the initial encounter occurs after the narrative has outlined the life that the couple, plus Governal, lead in exile, while the second tries to facilitate the couple’s reentrance into the courtly soci-

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ety they abandoned. The scenes with Ogrin portray dramatically the couple’s isolation, their living death, depicted in terms of the decayed images of chevalerie and courtoisie that haunt their consciences. It is all the more interesting, since the two scenes which elaborate the conjointure also contain the parallels which occur between the narrator and the character of the hermit. In ll. 1351-66, the narrator, as is his wont, begins a new section of the narrative by shifting from the dwarf’s most recent trouble-making to a recapitulation for the reader of what has previously happened to Tristan. This explanation affords a proper transition and colors what is about to take place. The recapitulation adopts the form of an intervention on the part of the narrator. He addresses his public directly in a fashion reminiscent of an epic narrator: «Seignors, mot avez bien oi / Conment Tristran avoit salli... » (ll. 1351-52). What the narrator wishes us to recall is the event of Tristan’s escape from the hands of those who would execute him. The escape is alluded to in terms of Tristan’s leap and of the rock beneath the chapel window which broke his fall. (We remember that this same rock figures as one of the «relics» or pieces of indisputable evidence of the existence of Tristan.) The narrator summarizes as well the general style of life the couple leads in the forest. This type of summarization of action in the framework of a direct intervention is common in the epic. As is also the case in epic narrative, the narrator varies the account of previously narrated events by adding a few new details, «ajoutant a un vers ou a un groupe de vers un élément nouveau pour faire avancer la narration» (8). In this case, the narrator informs us of the next event, the fortuitous meeting with Ogrin. He also adds, at the end of the stanza that comprises the transition, a general description of the love shared by the couple. The last detail will be amplified in the Ogrin episode as well as in subsequent scenes. These lines, then, summarize the events of the escape and the general life led in the forest and serve as a transition to introduce Ogrin. In ll. 2371-2420, the reader finds a similar summary. This time, however, he is not directly addressed. Instead, Ogrin addresses Tristan, repeating to him his own history of three

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years earlier. In this instance, the hermit also chooses to emphasize, at the beginning of his summary, Tristan’s escape, and he mentions the famous rock. He amplifies the event nobly. His words cannot be lost on the reader: Qant il vos vout livrer a mort Et en feu ardoir, par le nain (Cortois le virent et vilain), I] ne voloit escouter plait. Qant Dex vos an ot merci fait Que d’iluec fustes eschapez, Si com il est oi assez (9), Que, se ne fust la Deu vigor, Destruit fusiez a deshonor (Tel saut feistes qu’il n’a home De Costentin entresqu’a Rome, Se il le voit, n’en ait hisdor), Iluec fuistes par poor. (ll. 2376-88)

(From a structural point of view, it is satisfying for the reader to associate those jumps for which Tristan is well known. It was his jump from his bed to Iseut’s that left the tell-tale blood stains, on which evidence he and Iseut were condemned to death. It was poetically just and meet that Tristan’s second leap should be the means which immediately save him and indirectly save Iseut.) The hermit’s entire summary aims to uphold Tristan’s honor and to point out his exceptional heroic qualities. It does not pretend to be an objective account, unlike the narrator’s, but © one which interprets the events and Tristan. It is less obvious that the interpretation is meant to influence the reader, since the hermit—not the narrator—is addressing Tristan and, supposedly, not the reader (10). His recapitulation does not follow a chronological order, as did the poet’s intervention, but rather jumbles the events, including, in addition, Tristan’s quest for Iseut in Ireland and the wedding of Marc and Iseut. So Ogrin reminds Tristan of his entire story by highlighting events from the most distant past as well as those fresh in our and in the characters’ minds. He even includes possible plans for the future. But his compact approach to retelling Tristan’s story begins

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with the same fact with which the narrator’s summary began. They are, at least in this minimal fashion, linked together. Ogrin ends the recapitulation with the words «Tex ert li brief» (1. 2410). This recapitulation, with its positive, noble connotations, will be the matiére which Ogrin will transmit in a written account. Ogrin dictates the letter which contains summarily the entire story. (Interestingly, however, he omits the fact of the potion. He also does not sign the letter or indicate publicly his role in its composition.) One could, therefore, push the significance of this act a bit further to see Ogrin as the one who dictates the narrative in its entirety, at least insofar as the selection of events and accompanying tone are concerned. The hermit is aware of what has taken place; he controls events and their presentation by means of his clerkliness which can manipulate and communicate them. Ogrin’s clerkliness may not go unnoticed by the reader. It is an essential attribute of the hermit’s portrayal, granting him the possibility of a role greater than that of spiritual confidant. For Ogrin’s understanding of the intricacies of the conflicts between the couple and their consciences, and between the couple and the court, will be translated in a narrative «brief» (story, letter, and a case for the defense) to be read in Marc’s presence to the court, so that a resolution of the various conflicts may take place. He knows the intimate problems of Tristan and Iseut’s existence as well as the implacability of society’s rules. He chooses to be on the side of the lovers, hiding their fault, lying on their behalf, rather than to betray the truth, despite the available explanation which the potion can provide. Therefore, the clerkliness at Ogrin’s disposal is put to the service of protecting the lovers by providing them with yet another way to camouflage the truth, by creating illusions, and by allowing them to benefit from the auctoritas and believability of the «saintly» hermit. The details used to fill in the picture of a clerkly Ogrin are slipped in without an excess of show, but still effectively enough to make the point. For example, when Tristan and Iseut return to the hermit to «repent» of their sin, the narrator informs us that «L’ermite Ogrin trovent lisant» (1. 2292). In addition, the

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actual writing of the letter is not omitted by Béroul. It is included despite the summary of its contents already provided. The description of Ogrin composing the message for Marc includes details already familiar to us from the Alexis, when the saint himself sets down the true account of his history. However, the same sense of truthfulness and self-sacrifice for the benefit of the community obviously does not strictly apply in Tristan’s case, as it did in that of Alexis. The description of the letter-writing is as follows: Ogrins l’ermite lieve sus, Pene et enque et parchemin prist, Totes ces paroles i mist. Qant il out fait, prist un anel, La pierre passot el seel. Seelé est, Tristran le tent, Il le recut mot bonement. «Quil portera?» dist li hermites. «Gel porterai. —Tristran, nu dites.» (Il. 2428-36)

As in the Alexis, the writing implements figure prominently, being designated by name. Unlike the situation that prevailed in the saint’s life, however, the romance introduces the issue of dual authorship. The epistle does not objectively—that is to say, sacredly—report facts in the manner that the narrator of the Alexis claims the chartre to have done; it contains «totes ces paroles»—i.e., those verbal constructs invented by Ogrin and intended to portray selected events, in a certain light, to a specific, critical public. The text receives a kind of imprimatur from Tristan himself, who acts, in part, similarly to that kind of patroness that is Marie de Champagne in the Charrette. He, in his experiences as the Lover, provides the matiére which is recounted, in lyrical fashion, in the first person by another, a distanced and wiser clerkly figure. (This is a situation closely akin to that which will later prevail in the Romance of the Rose.) Tristan verifies, or at least condones, the form and expression Ogrin gives to his aventure: «Tex ert li brief. —Et je [Tristan] Votroi» (1. 2410). The missive does contain, however, the chosen facts of the couple’s history that the fictional

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public already knows—and only those facts which Ogrin, Tristan, and Iseut would have Marc know and/or be reminded of: Tristran, roine, or escoutez Un petitet, si m’entendez. Por honte oster et mal covrir Doit on un poi par bel mentir. Qant vos consel m’avez requis, Gel vos dorrai sanz terme mis. En parchemin prendrai un brief: Saluz avra el premier chief. (il. 2351-58)

The summary of Tristan’s past history, which Ogrin intends to put in the letter to Marc, figures as the third repetition of the story of Tristan’s escape to Morrois: the first was provided by the poet-narrator in a direct aside to the reader; the second is a sentimental dramatization of the escape done, for the benefit of the reader as well as for Marc’s court, when Tristan’s dog Husdent traces his master’s steps, including the leap from the chapel window onto the reef below. The process of repetition has progressed to the point where what has been told to the reader becomes more and more real, as narration, by the time it becomes a story told by one character to the character who actually lived it. What the poet-narrator says derives an artificial authenticity from the authorial combination of Ogrin and Tristan. In his own poetic account, it is as if Béroul partakes of the activities of both characters, the experience of the one and the technique of the other—factors which become one and the

same in the person of Alexis. The final reprise is, however, yet to come. Again unlike the Alexis, where the narrator tells us that the chartre was read to the Roman public by a clerc, but does not quote it, in Béroul’s poem, the reading of the letter is dramatized and, therefore, also made for the reader. In this way, the reader becomes a sort of accomplice in the network woven to protect and exonerate Tristan and Iseut. He, too, reads the letter—actually sees one of the «relics» for himself—and thus fulfills, in part, the function of the eye-witness. In the case of the reading aloud, the facts previously proposed by Ogrin are retold in chronological order

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interspersed with Tristan’s proposal for the future. It objectifies everything that has happened or been said, projecting it all into the «real» world of Marc’s court. However, an important distinction must be made here in comparing the processes of Béroul’s poem with the saint’s life. In the Alexis, the chartre is read by aclerc to a community which represents, and is existentially continued in, the Christian community who hears the poem from the clerkly narrator. The reading, in this case, also takes place after the demise of the saint: Alexis sees to it that it does and, thus, avoids the temptation to exploit the glory of his newly acclaimed identity. Marc’s court, however, is not the reader’s community. There is no transference, either historical or spiritual, that connects Marc’s court to the reader’s world over time. Despite these efforts of Béroul to achieve such similarities, the reader’s reaction cannot be identical. The degree of reality or truth, although artfully simulated, falls short of that authenticity effected by the saint’s life. This difference goes far to explain why, in the Alexis, the chartre need not be quoted and why Béroul’s poem finds it expedient to do the opposite. Since the Alexis reenacts the saint’s life in all senses, it would be redundant, even damaging to the value of the Vie, to reproduce the chartre within the poem. This is not the case for Béroul. The reader of the Alexis is not privileged to see and touch the relic of the chartre. He is not permitted, really, to see the words being written down or to hear the letter being read aloud as if he were witnessing the event for himself. It is as though the world of fiction required a greater act of faith to be believed, without providing things to hear and to see, than the world of miracles. The Alexis narrator can permit himself the luxury of not presenting the chartre, whereas it is a necessary part of the accoutrements of persuasion employed by Béroul’s romance narrator. The situation of the fiction is necessarily forced, since the controlling legend does not allow for a resolution of the basic misunderstandings, except in a poetic fashion in the realm of the creation of satisfactory images. For example, the dramatic irony built into certain scenes of the saint’s life, where Alexis’ father and friends repeatedly fail to recognize him, is made

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much of by, among other things, metaphors of blindness. But this irony is resolved. An integrated picture of Alexis is achieved by the end of the poem when the chartre is in the possession of the people and they see the saint physically in another way. In the story of Tristan, what the reader knows and is made to feel is never equalled by the knowledge and response of the lovers’ community. There is an element of lying, of deception, of double-talk—which no doubt makes for good romance situations—that is essential in maintaining the tragedy and in involving the reader in that tragedy. The necessity for this deception by double-talk is never directly explained. There is an implied justification provided for such behavior, since it takes place in the face of an unrelenting feudal society effectively represented by the scheming Frocin and the jealous barons. In fact, however, the deception is called for by the genre itself, for Béroul’s text is, despite all efforts to suggest the contrary, a romance. Therefore, it thrives on situations which play off appearances against reality, and the status quo against some interesting deviation. Thanks to the poet-narrator, the reader is made fully aware of the contrast and can fully enjoy the play, whether it strikes a whimsically ironic note, produces a frankly comic effect, or leads to a tragic end, as, indeed, might be the case in Béroul (although each situation prevails at some time in the text). The same degree of realistic truth as in the Alexis is not possible in the Jristan because of its matiere and because of the genre which expresses it. But Béroul has tried valiantly to simulate as best he can the authenticity and the possibilities of auctoritas that support the validity of a text like La Vie de saint Alexis. He calls upon the reader, nevertheless, to be on the side of the lovers, as God apparently is, or so he would have the reader think—a side irremediably unreconcilable with the viewpoint of the spectators within the poem. Furthermore, although Béroul has masterfully made use of parallels between the narrator and a principal clerkly character, calling attention to clerkliness and to a written original source, his poem does not derive from, equal, or reproduce that original written document, as does the Alexis. Rather, it contains the letter which itself contains, in a summa-like fashion, all the other repetitions of

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Tristan’s escape, describing it in’such a way that it appears as something real and concrete before our eyes (and ears). In fact, it is itself still another repetition, one which exists in a tight relationship with previously narrated events. It endows those repetitions it encloses with a second degree of status by selfconsciously calling our attention to the fact that they exist in a written form, while simultaneously deriving authenticity from them, the lived events. The missive’s validity derives solely from the elements within the text, a situation characteristic of romance. It exists in a state of tension with the recapitulation performed by the poet-narrator and with the sentimentalized journey of Husdent. The series of repetitions reinforce the effect. The purpose of the Jaisse-like summaries and repetitions is to impress upon the reader the magnificence of Tristan’s escape and to make the reader hope against hope that all will be reconciled between the characters, only to introduce, somehow, a new complication that renews the process once again, producing a new variation. The Potion

When one can comprehend Béroul’s efforts in this light, it becomes less difficult to see why Chrétien might respond to this version of Tristan by emphasizing the privileged position of his reader, by creating convenient complications to extract his protagonists from their predicaments, and by pushing the techniques of parallels even further than did Béroul with respect to the Alexis. Whereas the Alexis presented a projection of the saint, by means of writing, from the center of the story outward to the edges where the narrator confronts the public and reenacts what Alexis did, Béroul’s narrator and his summaries do not derive from Tristan and Iseut, or, more exactly, from Ogrin’s letter, but, rather, exist on the same plane with them. Béroul is another Ogrin; both are elements of the poem which labor to make the same points. Béroul tells his public more than, not as little as, Ogrin tells Marc. Their intentions and points of view with respect to the reader are not dissimilar. Chrétien does not maintain these relationships in Cligés. His

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narrator persona does not occupy the same plane of existence as the other characters in the interest of a particular effect of belief or disbelief, of comedy or tragedy. Instead, he takes a cue from what Béroul has done and focuses his lens on the simulated authenticity, magnifying it with emphasis on the simulation effected by means of literary techniques borrowed from various medieval genres as well as from specific poems. In addition, he has reversed or inverted the process that created the direction of the relationships between the hero and the poet-narrator in the Alexis. His poet-narrator does not derive from the central character, which would give him a greater aura of reality and a clearer identity as a sayer of historical truth. Chrétien chooses instead to project the poet-narrator persona, portrayed solely as a clerkly poet, into the center of the narrative, into the world of fiction, not of history. By doing so, he emphasizes the positive artificiality of the poet-narrator’s activity. He does not belabor the plot, repeating the «facts» over and over again, as Béroul did, but highlights the method and the techniques of the creative process itself. This innovation is precisely what the midpoint of Cligés sets off. So that the argument will not be lost on the reader, Chrétien has fixed on the Tristan symbol par excellence in order to forge an emblem for his own poem—the symbol conveniently left in the shadows by Ogrin. Consequently, in continuing our comparison, it would be helpful to outline the salient points of Béroul’s text which concern themselves with the potion as a symbol. (We see, in Béroul, the principal, and exemplary ,surviving French text of the «version commune.») ‘Although the potion bears the brunt of the blame for the tragedy that claims Tristan, Iseut, and Marc as its victims, it is, surprisingly enough, rarely mentioned by Béroul. We may consider that the potion «explains» everything away, to be sure, but it is never, in the surviving fragment, at least, clearly justified or even offered as a public explanation of events. It conveniently affords an unassailable given of the story that catalyzes all future happenings. It is the illogical fictional invention, or magic trick, that permits the story of Tristan and Iseut to proceed in what seems to be a logical, though tragic manner. Perhaps because the premise of the story is true or acceptable

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only from a poetic standpoint in an account that purports to be history, the explanation can never be mentioned in public, nor should it be emphasized in any way, lest meditations on the potion’s origins, purposes, and strength cause it to lose its romantic power and magic. Hence, the symbol provides the poem with its chief constraint and its strongest freedom. However, as such, it exists principally as symbol, being rarely mentioned and only vaguely described. In the portions that remain of Béroul’s poem, the potion is first referred to by Tristan in his initial encounter with Ogrin. Ogrin, at this time, joins the ranks of the privileged, helpful confidants who side with the lovers in their misery. Tristan and Iseut give him to understand that, despite the hermit’s efforts to have them repent and reform, it is beyond their power to renounce their love for one another. No justification is clearly stated for Tristan’s honest avowal to the hermit. Why does he tell him the truth? Is it because Ogrin is on the fringes of society, voluntarily isolated from the world, posing no threat, therefore, and, like themselves, capable of tolerating ambiguities? If an answer may be sought in terms of poetic «reasoning,» what takes place in this scene is justified by what it prepares for in the second conversation with the hermit—after the potion has suddenly worn off. The context of the lovers’ first discussion with Ogrin was colored by concerns of judgment, blame, guilt or innocence, and a confession impossible to complete successfully. The «absolution» and readmission into the community, such as they are, can occur only in the second scene. But we do see that Béroul is very much concerned with maintaining the consequences of his potion device while feigning an honest clarification of the lovers’ innocence, recognized and supported by what appears to be an official representative of the Church. The potion is to blame, not those who drank it. The potion is at fault, despite the fact that Tristan still loves Iseut and she him, even after the potion is no longer effective. (Béroul has so completely convinced his reader of this that the potion can fade into the background—to the point that it is done away with!) Another of the frequent references to the magic love-drink occurs in Iseut’s lament of all that she has had to forfeit because

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she unwittingly drank from the cup. She regrets the loss of her station and the luxuries and elegant life of the queen she, in fact, is, or has been. There is, surprisingly, no mention made of regrets for having sinned or caused innocent people to suffer. Iseut meditates merely on the loss of social standing and material wealth. She realizes that neither she nor Tristan is in the right place and that the potion is the agent which has turned her world upside-down. In her frustration, Iseut tries to find something or someone to blame. She focuses her anger on a cause that will explain the irrational; her choice falls upon Brangien, although she was neither the author of the drink nor its inspiration. But it was she who neglected to guard the potion for its intended purpose. She is another character who has apparently fallen out of her role, allowing someone else to confuse appearances and realities to the point that she administers an apparently ordinary, but, in fact, extraordinary, drink to the wrong two people. The ordinary and the magical are mixed up without premeditation or awareness, to disastrous effects. Lastly, the potion is occasionally referred to in words other than the usual «poison.» It is called un herbé (1. 1414) by Iseut in her explanation of her behavior to Ogrin. Tristan describes it to Iseut as Ji vins herbez (1. 2259) at the time when they realize that the potion has worn off. The poet-narrator refers to it as li vins, li lovendrins, and li vin herbez (ll. 2133 ff.). These few

references aside, the potion is never fully described. The absence of a detailed description maintains the identity and the role of the potion as symbol. Its presence is felt everywhere in the poem as inescapable tragic fate, but the reader is never allowed to see it. Some pertinent remarks on the question of the philtre in Tristan poems, made by R.L. Curtis, will provide us with a more complete context for the magic potion as well as with an explanation for its lack of concrete presence in the text—the absence, in other words, of precise descriptions of it in the various versions still available: Si nous comparons le méme épisode dans les différents ouvrages, nous constatons que seuls Béroul et Gottfried déclarent que la reine a préparé le philtre elle-méme; les autres romans se contentent de dire qu’elle le donne 4 Brangien, sans indiquer comment elle l’a obtenu. Mais ce qui nous

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frappe dans les deux cas, c’est l’absence* totale de détails descriptifs; nous n’avons aucune idée du contenu du breuvage ni de la maniére dont il est préparé. Ce manque de précision ne doit pourtant pas nous surprendre; en effet, attribuant au philtre une valeur essentiellement symbolique, les auteurs évitent d’insister trop sur la préparation elle-méme pour concentrer

davantage l’attention sur ses effets émotionnels et psychologiques (11).

Gottfried’s version and the Folie Berne each adds additional interesting details about the contrivance of the potion. The Folie Berne provides the following brief description: «Cil boivres fu faiz a envers / De plusors herbes mout divers» (Il. 31617); and Gottfried adds: Die wile und sich ouch Tristan mit sinen lantgesellen dan bereite und berihte, die wile so betigte Is6t diu wise kunigin in ein glasevezzelin einen tranc von minnen mit als6 kleinen sinnen.... (ll. 11433-40)

To summarize, the following attributes are accorded by various, but related versions of the poem to the magic potion: one, it is an herb wine, a love-drink (Béroul), composed of many and various herbs (Folie Berne); two, it is prepared by the queen, Iseut’s mother, in secret and with great cunning and artifice (Gottfried); three, it is placed in a glass vial or decanter (Gottfried); four, the potion is entrusted to the care of Brangien, who ° bungles her job by allowing it to be served to Tristan as well as to Iseut—she is blamed for the mistake (Béroul); five, the potion is invested with the sin and with the culpability for the adulterous love (Béroul); six, it acts as a symbol for the love and for the fatality that characterizes the poem (Béroul); and lastly, it is rarely mentioned by a text that depends on it entirely for its rationale (Béroul). Now, given these details concerning the potion, and given the importance ascribed to it by Chrétien, who locates its description at the midpoint of Cligés, we are better able to understand how Chrétien reacted to the Tristan material available to him in

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the construction, precisely, of his focal scene. Furthermore, exact details retained by Chrétien from the other sources suggest that his poem ought to be considered, at least in part, as a version of the 7ristan and that it is related as well to those texts mentioned above. . First of all, the shift in emphasis from a version like Béroul’s to Chrétien’s is interesting in itself. What Chrétien does with the potion is related to what Béroul—or the version commune, as represented by Béroul—chose to do, but Chrétien inverts and outdoes his predecessor’s choices. Whereas we noticed that the philter was, in Béroul’s text, barely visible, infrequently referred to, and alluded to only in secret meetings with trusted friends, we see that Chrétien does the same as, and yet the opposite from, Béroul, Gottfried, et al. An artificer—a magician—creates his potion. She is described as cortoise, an adjective most certainly applicable to the probable author of the original potion, Iseut’s mother, the queen of Ireland. The device of the potion is resorted to because of an avowal made to a confidant, capable, due to her training, of remedying the conflict between individual desire and social acceptability, much in the same way that Ogrin puts together the letter to Marc to effect a similar reconciliation. The potion underlies the entire poem in a text like Béroul’s, but it is never clearly focused on; Chrétien makes the potion the central object of his romance, highlighting it by placing it at the midpoint, rather than casting it into subterranean shadows. Elsewhere, the potion is rarely, and only briefly, described; its contents and method of composition are never discussed except for vague references to a variety and an abundance of unnamed and unquantified herbs. But Chrétien places the emphasis of his potion squarely on its description, a description that is repeated, and stresses its effects by means of repetition (not unlike the techniques applied by Béroul to Tristan’s escape), but he concentrates the repetitions in one important place, alternating between the poet-narrator and Thessala as reliable spokesmen for the potion’s authenticity. Some details remain the same. The potion is brewed and spoken of in secret in Cligés, as it was in Béroul and will be in Gottfried. However, the secrecy itself is consciously made to be the focus of our

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attention. The spotlight is on what generally lies hidden. There is no premium placed on mysterious goings-on in dark places. Chrétien also emphasizes, in his descriptions of the potion, the abundance and the variety of the materials used, and, as in Gottfried’s version, the potion is placed, at last, in a glass container (glasevezzelin, |. 11438; la cope de cristal, 1. 3269). Brangien is not aware that she serves a potion or that she offers it to the wrong people. The same things could also be said of Cligés, as hé brings Thessala’s brew to Alis, but not of Thessala herself. So we see that Chrétien chooses to retain some of the characteristics of the traditional potion, but in general to invert the process devised by Béroul in his poem. Cligés juggles the givens of the Tristan potion and profits from this rearrangement of motifs to have Thessala, and the agent she puts together, square things between the couple and society and play a role that corresponds to, and comments upon, Caden and the letter he arranges for Mace:

Within these contexts, and in light of these correspondences, our attention may turn to the passage that Chrétien has spotlighted for us. Let us analyze carefully the descriptions of the potion as Thessala prepares it (Il. 3209-16 and 3244-66). The first description partakes of the narration—the poet-narrator’s activity—whereas the second comes to the reader in the form of direct discourse from the lips of Thessala. She reinforces the narrator’s work of description and confirms what he has already told us. The two authorities are in agreement: the first brings the potion to life by means of his description—i.e., by means of mimesis; the second brings the potion physically into existence within the boundaries of the fictional world she inhabits. She describes its properties concretely and abstractly in order to convince Cligés of its noble properties, albeit in enigmatic terms. Since this correspondence between Thessala and the poet-narrator seems so strong when seen in terms of these processes, we may wish to ask if Chrétien himself may not also be speaking in an enigmatic fashion. For the time being, let us merely sketch the main points brought out by the two descriptions.

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We are initially struck by the variety of verbs included in the poet-narrator’s brief presentation: Thessala tranpre sa poison, Espices i met a foison Por adolcir et atranprer; Bien les fet batre et destranprer, Et cole tant que toz est clers Ne rien n’i est aigres n’amers;

Car les espices qui i sont Dolces et de boene oldor sont. (il. 3209-16)

The verbs characterize Thessala’s activity in a way that seems very close to being technical, or scientific, in keeping, perhaps, with the rhetoric of her trade. They also emphasize the fact of activity, of various types of operations worked upon the material. The making of the philter is not a matter of a brief incantation, but rather of an entire day’s work which requires careful application of a complicated skill. It is fitting that the poet-nartrator, who himself derives pride and pleasure from the adequate exercise of his own artistic talents, should evince appropriate respect for Thessala and that he should take a certain amount of trouble to acquaint himself with the proper terms to designate another craftman’s art. (These terms appear only in the narrated description: Thessala does not bother to speak to Cligés of technical matters, only of the overall characteristics of the drink as they may concern him.) The verbs are as follows;I will include a translation of the terms and indicate how many times they occur: feire («to make»; once), atranprer («to lighten,» «to cut,» «to make less heavy»; twice and in rhyme position), tranprer («to mix»; once), mettre («to put»; once), adolcir («to sweeten»; once), batre («to beat»; once), destranprer («to mash up»; once and in rhyme position), coler («to filter»; once). The emphasis falls on the variety of operations involved and centers around that of tranprer and its attendant variations, more markedly pronounced than the others, perhaps, because they find themselves most often in rhyme positions as well as participating in an annominatio: tranpre, atranprer, and destranprer. The brief outline of Thessala’s creation, as provided by the poet-

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narrator, is that she makes the potion and that she cuts or lightens it: the latter term, atranprer, is the only technical verb that Chrétien chooses to repeat in his description. One interpretation of this «prologue» to the description could argue that Thessala must first make the potion materialize before she can proceed to disguise its appearances as a magic potion by undercutting its properties. This interpretation may refer to the dynamics that exist explicitly between texts, whether one considers the case of the story of Alexandre and Soredamor with respect to that of Fenice and Cligés, or the case of a Tristan poem compared to the Cligés romance. The principal characteristics of the liquid are its sweetness and its clarity. Both the narrator’s and Thessala’s descriptions of the potion emphasize these two points. The narrator fixes the reader’s attention on them by informing him of the reason for the potion’s clarity: Thessala has mixed and filtered the ingredients so expertly and to such a degree that they blend together in a complete transparency. Secondly, the narrator explains that the ingredients Thessala has selected for her recipe include only those that taste sweet and have a pleasing fragrance; nothing tart or bitter is permitted to mitigate the tempting result. When Thessala describes the wedding present she wishes to bestow upon Alis—and only Alis—she resorts to a similar brief characterization of the brew (14), without explaining the causes of its appearance and adding that the mulled wine is the finest and most expensive in the world. She describes her gift, not so that Cligés may understand exactly what it is he is serving, but only so that he will be convinced that it is harmless, pleasing, and a fine gift worthy of the emperor. She does not exactly lie in the strict sense of prevarication; she speaks to Cligés in what seems to be a straightforward manner, but the reader, who witnessed both the planning and the making of the potion, actually perceives that she speaks ironically. Since we know that Chrétien has consistently alluded to, and drawn upon, other poems to forge his own, it may be of interest to point out a possible analogue for the descriptions of Thessala and her potion. The spotlight centering on the artificer in Cligés may project a light that is all the stronger because it derives part

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of its power from the Eneas narrator’s description of Vulcan as he fashions armor and weapons for Eneas (ll. 4341 ff.). This description is rather lengthy and proceeds basically in the same order as the description provided by the poet-narrator in Cligés: request for a special object from a master craftsman, description of the creation of the object in question, description of the finished product, its delivery to the intended benefactor, and the eventual use of the product. However, there are a few noticeable differences in the narrated description in the Eneas: the description is not repeated by the artificer himself; the description of the armor and weapons is long and quite detailed, although certain characteristics in general predominate, as do clers and dolces in the potion descriptions; and lastly, the narration permits the intrusion of two digressions within the descriptions, both of which are well known myths drawn from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Vulcan obeys the wishes of Venus to provide Eneas with exceptional armor. The task takes him and his many helpers just under two months to complete. It would seem that, although Vulcan is a god whose divinity is sufficient explanation for the high quality of the armor, Thessala is the better artificer, since she needs, working alone, only one day to prepare her potion. What is more, her product will further the very activity that Vulcan is powerless to prevent: adultery. (The first digression in the Eneas passage is the story of Vulcan’s trapping Venus and Mars and displaying their flagrant délit to all Olympus. Perhaps one might say that, in the long run, Thessala’s potion leads, although inadvertently, to the same sort of result, since Cligés and Fenice become an exemplary justification to all emperors for the confinement and the careful watching over of their potentially unfaithful wives!) In addition to this evidence for possible correspondences between the two texts, there exist similarities in the choice of vocabulary used to describe the artificers at work. We have already pointed out the marked abundance and technicality of the verbs used by Chrétien. Naturally, the Eneas poet makes normal use of the verb forgier and of appropriate verbs to indicate the lighting of the fires, etc., but he also includes the following characteristic operation performed on the metals:

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES batent lo fer, tenprent l’acier. Vulcan comance a forgier; li jingnor fierent asprement, qui batoient V’or et l’argent. (Il. 4401-04, emphasis added)

The same cascading of verbs prevails to suggest the variety and intensity of skilled movements on the part of the craftsmen. The verbs batre and tenprer (tranprer) are common to both texts. When the armor is finally described, the accent falls on the ingredients used, in a manner of speaking—that is, on the precious gems in particular, on the exclusive use of silver and gold, and on the absence of iron or steel (similar to the selection of espices de boene oldor in the place of anything bitter or sour); finally, much is made of the shininess of the armor, by the adjectives luisanz, reluisanz, cler, and the noun clarté. We have seen that cler was an important attribute of the potion as well. In addition, the care, the painstakingly repeated operations performed by Thessala on the mixture, indicated by the repetitions of tranprer and its variations as well as by the expression et cole tant, are also to be found in the Eneas passage: L’espee fu molt bien forbie, forgiee fu par grant mestrie, dis foiz fu li aciers moluz et par dis foiz fu refunduz, mainte feiee fu tenprez et bien recuiz et bien soldez. (ll. 4469-74)

Although Vulcan is not seen describing his masterpiece to another character, as was Thessala, this procedure is perhaps replaced, or superseded, by the fact that Vulcan signs his work (as Chrétien usually signed his poems): «O letres d’or les mers i fist / Vulcan et son nom i escrist» (ll. 4481-82). Thessala, we recall, was forced by the nature of her work to fashion and to present the potion in secret, anonymously. The success of her spell is her only reward, for she cannot even really explain the merits of her talents to Cligés when she describes the potion to him. At this time, it is only Fenice, the narrator, and the reader

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who are fully aware of who Thessala is and of what her talents consist. The purpose of suggesting this possible analogue is to show the description of Thessala and her potion as participating in yet another twelfth-century poetic tradition, that of the description of celebrated artificers. Thessala is not only modeled on Brangien, Lavine’s mother, and Myrrha’s nurse, but also, in this new context, on Vulcan, the divine and clever artificer. She not only outdoes Medea, perhaps, in casting magic spells, but may also even surpass Vulcan. In any event, the sense and richness of the Cligés passage is vastly increased when all the above possibilities of translatio studii resonances are taken into account. The Eneas passage is obviously much longer and much richer in sumptuous detail. But the audience of the Eneas demanded, perhaps, a greater quantity of descriptions of highly decorated, marvelous or exotic objects for the pleasure of visualizing, by means of the poet’s skill and fancy, the otherwise unimaginable. This taste, we recall, is somewhat catered to by Chrétien in his Erec et Enide. By the time he writes Cligés, however, it seems that Chrétien has toned down the type and length of descriptions he will allow to weigh down his narrative. His descriptions are shorter and, in all likelihood, have other purposes than merely to paint lovely verbal pictures for the pleasure of conjuring up visual delights alone. (This problem will be dealt with more fully in the following chapter.) For the moment, I should like to mention another concept and term common to the Eneas and to the Cligés passages we are presently considering—i.e., the concept of mestres (Eneas, 1. 4359). We have seen that Vulcan is granted this title, which indicates that he is a master in the craft of forging metals. If we look over the midpoint of Chrétien’s poem, from 1. 2962 to the end of the potion incident, we observe that the title mestre is used repeatedly and always in reference to Thessala. She, too, must be as worthy of the title in her domain as Vulcan in his. However, the title appears with much greater frequency in the Cligés passage. To be exact, it is used no less than ten times, a considerable number, especially when compared to the infrequent occurrence of the title in the longer Eneas passage. Since

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the title prevails in the scene where the reader meets Thessala for the first time, it behooves us to investigate the possible connotations of mestre in order the better to learn just who this Thessala is. In addition to the meaning already suggested, mestre may also designate a governess or a servant of some importance in the household. This is doubtlessly also a role played by Thessala in the scene between Fenice and herself. We have already exam-

ined the established models for such a role; this aspect of the title confirms this facet of Thessala’s identity. Indeed, the quotation from Troie, given by Godefroy as a supporting example of this meaning of mestre, is all the more interesting, since it specifically refers to Medea as mestre, and we remember that it is precisely that legendary figure whom Thessala, in her own words, claims to surpass in knowledge and skill: «Une soe mes-

tre apela [Medea], / Tot son conseil li a gehi, / Car ele se fioit en li.» The third possibility is that of doctor or physician. This interpretation also applies to Thessala, as confirmed by her own words as she herself so loudly proclaims her knowledge of medicinal cures for a variety of ills (Il. 2979 ff.). As a fourth meaning, the title has been associated with the person of an enchanter or magician. The example from Godefroy is as follows: «Je

suis maistre / Par carmin face erbe paistre / A ceuls ki amer ne vuelent» (Bartsch, Romans et pastourelles, II, 59, 20). The specific example even links the notion of mestre as enchantress to the making of herbal love potions or their antidotes. Again, Thessala’s professional capabilities meet the challenges of her title: she produces a love potion which allows her client (Fenice) not to love or be loved by the one who consumes it. We should also not forget the Latin origin of the word, magister, and the fact that it is closely connected with none other than Ovid himself in his Ars Amatoria: «Naso magister erat.» He is, indeed, a past master of the «art of love» and he presents himself, in his role and his title, as a teacher of this art. Perhaps Thessala is a teacher as well, in her way, and participates, in her own fashion, in the continuation of Ovid’s example, as does the narrator of the poem. Lastly, maistre has been adopted by a poet to describe himself as he continues and translates another work:

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«Maistre Wace l’ad translaté» (Brut, 1. 7). From what has been gleaned from the summary of the meanings of Thessala’s appellation, we can see that the frequent repetition of the title by the poet-narrator and by Fenice is not accidental. The accent is meant to fall on the title. It is meant to become fixed in the image the reader has of Thessala and to remain fixed in all its various possible meanings, for Thessala incarnates all the things the word implies. It should also be added, in a search for possible previous examples of those who are also accorded this title, that Ogrin and Brangien are included in this august company. Brangien (Béroul, 1. 345, for example) obviously meets the qualifications established by the meaning of governess or important servant.

She has hardly singled herself out in achievements in the other areas, however, Ogrin (Béroul, Il. 2282 and 2425) is addressed twice by Tristan as maistre, and each time Ogrin’s function is connected with writing the letter to Marc. Perhaps the title could be construed to underscore the fact that Ogrin serves Tristan and Iseut and so finds its justification in the meaning of servant or guardian. But Ogrin is not officially obligated to the couple in any way and cannot be seen to occupy the same sort of place in the lives of the lovers as either Brangien or Governal. He does, in a sense, belong to their company, yet he is also apart from them. Therefore, the title, as it is applied to Ogrin, may merit additional meanings. Since maistre is conferred to Ogrin only within the context of his gift as letter-writer, this context might be the one that fits some of the other available interpretations of the word. In his mystifying, skillful way of composing the letter, which argues and lies in favor of Tristan, Ogrin performs a kind of enchantment of his own, a «translation» of the facts. He provides, in addition, a sort of model which apparently influences the narrator persona, Berox, in his function as intercessor on behalf of Tristan and Iseut. If, in fact,

Cligés stands in relationship to Béroul’s Tristan as a poetic commentary, then even a detail such as the appellation mestre awarded by both poems to particular characters surely has a part to play in this system of commentary. The repetitions of the title in Thessala’s case may be Chrétien’s way of evoking,

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and of playing on, the implications of the title as held by Ogrin. In order to facilitate our entry into the deeper workings of the central description, I should like to emphasize those attributes that Thessala and «Chrestiens» have in common. The Prologue and the midpoint introduce us for the first time to one of the characters; they are organized so that a portrait of each one is reproduced as he or she sets about the exercise of a particular craft. The portrait itself is brought off solely in terms of lineage as it concerns the tradition of the particular craft. It is further strengthened by means of references to previous accomplishments. Thessala bears the name of her homeland, the locus of skilled artifice par excellence. We recall from the Prologue that the poet-narrator also associates himself with a particular tradition which, he assures us, is firmly ensconced in his country of France. Figuratively, the poet-narrator’s activity may be considered analogous to that of Thessala, since both are employed in the business of casting pleasurable magic spells in response to the wishes of an aristocratic patroness (see the Prologue to the Chevalier de la Charrette). To underscore the importance of tradition in their respective undertakings, both characters proudly proclaim their awareness of the established successful models in their fields, whose work they continue and surpass. In our previous discussion of the Prologue, we have seen that Ovid supplies Chrétien with such a translatio studii model. In the case of Thessala, she tells us herself that she is more accomplished and knowledgeable in her field than was Medea. Just as the poet-narrator supplied us with the description of his own persona, so he is the one who also provides the description, drawn up in a fashion similar to his own self-portrait, of Thessala. This procedure in itself provides a close association between the two: the poet-narrator may be seen as a kind of image-maker—he creates the person of the magician—but it is a creation which is endowed with life from its very inception and which continues his kind of work in the fictional world he has launched into existence. In addition, just as the poet-narrator provided his own self-portrait within the fictional boundaries of the world he inhabits, so, too, does Thessala come forth with a self-description which she offers to a character who shares with her the same fictional arena. The method she chooses to follow,

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in order to construct the persuasive self-portrait, again resembles that method adopted by the poet-narrator in order to confront his reader and convince him to proceed with the poem-adventure under his strict guidance. She lists for Fenice all of her accomplishments, ordinary and extraordinary alike (Il. 2983-91). When, at last, Thessala is ready to administer her potion, she looks about her for a suitable vehicle or messenger to bring her invention into play. Her choice falls on the unsuspecting Cligés. Likewise, the poet’s choice that will enable his inventio to take objective shape in a written narratio is also Cligés. He is the pretext and the vehicle for the poet’s invention (15). An additional parallel is included at the midpoint if Foerster’s edition is adopted. When the potion is first commissioned, Thessala describes to Fenice, in direct discourse, the effects she promises the potion will produce. Once the wine has been drunk, the poet-narrator, in turn, describes the same effects as they take place. (According to Micha’s edition, both descriptions are pronounced by the poet-narrator, thus eliminating this additional possibility of a parallel between Thessala and «Crestiens.») Two more possibilities might be mentioned here. The translatio from one generation to another is rescued from danger by Thessala’s potion which restores the original and legitimate lineage of the story: Alexandre, Cligés, and the heirs of Cligés as emperors of Constantinople. Secondly, Chrétien makes certain claims for his narrative by dwelling on the existence of the original document in the St. Pierre de Beauvais library. In a similar fashion, Thessala instructs Cligés to make certain claims about the source of the potion: that its origins are unknown and that it was found amid a stack of wedding presents. To summarize the principal parallels, the two characters are each introduced at a strategic narrative moment; each one’s history is presented in terms of his or her craft, model, and accomplishments. Furthermore, we come upon the two as they set about some new task of illusion-making that can be considered a reworking, or a «translation,» of another text: the supposed Cligés that lay buried in the St. Pierre library and the Tristan potion. Let us now take a look at that potion as Thessala contrived it, bearing in mind these parallel relationships between poet-narrator and sorceress.

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Description and Metaphor We have seen that the emphasis in the passages describing the potion (Il. 3209-16 and 3239-66) does not fall directly upon the naming or the measuring of its ingredients, but on Thessala’s way of putting the ingredients together. The cataloguing of sources is replaced in the description by the display of relationships existing between them. The question of the kind of materials is superseded by the question of how they are combined, by whom, and to what effect. It should be noted that both descriptions emphasize two factors: that the potion contains ~ boenes espices and that it is clers (1). Thessala is most generous in adding these boenes espices to her brew. She adds a variety of them in such abundance in order to «adolcir et atranprer»— that is, we recall, to sweeten as well as to temper or cut the liquid: «Espices i met a foison / Por adolcir et atranprer; / Bien les fet batre et destranprer» (Il. 3210-12). There is, perhaps, a certain ambiguity concerning these few lines as to what the clause introduced by por refers to. (The semicolon is, of course, an editorial remark on the part of Micha.) Does Thessala add a large quantity of spices in order to sweeten, etc., or does she

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mix them together well in order to ensure the sweetness and lightness of her brew? It could be either or both. Foerster punctuates with a comma instead of a semicolon, a wiser choice, perhaps, because it allows for the ambiguity. It is intended, nevertheless, that the reader perceive these operations as being directed towards some specific and intentional effect. It is difficult, of course, to pinpoint the precise implications of espices (2). It is no doubt meant to be difficult. The description does not easily lend itself to an allegorical interpretation, strictly speaking, that would relate one level of meaning or discourse to another, so that variable x in the description-equation would immediately call to mind x’ which it equals. It does not provide the reader with a quick and easy decoding mechanism which will at once unlock the doors to a secret truth. Rather, the reader is asked to invent along with the poet-narrator, to conjure up with him the system of references possibly contained in the associations suggested. What suggestions result from such a freedom of choice in this case? Spices, in the Middle Ages, were more precious than gold; they constituted a kind of treasure and were, consequently, locked up for safe keeping. They were necessarily imported from the East and constituted part of a household’s culinary store that could be drawn upon in any quantity, in any given combination, to enhance, disguise, transform, and make tempting the ordinary basic materials of cuisine generally available. Their characteristics so highly sought after were, roughly speaking, twofold: they were intensely aromatic (or, at times, piquant) and each spice was endowed with certain medicinal properties, aiding in the cure of certain ailments and promoting general well-being. They were often served at the end of a meal as a sweet to freshen the breath and to leave a pleasant, lingering taste on the tongue, like some kind of after-dinner mint: espice: confitures, dragées. Parfums, beaume ou autres plantes médicinales. Les épices se servaient au dessert: «Aprés laver isnellement / La dame fit donner le vin / Et les espices en la fin.» (Littré)

(Spices were, of course, available only to the wealthy.) (3) Does it not seem possible that Chrétien also avails himself of

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whatever literary «spices» he may have access to? He does, in fact, draw upon a kind of treasure-house chock full of possibilities stored away in the coffers of previously composed poems. These texts are like so many successful formulas or recipes that have made innovative use of rhetorical devices, topoi, stock literary situations, generic contrivances, and the like, and have set them in the mode of their own particular poetic combinations.

Only another clerc or courtly poet, privileged by virtue of his class to procure for himself these texts in variety and abundance, wealthy enough in his comfortable possession of them, as well as in his understanding of their properties, and sufficiently skilled in their previous, often prescribed uses can unlock these combinations as well as choose freely, and in what quantities and relationships he deems fit, from these literary ingredients in order to invent his own piéce de résistance. Quite obviously, Chrétien has lent an oriental flavor to his creation, importing it as he does from a Byzantine locale. Less obviously, he infuses Cligés with other Eastern influences, drawing on such poems of the matiére antique as the Eneas, the Roman d’Alexandre, the Roman de Thebes, and the Roman de Troie. In general, one

could say that his romance does not run the risk of being dull or ordinary. It does not merely sustain, but constantly surprises and pleases him who consumes the delicacies set before him. There is always some new, unexpected sensation that discloses itself to the reader, harmonizing in some fresh way with the course that preceded it and with those yet to follow. The combinations, the number of poems and'literary conventions subtly | and masterfully included, abound; Chrétien adds them a foison and blends them together so knowingly, to such a smooth consistency that they go down easily and delightfully, challenging the reader to divine their provenance, their proportions, and the methods employed to put them together. Those ingredients that «spice up» the romance may, perhaps, be justly designated as boenes espices. They may include such things as the exoticism of Greece, the ironic plays with the Tristan poems, the set pieces that seem to interrupt an advancement of the plot, but cause the reader to pause and savor their effect; or the rhetorical devices and textual borrowings included and

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amplified in new arrangements, as well as the dash of humor or soupcon of raciness tossed into each episode, however unorthodox the additions may seem. All of these things constitute facets of the poet-narrator’s consistent effort to emphasize that this text is a romance—a fiction artfully controlled and thoroughly steeped in sparkling artifice, elaborated for the gourmet pleasure of a courtly audience. The reader is less intrigued by the meat of the story than he is by unusual flavorings added to make it more than palatable. He is distanced from the ostensible subject matter in such a way that the work of the poet-narrator —the adventure of Cligés—becomes the authentic subject matter. Form or manner here is the content. The reader no longer cares to have his fill of «slice of life» situations; he would rather sip

from the cup of distilled humor that imbues the new Tristan couple’s situation, allowing him to remain entirely aware of what is taking place and how it is being brought off. He is at once inside and outside the story, concerned with the developments about to take place because he is fascinated with the ways the poet-narrator will invent them. His pleasure is twofold and commensurate with the structurings and intent of romance, rather than with those of epic or hagiography, where the creator’s endeavors are necessarily at the service of historical or religious truth. In romance, the situation is pleasantly reversed, however numerous or loud may be the claims to the service of philosophical or historical verity. It is all ruse and playful pretense; an intricate, mercurial game between appearances and reality. Thessala works hard at combining and blending these elements. She does not simply add one to another, but, since the mixture is clers and well filtered, she makes one ingredient adhere to and blend with the other—«instead of a mechanical mixture, as it were, there is a chemical compound, the ingredients of which are altered by their union» (4). In this fashion, she performs a conjointure of her own. In fact, one of the meanings attributed to conjungere fits a description of this activity: «se combiner (d’éléments chimiques) 13 j.h.» (Wartburg, FEW, Il, Pt. 2, p. 1053). (This type of operation where the properties of one element fuse with those of another, so

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that the compound is something new, partaking of both, could also compare with the attributes of metaphor.) Thessala whips her as yet undefined raw material into shape and filters the liquid until it is clear. No trace of the original, separate elements is visible. The filtering process keeps out all impurities and all excess uncombinable quantities. Similarly, all undesirable elements foreign to a pure romance instrument are siphoned off. No epic formulas or claims that God is on the lovers’ side, or the like, are allowed. If epic scenes, hagiographic overtones, or lyric qualities do make their way into the text, they are there merely as elements which are only epic-like or lyric-like. They do not exist for their own sakes, but, rather, the artificer uses them to achieve a certain ironic effect, to make a statement by means of generic juxtaposition, to undercut an automatic, though serious, ritualized response which possibly needs reevaluation, and to show, generally, the deception they effect when allowed to dominate romance, even temporarily. (The inclusion of such effects also gives the poet a chance to display the ease with which he masters these other genres as

well.) This last intention particularly applies to Béroul’s handling of the 7ristan myth. In Chrétien, all other generic attributes are, then, not what they seem; they are reinterpreted by their subordination to the romance. The potion, specifically, is not a clumsy or lumpy mixture. Neither does the romance fail to blend smoothly rhetorical devices and literary allusions, as do some contes recounted by those who habitually corrupt their literary material by their . careless, piecemeal treatment of what they have found or inherited. Rather, all the elements borrowed or imported from elsewhere—literally extracted: treire (estrez [Cligés, 22] and tret [Erec et Enide, 13]—harmoniously combine to one effect, where each element disappears in its relationship to the others, creating the perfect, unbeclouded illusion. All are subsumed in a smooth fashion to the desired effect of producing an apparently light, shimmering little nothing resembling the banal romance norm which, however, is actually a highly charged concoction ready to explode like so much nitroglycerine—like the neant Alis repeatedly clasps as he makes much ado about nothing.

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Each carefully combined ingredient is painstakingly subordinated to the overall plan and contained by it: the contained, existing as a purified blend, is completely married to its container, as the transparent sweet-smelling liqueur to the crystal goblet. The individual «spices» make only a fleeting, occasional appearance as a hint of fragrance which, as it wafts past, tantalizes, teasing our memory and imagination to dare recapture its identity and derive for ourselves the secret process of its evolution into the mixture. Thessala permits nothing sour or tart to be included in her concoction; her spices are all sweet and aromatic (ll. 3214-16). Similarly, Chrétien (recalling Horace) aims to please and delight the reader—to foster his well-being: «Vos fera lié, si con je pans» (1. 3266). There is nothing in Cligés of the bitter-sweet love that characterizes the adventures of Tristan and Iseut. In addition, the poet-narrator specifies Thessala’s work on the potion as batre et atranprer; she stirs, whips, breaks down the composition of the ingredients: she chooses to mix them together in such a way that the potion is tempered, moderated, softened, or made sweet. The potion, as it previously existed without being tampered with, we may conclude, therefore, to have been the opposite, something harsh and bitter, dark and foreboding. It is Thessala’s artful rearrangement and her energetic interventions unceasingly applied which transform the mixture. The batre et atranprer is, then, analogous to the poet’s activity which produces a new ordering of familiar materials as he adds one situation or story to another, perhaps previously unrelated to it. Chrétien breaks down and rearranges other poetic material (e.g., Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the Roman d’Eneas, and especially, I venture to say, Béroul’s Tristan); he welds it together differently and smoothly, fabricating a new, poetic compound. The tragic bitterness of the 7ristan legend is avoided due to the new ordering of the legend’s givens as well as to the deliberate exclusion of certain tragic motifs. The myth of doomed, passionate love, as such, is undercut, and our involvement in the lovers’ fate is cooled. The roles, the stories, the techniques—everything possible is turned upside-down, reorganized and reinvented to a «happy end,» to the pure romance

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effect deserving of attention and celebration (5)

The similarities of procedures to produce the potion and to compose the poem are such that I am tempted to go so far as to view the description as a deliberate attempt on Chrétien’s part to make a strong analogy between his poet-narrator and Thessala, between Cligés as text and the poisons. I am of the opinion that Chrétien, who has already effected one stage of self-transformation by adopting the persona of the poet-narrator, carries this process one step further—«squaring» the operation, if you will, multiplying it again by itself—and projects this fabricated narrator persona deeper into the fiction by means of the person of Thessala. In this way, the description of the potion works as metaphor for the poetic processes at work in Cligés: translatio and conjointure. Furthermore, the relationship between craftsman and creation, between romancer and romance, is poeticized by the fiction itself. In this way, the poem

steps back and takes a look at itself in a favorable and selfrevelatory light. It also permits the reader—if he follows the kind of reading which it has pleased this reader to entertain—to discover the same revelations being made, so that even the fact of esthetic distancing (as Haidu has applied the phrase to Cligés) is poeticized, is a part of the process of self-celebration the fiction performs. Metaphor and Ambiguity Just as Iseut can say two things at once to two different publics, thanks to the mechanism of the metaphors she employs, and just as Tristan, thanks to disguises and temporarily adopted personae, can say things which have different, simultaneous meanings on two distinct levels, so is the poet-narrator of Cligés able to achieve similar ends by his fictional projection of himself into another dramatic persona—in this case, Thessala—and so may his description-metaphor carry across his message in two ways, on two levels: fiction and commentary on that fiction. Iseut can indulge herself in ambiguities and ironies even when she swares a solemn oath. The sacredness of truth is rendered subservient to the playful needs of the romance. (This exploita-

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tion and/or mockery of saints’ relics, etc., may be the authorization for the «religious humor» frequently developed in Cligés.) For example, in Béroul, Iseut does not repeat verbatim what Arthur would have her sware to. Instead, she reproduces his verbal model freely, transposing it into a paraphrase, into a metaphorical description, which deceives her Arthurian public and, at the same time, indulges her French courtly audience’s desire to vindicate her: Tuit s’asistrent par mié les rens, Fors les deus rois. C’est a grant sens:

Yseut fu entre eus deus as mains. Pres des reliques fu Gauvains; La mesnie Artus, la proisie, Entor le paile est arengie. Artus prist la parole en main, Qui fu d’Iseut le plus prochain: «Entendez moi, Yseut la bele, Oiez de qoi on vos apele: Que Tristran n’ot vers vos amor De puteé ne de folor, Fors cele que devoit porter Envers son oncle et vers sa per. —Seignors,» fait el, «por Deu merci, Saintes reliques voi ici. Or escoutez que je ci jure, De quoi le roi ci aseure: Si m’ait Dex et saint Ylaire, Ces reliques, cest saintuaire, Totes celes qui ci ne sont Et tuit icil de par le mont, Qu’entre mes cuises n’entra home, Fors le ladre qui fist soi some, Qui me porta outre les guez, Et li rois Marc mes esposez. Ces deus ost de mon soirement, Ge n’en ost plus de tote gent. De deus ne me pus escondire: Du ladre, du roi Marc, mon sire. Li ladres fu entre mes jambes Qui voudra que je plus en face, Tote en sui preste en ceste place.»

(il. 4183-4216)

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The ruse is so well performed that Béroul decides to drive the point home by working the contrivance out in the equivalent of a laisse similaire, showing that the community—and, by implication, the community of readers of his poem—accepts what Iseut says. The community repeats it verbatim, acting like a naive Greek chorus, and conveys Iseut’s speech in an unambiguous sense:

Tuit cil qui l’ont oi jurer Ne pient pas plus endurer: «Dex!» fait chascuns, «si fiere en jure: Tant en a fait aprés droiture! Puis i a mis que ne disoient (6) Ne que li fel ne requeroient: Ne li covient plus escondit Qu’avez oi, grant et petit, Fors du roi et de son nevo. Ele a juré et mis en vo Qu’entre ces cuises nus n’entra Que li meseaus qui la porta Ier, endroit tierce, outre les guez, Et li roi Marc, ses esposez. Mal ait jamais l’en mesquerra!»

(Il. 4217-31)

This scene surely represents one of the sublime moments of Béroul’s narrative. Everything comes together here: the official delegate of the Arthurian world including Arthur and Gauvain, a community reminiscent of an epic or a saint’s life, relics, and an oath, a disguised Tristan, an elaborately planned scene played out for the benefit of Arthur, Marc, and company, and Iseut’s . shrewd double-talk. The Tristan poems, such as Béroul’s and the Folie Berne, do their best to bring about situations of this kind that they can dramatically exploit. They strive to organize disguises and contrived, premeditated stagings, so that one or both characters are free to deliver an ironic speech of this type. The whole Tristan romance revolves around setting up such possibilities for the presentation of spoken metaphors, for the display of romance «gems» that stand on their own, like self-enclosed episodes. The fact that the Tristan story depends so heavily on such renewals of deceit and contrivance very possibly makes of it the romance material par excellence.

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Cligés intends to display the workings of this romance archetype from the «wrong» side to point out this fact all the more clearly in a manner similar to Ovid’s depiction of Arachne’s tapestry. If Cligés is so contrived, so artificial, so précieux (as some would have it), it is because Béroul’s text (i.e., the version commune) is too. It thrives on the game that pits illusion against reality. In a sense, it is a story which would illustrate that two wrongs make a right. The betrayal of feudal loyalty on the part of the barons legitimizes the adultery of Tristan and Iseut, since Tristan is Marc’s main political support. (Incidentally, Fenice invokes a similar argument for her affair with Cligés, since, by marrying her, Alis betrays the legitimate political order.) The poem plays on the way discourse is received, on the way a narration is listened to, and centers that play around the audience’s image of the speaker. Tristan and Iseut, the beautiful people, are generally loved; therefore, what they say must be true and unquestioned. What their opponents say must logically be false and proven so. Note that Tristan and Iseut are undone, at long last, only when someone deliberately lies to one of them (Iseut aux Blanches Mains)! Their sworn enemies never tell lies about them; they always speak the truth—albeit maliciously—but their truth is perceived by the courtly community as lies. Such ironic incidents, provided by a poem like Béroul’s, authorize the poet-narrator of Cligés to take similar advantage of the latent, equivocal possibilities of metaphor-description in a different context in order to reveal certain truths about romance art and yet keep the story going. Poetic commentary—or an ars poetica—is revealed at the expense of the 7ristan predilection for psycho-drama. The Cligés poet-narrator’s stance maintains that the literary intellect at work is as intrinsically interesting as dramatic conflict. The potion is put together by means of fusion, whereby boundaries that separate elements are broken down so that they may merge into a new compound that provokes magical illusions. This process is not unique to the creation of the new «love-drink.» It is also characteristic of the way Chrétien puts together his poem: the boundaries existing between genres, other poems, and literary building-blocks, such as topoi, con-

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ventions, and rhetorical devices, are abolished so that they may be commingled in order to provoke new poetic visions, new combinations that make their way into romance tradition. And linking these two achievements of creativity is another example of the same process whereby the sen or meaning of the poem is revealed, for the boundaries separating narrative concerns and an evaluative commentary on those concerns disappear in the metaphor that is the description of the potion. In other words, the process of associations and fresh interactions that makes the potion possible is equally applicable to the way in which the passage functions in the text and emblematic of the poetic relationships that make up the romance. Just as Tristan and Iseut take on disguises of person or speech in order to be able to maintain a certain decorum in society whenever possible, and yet they manage to communicate a more personal point of view to one another, so, too, does the potion masquerade, while maintaining its role within the story, as something else to Allis, on the one hand, and, on the other, to the reader. In other Tristan poems (e.g., the version courtoise) the potion was a symbol of a real-life state of affairs, a poetic commentary on passionate love and a translation of the human condition of love and death into the language of fiction. In Cligés, the potion has become a symbol and a metaphor for this very act of translation, or of transposition, that these poems have undertaken. It constitutes a commentary on the commentary that is poetry. It is twice removed, then, from the «real world,» bringing about the first completely self-conscious vernacular narrative which celebrates its own creative process—indeed, the «romancier’s romance.» By now, the characteristics of a «crucial narrative moment» in romance are readily recognizable in the workings of the midpoint. The scene apparently slows down the narrative and shifts the reader’s attention from the mainstream of events—the marriage of Alis and Fenice. Consequently, there is a pause during which the poet-narrator has the reader concentrate on Thessala’s making of the potion. Thessala and her work are temporarily isolated for viewing alone. The scene consists of a description, a supportive intervention on the part of the poet-narrator, and a metaphor. It comments on, and responds quite adequately to,

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the unquestionably important narrative event that is the Prologue. Therefore, both conjointure and translatio are strongly represented within the space of the midpoint. A progression, or dépassement, is involved when the two passages are seen to be related in this way, since the persona of homo faber is taken that much deeper into the narrative and revealed in a celebrative manner. As for the motif of sleeping and waking, much is made of this dichotomy where the effects of the potion are concerned: for example, «il dort et songe, et veillier cuide» (1. 3309). In this case, a particular character does not awaken to his identity. Instead, the curtain is removed for the spectatorreader so that he may witness the behind-the-scenes operations of the romance. The possible exception to this observation is that the poet-narrator may recognize, in the image reflected to him in the person of Thessala, his own role in the poem, idealized in the image of the magician and her potion. The two characters, in fact, form a couple born of the same kinds of contexts, performing before our eyes complicated operations on previous literary situations, to our delight and to their deserved aggrandizement. They are the male and female counterparts of one another, mutually supportive as they reinforce one another’s endeavors in a poetically constructed conjointure, thanks to which ftranslatio studii is served and celebrated. They work together to create the narrative explorations that are Cligés, effecting an understanding and a dépassement of romance achievement. They are to poetry and romance what Erec and Enide were to love and marriage. They exploit to the fullest all the possible implications of the poem’s emblem, exercising their powers on that poetic material which undoubtedly held the greatest fascination for the courtly medieval French audience, the story of Tristan and Iseut.

‘

Chapter III

CONJOINTURE

IN CLIGES

Models of Description for Cligés It has been noted that in no extant version of the Tristan romance does there figure a description of the potion. It remains shrouded in mystery and acts as an indisputable excuse, or mainspring, for the romance tragedy. Chrétien diverts his story away from these effects by choosing to make the potion in Cligés concrete and visible, by indulging in a minute description of its preparation. This effect of realism, within the context of the plot, is, of course, all the more ironic, given the purpose and the effects of the potion. (Touches of realism tend, in general; to mock the importance of history in this romance.) It serves, therefore, to heighten the play between appearances and reality. It further serves as a signal of departure from, and of comment upon, other Tristan texts. Chrétien subverts the matter of the potion to the device of its being described—this is metaphor and trivialization. As such, the potion is part of a system—perhaps the highpoint of a system—of metaphors based on descriptions of finely wrought objects that go beyond the courtly narrative of chivalric adventure to comment on the romance as a literary form in the making. In the following pages, I will suggest how

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the midpoint description may—ought to—be viewed as part of an integrated pattern of such descriptions. It is my view that it participates in a network of analogous scenes which together constitute the system of conjointures that uphold this romance. Taken together, they construct an underlying structure of poeticized commentary on the poetic process. Description, a basic component of narrative composition, occupied an important place in those romances which preceded Chrétien’s quvre, such as Wace’s Brut and the anonymous Eneas. Descriptions often concerned themselves with the evocation of exotic, richly decorated objects which complied with the wishes of the courtly audience to meditate on the marvelous and the beautiful. Details and lists of rare and dear materials abound. The episode which focused on the forging of Eneas’ armor has already been singled out in our discussion of Vulcan as an analogue to Thessala. It is interesting to note that an equally long and memorable description, placed two-thirds of the way along the narrative line of the Eneas, conjoins the same type of fabulous description with one of the three principal interventions of the poet-narrator. In this instance, the «business» of the poet is more closely and deliberately aligned with a particular description of a marvelous monument—Camilla’s tomb—subsequent to its having been readied to receive the dead bellatrix, one of the «triumfeminate» who lend unity to the romance. Camilla’s tomb, in its sumptuous detail and in the space and time devoted to it by the poet-narrator, obviously underscores those values of the romance heretofore dramatized by the bellatrix which the anonymous poet-narrator intends to extol by his explicit participation in the fictional construction of the monument. Although Chrétien participated in this wellbeloved tradition of marvelous romance description, he transformed it too, subordinating it to his own ends. Already in Erec et Enide, we see, description is less purely «objective.» Rather, it is made to serve the portrayal of the values of his text.

Perhaps the most obvious example of this brand of description, as practiced by Chrétien, is the passage which depicts the saddle given to Enide roughly at the moment of her reconcili-

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ation with Erec, before they enter into the adventure of the ; Joie de la Cort: Del lorain vos sai dire voir, et del peitral et de la sele, que l’uevre an fu et boene et bele: toz li pietrax et li lorains estoient d’esmeraudes plains; la sele fu d’autre maniere, coverte d’une porpre chiere; li arcon estoient d’ivoire, si fu antailliee l’estoire comant Eneas vint de Troye, comant a Carthaige a grant joie Dido an son leu le recut, comant Eneas la decut, comant ele por lui s’ocist, comant Eneas puis conquist Laurente et tote Lonbardie, dom il fu rois tote sa vie. Soutix fu l’uevre et bien tailliee, tote a fin or apareilliee. Uns brez taillierres, qui la fist, au taillier plus de set anz mist, qu’a nule autre oevre n’antandi;

ce ne sai ge qu’il la vandi, mes avoir an dut grant desserte.

(il. 5282-5305)

In this case, the values of the narrative are identified not only with the object in question, but also with its representational properties. In her own right as Erec’s wife, Enide has participated in the exercise of chevalerie throughout their adventures. It is fitting, then, that she be given a new palfrey and a suitable saddle upon which to ride. But the workmanship of this object is all the more remarkable when compared, for example, with the artistry which went into the construction of Camilla’s tomb, in that it reworks, within the confines of a possible symbol of chevalerie, a fiction closely emblematic of the experience and destiny of this couple. The unsuccessful, tragic Dido, deceived by Eneas, but who, in turn, has threatened to deter him from his rightful mission, provides a reminder to Enide of that danger through

which

she and her husband (an important distinction

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between these two couples) have passed. Enide could be seen as a kind of Dido up to the time of her marriage and honeymoon. Her recent trials and successes with Erec, which have been crowned by their reconciliation, have cancelled that role as a definitive characterization of their association and has opened

the way for their evolution into*that kind of couple that would more closely align itself with the personages of Eneas and Lavine. Eneas wins Lavine by conquering «Laurente et tote Lonbardie / dom il fu rois tote sa vie.» We recall that the romance of Erec et Enide also ends with the coronation of the hero and heroine as king and queen of Estre-Gales, so the paradigm is completely fulfilled by the romance. In this instance, the description of an object—perhaps through metonymy— becomes more closely allied with the personal experience of a given character and with those values which he or she is made to champion. The description takes on a greater significance for the development of the narrative as a symbol. It sums up at a glance and in a concrete fashion a certain experience the narrative has portrayed. Furthermore, in our example of Dido/Eneas: Enide/Erec, the symbol takes on a mythic cast since it associates the «modern» couple with a mythic couple. It is ambiguous here whether Dido and Eneas are seen by the characters of the romance as historical personages or as characters themselves of another romance. (The issue is further complicated by the confusion of epochs involved: Is it the Dido and Eneas of the Old French Eneas, which precedes the Arthurian Erec et Enide, or is it the Dido and Aeneas of Vergil’s Aeneid, which precedes Arthurian time?) In any case, for the reader, it is interesting to note that the object takes on increased symbolic value for his reading of the narrative by incorporating schematically the gem-like moments of another analogous fiction. The account of those scenes makes up the greater part of the actual description given to us by Erec et Enide’s poet-narrator. The description conjures up less a realistic, accurate picture of the saddle than an evocation of the Eneas—an important source of Chrétien’s romance—crystallized in this gift to Enide and in this meditative moment offered the reader. Indeed, many of the descriptions of marvelous objects meant

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to arrest the reader’s attention do revolve around gifts, around sumptuous gifts which befall a character in the guise of a sort of reward for having come through to the other side of an adventure. Such frequent occurrences are, perhaps, due to the possibility that Erec et Enide may have been intended as a week of evenings’

entertainment

during

a Christmas

court (Erec is

crowned on the feast of the Nativity). The season’s tradition of giving gifts may have deliberately spilled over into these descriptions of presents which are scattered throughout Chrétien’s own offering to his royal benefactors. A particular concentration of gift-giving and descriptions of the marvelous end-products of craftsmanship conflate with the coronation of Erec and Enide at the close of the romance. Two identical, intricately carved thrones, a ceremonial robe decorated with representations of the quadrivium, a royal scepter and two crowns are bestowed upon the couple by a generous Arthur. In each example, the noble and unusual raw materials used, the craftsmen and the workmanship involved, receive special mention. The emphasis on l’uevre, on the artist and his painstakingly articulated craft, in addition to the explicit and lengthy references to the elements of the quadrivium, bring the reader’s attention to the deliberate evocation of clergie, or learned, artistic concerns, at a moment which celebrates an institutionalization of the achievements of chevalerie. In fact, the greatest number of direct references made to what might be termed «Literature and Education» and «Music and Drawing» occurs precisely during the coronation scene (1). All these objects are part of the trappings of kingship—of institutionalized power, a concern not out of keeping with the Christmas season which falls during the astrological sign of Capricorn, that sign which is associated with stability and political organizations traditionally respected by a society. The presence of the chevaleresque objects offers a framework and an excuse for the descriptions which evoke them in their clerkly implications. Clergie and chevalerie are here mutually supportive, part and parcel of the same thing. This is, of course, a theme which has run throughout the course of the text from the time of the Prologue onwards, embodied, perhaps, in the relationship that exists between Erec and Enide.

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The two thrones are the first objects to be brought before the reader and serve, perhaps, as a prologue to the series of descriptions (2). They are two in number, white, brand-new, and alike in size and execution of construction. Chrétien describes the physical properties of the chairs in as many lines as he does the workmanship. He describes the maker of the thrones, in flattering tones, only in terms of what one can discover about him from an appreciative analysis of his work. The artisan in question, who remains nameless, is refined and ingenious, soutix et angigneus, by virtue of the fact that he has been able to reproduce, exactly, detail by detail, the original of his own work. The identicalness of the two thrones, which, according to the poetnarrator, adds a major dimension to their perfection, is brought up to the reader to scrutinize. Chrétien is so confident in the value of this artisan’s work that he dares his reader—in an ironic way, since the thrones do not appear before him except in the selected words of the poet-narrator—to examine them in an effort to tell them apart from one another. In this descriptive example of skilled artisanry, the wonderment stems from the fact that appearance is reality: the thrones appear alike and really are alike. Once again mention is made of the noble materials used in the making of the chairs. The usual raw material— wood—has been shunted aside in the same way that Eneas’ armor did not involve the use of iron or steel, but rather of precious metals only. The thrones are made of gold and ivory and are, in turn, sculpted to represent crocodiles and leopards. Again, the themes of clergie, or skilled artisanry, largesse, and

chevalerie intertwine around this description of a marvelous set of objects in that it is a knight—he who may have commissioned the work originally and who is capable of judging its value—who gives the thrones to Arthur and Guenevere and to whom the poet-narrator grants a name. These identical thrones, royal chairs made of noble and rare materials, which join together the notable themes of clergie, largesse, and chevalerie, are the very place which Erec and Enide occupy at the moment of their celebrated coronation. They obviously symbolize, by this metonymic association, the noble conjointure, in all its ramifications, that the marriage and coronation of Erec and Enide represent,

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as well as the remarkableness of the artist who was able to draw out of familiar subject matter such unexpected possibilities as make up the bele conjointure. The organization of the description of Enide’s saddle is also characteristic of this balance between clergie and chevalerie, exemplified in the relationship between symbolic object and its description, between its generic being and what it contains or of what it is made. The story of Dido and Eneas is the substance or matere of the saddle. The narrative itself—within the description

—is framed at the beginning by allusions to the materials which were used in its construction as well as to the workmanship involved and to the role of our poet-narrator, who self-consciously draws attention to his own work of descriptive efforts aimed at recreating the saddle for the reader. The latter part of the story’s framing again returns to the praise of the workmanship exemplified and to the artist, this time not the creator of the saddle in the text, but the artist in the narrative—a thirdperson analogue for the artist-narrator, the two of whom dovetail in this moment of description. Descriptions in Cligés We have seen similar processes, associations, and organization of a descriptive passage in operation in our detailed analysis of the potion as portrayed at the midpoint of Cligés. Such procedures as hinted at by the Eneas and developed in Erec et Enide are even more explicit and play a more central part in Chrétien’s second romance. The increased explicitness accompanies the next stage in the development of description from that of object as symbol to that of object as metaphor. Where clergie and chevalerie seemed on a mutually supportive par in the example of Enide’s saddle, the descriptions we find in Cligés demonstrate that clergie supersedes the concerns of chevalerie, as it does generally throughout the romance. If the narrative events of the first story, that of Alexandre and Soredamor, are considered schematically, we notice a familiar to-and-fro movement between battle scenes and love scenes that is reminiscent of the narrative organization of the Roman

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d’Eneas, especially where it expatiates, in an Ovidian manner, on Vergil’s material during the story of Eneas and Lavine. Once the two principal characters of the first part of Cligés have met, from the time of the crossing of the Channel to Brittany, the action alternates consistently between the mutual recognition of the other’s love, with the avowal of true feelings that is a long time in coming, and the events leading to the capture of Windsor castle from the hands of the traitorous Count Angrés. When these two narrative components are compared, one notices that they begin, develop, and end simultaneously and that their resolutions, in fact, dovetail in a kind of conjointure which, to all practical purposes, brings the first story to its close. The action may be outlined briefly as follows: 1. The lovers’ monologues during the crossing of the Channel; 2. The news of Angrés’ treason and the knighting of Alexandre and his companions in Arthur’s service; 3.The bestowal by Guenevere of an extraordinary shirt, made by Soredamor, on Alexandre; 4. The return to England and first scrimmage between Greeks and the enemy—Alexandre takes four prisoners; 5. The discussion concerning the fate of the prisoners between Guenevere and Arthur while the Greeks visit the ladies of the court; Soredamor notices that Alexandre wears the shirt she made, but hesitates to mention it until the opportunity is lost; 6. At the end of the day, Arthur’s execution of the prisoners; he promises Alexandre a kingdom in Wales and announces to the assembly the reward of a precious cup to him who captures the castle; Alexandre, as is his custom, spends the evening in the company of Guenevere and Soredamor, at which time Guenevere remembers that Soredamor is the one responsible for Alexandre’s shirt and, noticing that the two are in love with one another, she chooses to say nothing so as not to embarrass them; however, she does draw attention to the shirt and its fabrication; Alexandre is overjoyed to have a gift from his loved one; 7. The enemy’s attempt at a sneak attack by night which is thwarted by the sudden appearance of moonlight; during the

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dawn battle, Alexandre notices, Angrés and his companions stealing back to the castle; Alexandre, who conceives of a plan involving disguise in order to gain entrance into the castle, defeats the enemy with his companions and captures both the count and the castle; 8. Alexandre’s triumphant return to Arthur and acceptance of the cup; he is granted any request of his choosing, and, as usual, later visits the ladies; Guenevere gives Alexandre and Soredamor a brief sermon on love and brings the couple together; the scenes normally constructed around the motif, or symbol, of the shirt have given way to a betrothal and a wedding; the cup and the additional reward promised for chivalric service coincide with the resolution of the love-avowals as symbolized by the shirt. From this outline, we can see that the chief concerns are symbolized or summarized, on the one. hand, by the shirt which Soredamor has made and Guenevere given to Alexandre and, on the other hand, by the precious cup Arthur promises to the victor of the battle. Generally speaking, the action has never been related in a straightforward manner, nor has it interested the reader in a direct fashion. It has been undercut and rerouted by apparent interferences. For example, the monologues seem endless; they extend a metaphor to outlandish proportions or play on scholastic formulations of a nonscholastic concern. The battles to regain Windsor castle occupy only a total of nearly twenty-four hours; neither side can really be admired for feats of chivalry. Their merit, if any, resides completely in their cunning. Angrés’ surprise attack fails; he is defeated by an unexpected ruse: Alexandre—after all a Greek and, therefore, presumably well versed in the Greek tradition of tricks used to gain access to enemy territory —disguises himself as one of the enemy in order to defeat his adversaries who are unarmed and off their guard. The reader is involved throughout with the gamesmanship of the battle and with its consequences. Precisely at the moment when Alexandre achieves victory, the Greeks and Bretons are mourning the death of their Greek champion. Neither the enemy nor the Greeks who have remained in Arthur’s

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company (nor Soredamor, for that matter) prove themselves proficient at discerning between appearances and reality. The enemy loses a battle and a castle; the Greeks cause themselves literally a lot of unnecessary grief. During the love scenes, neither party manages to speak his or her heart; Guenevere must do it all for them. The war is initiated, waged, and won almost entirely by means of deceptions. The reader, who is, consequently, distanced from any serious concerns, finds himself entertained by the kinds of gamesmanship involved, be they rhetorical or narrative. The two objects which punctuate the chivalric and amorous episodes of this premiers vers play their role by means of description, but they represent symbolically much more than mere artfully contrived artifacts. Their attribute of being artfully contrived is, however, important to their narrative function as symbol. In this case, it is their artfulness that constitutes their representational quality—as the story of Dido and Eneas constituted the representational aspect and the substance of Enide’s saddle—and that characterizes the type of motif they represent with respect to the alternation of actions. Essentially, the initial story revolves around the two descriptions, the subsequent appearances of the two objects—the shirt and the cup— and what they represent. The first object is given by Guenevere; the second, by Arthur. Both are bestowed upon Alexandre; each represents one of the two principal narrative strands. Such narrative organization recalls that of Erec et Enide, in that one side of the adventure is associated with King Arthur (the cup and Windsor castle/the hunt of the white stag) and the other with Queen Guenevere (the shirt and the bringing together of the lovers/the avenging of Guenevere and her lady-in-waiting). Both narrative strands eventually «interlace» with one another, forming the conjointure

Chrétien boasts of in his first romance’s Prologue; they end the premiers vers of each romance. In the case of Alexandre and Soredamor, the conjointure ultimately results in the birth and the first mention of Cligés as well as a return to Constantinople. Let us consider these two descriptions separately within the context just established, while remembering to relate them,

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where appropriate, to our conclusions concerning the romance’s midpoint description. The description of the cup given by Arthur as reward for the capture of Windsor castle appears in Micha’s edition as follows: Et li rois de la soe part Fet an l’ost crier et savoir Quel don voldra de lui avoir Cil par cui li chastiax iert pris: «Une coupe de mout grant pris Li donrai de quinze mars d’or La plus riche de mon tresor.» Molt iert boene et riche la cope, Et qui delit avroit de cope, Plus la devroit il tenir chiere Por l’uevre que por la matiere: Molt est boene la cope d’uevre. Et qui la verité descuevre,

Mialz que l’uevre ne que li ors Valent les pierres de defors. S’il est sergenz, la cope avra Par cui li chastiax pris sera. Et s'il est pris par chevalier, I] ne savra querre loier Avoec la cope, qu’il ne lait,

Se el monde trover se lait. (il. 1514-34)

At a later time, when the cup is awarded to Alexandre, the text proceeds with these lines: Li rois li fet la cope randre De quinze mars, qui molt fu riche, Et si li dit bien et afiche Qu’il n’a nule chose tant chiere, Se il fet tant qu’il la requiere, Fors la corone et la reine, Que il ne 1’an face seisine. Alixandres de ceste chose Son desirrier dire n’en ose Mes a la cope d’or seisir N’a respit n’atendue prise.

(Il. 2180-88, 2198-99)

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Lot

Foerster’s 1884 edition continues with the following lines which add an interesting, if, perhaps, mystifying, element to the situation: La cope prant et par franchise Prie mon seignor Gauvain tant

Que de lui cele cope prant; Meis a mout grant peinne l1’a prise. (ll. 2234-37)

We notice in this brief description that Arthur emphasizes the monetary worth of the cup—which, according to medieval conventions concerning money, probably does not bode well here for Arthur—and, moreover, that it is the poet-narrator who gives the essential information concerning the real value of the cup and the varying degrees of such value. In general, any true and immediate assessments of events pass from the poet-narrator to the reader; the characters are rarely aware of what is going on. As in the descriptions from Erec et Enide, the poet-narrator emphasizes the importance of /’uevre, or the workmanship of the cup. We also would be hard put to visualize the object in question. Accuracy or realism of detail, once again, is unimportant when compared to the symbolic value. Furthermore, we are told that this cup represents the best of Arthur’s store—it is some kind of summa and, as such, has additional significance; it also represents a sort of text. In the same way that the poetnarrator of Erec et Enide dared the reader to examine the thrones, there exists in the description of the cup a challenge to discover the truth concerning its appearance, and this involves creating a context out of its components, comparing them, and forming an idea with respect to a hierarchy of concerns (il. 1522-28). What the cup holds up to its admirer as literally superficial and decorative is that part of it which is most valuable—not any part of it whose function may be considered in any way practical, not the rare materials it draws upon to manifest itself as a container or a vehicle for the precious gems encrusted around the outside, but those abstract, gratuitous jewels that attract attention to themselves, almost in spite of the cup. In short, the cup serves primarily to show off these decorative gems, not to hold a liquid. It is interesting to note that Alexan-

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ips

dre himself does not dwell on the cup—he is too much concerned with the additional request he is allowed to make—and that, at least according to Foerster’s edition, he gives the cup away toa reluctant Gauvain. (Perhaps being too shy to approach Soredamor directly, he hopes that her brother will make her a gift of the reward.) Alexandre is not he who «delit avroit de cope» and, consequently, not the one who «la verité descuevre.» Nor is Gauvain. (Gauvain’s reluctance may, in part, be explained by the fact that he has failed somewhat in his knightly duty and that, consequently, his reputation as the epitome of knighthood

and as King Arthur’s nephew has suffered. He was not involved in the taking of the castle. Receiving the reward for the victory second-hand, as it were, only draws attention to that fact.) If anyone is to discover the truth about the cup, the opportunity must lie with the reader, to whom the cup is also delivered in a descriptio by the poet-narrator. To my mind, no one has made a more appropriate discovery of the cup’s hidden or latent implications than the late Jean Frappier, in an unassuming paragraph he gently slipped into an analysis of the description of objects in Cligés. His interpretation surely lends support to the sort of overall conclusions, previously related in this study, concerning Thessala’s first potion. Frappier provides the following commentary on the description of Arthur’s cup: On dirait que Chrétien, dans cette bréve description, a songé a enclore et cherché a suggérer son esthétique du roman; la hiérarchie des trois élé-° ments qui constituent la beauté de la coupe ne correspond-elle pas 4 celle de la matiére (il faut savoir rencontrer un sujet riche en possibilités), de l'art ou du passage au style sans lequel il n’est pas de création véritable, du sens enfin, qui illumine |’ceuvre entiére, comme les pierres précieuses donnent

son

éclat supréme

avoir l’air, mettait

tout

4a la coupe? un

Si je ne m’abuse, Chrétien, sans en enseignement a l’intention de certains de ses

confréres, dans cette coupe du roi Arthur.

(Le Roman breton, p. 92)

The phrase «a l’intention de certains de ses confréres» points us back again to the theme of clergie and to the characterization of Cligés as a «romancier’s romance.» We have seen, in our brief outline of the first story of this poem, that it is the reader and

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the reader alone—in conjunction, of course, with the poetnarrator—who is aware of what is really taking place at every moment of the romance. He is all the more «in the know» during this moment of description where what is narrated concerns him more directly than, say, Arthur’s recapture of his castle or Alexandre’s hesitancies with Soredamor. The especially privileged moments of description, such as this one of the precious cup, accentuate the poetic workmanship of Chrétien at the expense of the vehicle which provides the background for his «clerical» activity. In the same way that the cup’s most profound value resides in the dazzling stones which are supported by its more mundane structure, so, too, may the worth of this particular romance be seen in the celebrations of poetic achievement as they are connected and supported by the usual romance situations and structure. Perhaps one could hazard a guess that the gems in this description correspond, in fact, to the celebrative poeticizations of the romancer’s workmanship concentrated in the metaphorical descriptions exemplified by the cup and the potion. Now that we have pointed out the strong possibility that the cup’s description is the poet’s own poeticized esthetic commentary on his romance in the making, let us turn to the second description in this story, that of the shirt fashioned by Soredamor. For the purposes of close reading, the passage will be quoted at length, with appropriate notice taken of significant variants provided by Foerster: Trestoz ses escrins cerche et vuide, Tant c’une chemise en a treite;

De soie fu, blanche et bien feite, Molt deliee et molt soutil. Es costures n’avoit un fil Ne fust d’or ou d’argent au mains. Au queudre avoit mises les mains Soredamors, de leus en leus; S’avoit antrecosu par leus Lez l’or de son chief un chevol, Et as deus manches et au col, Par savoir et por esprover Se ja porroit home trover

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES Qui l’un de l’autre devisast, Tant cleremant i avisast: Car autant ou plus con li ors Estoit li chevox clers et sors. Soredamors prant la chemise, Sil’a Alixandre tramise. (Il. 1144-62) (3) Ensi ont molt longuemant sis, Tant qu’a son braz et a son col Vit Soredamors le chevol Dom ele ot la costure feite. (il. 1362-65) La reine par la main destre Tint Alixandre et remira Le fil d’or qui molt anpira;

Et li chevox anbloissoit, Que que li filz d’or palissoit. Si li sovint par avanture Que feite avoit cele costure Soredamors, et si s’an rist. Alixandres garde s’an prist Et li prie, s’il fet a dire, Qu’el li die qui la fet rire.

(ll. 1546-56) Bien aparcoit et voir li sanble Par les muances des colors Que ce sont accident d’amors; Mes ne lor an vialt feire angoisse, Ne fet sanblant qu’ele conoisse Rien nule de quanqu’ele voit. Bien fist ce que ele devoit, Que chiere ne sanblant n/’an fist, Fors tant qu’a la pucele dist. «Dameisele, regardez ca, Et dites, ne le celez ja, Ou la chemise fu cousue Que cil chevaliers a vestue. [Et se vos an antremeistes Ne del vostre rien i meistes?]» (4) La pucele art d’ire et de honte, Ne por quant volantiers lor conte, Car bien vialt que le voir en oie Cil qui de l’oir a tel joie, Quant cele li conte et devise La feiture de la chemise. (Il. 1578-96) ( 5)

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1S3

Many of the traits we have observed in the descriptions selected from Erec et Enide and in the passage concerning the cup are present here as well. Interestingly, Guenevere goes through a process of search and selection to decide upon this particular shirt, a process analogous to Thessala’s choosing of spices and generally similar to the poet’s reviewing of his material before deciding on a particular subject matter. In connection with this

interpretation, it should be pointed out that Chrétien has chosen the word treite and placed it emphatically in the rhyme position; the word immediately recalls for a reader concerned with Chrétien’s critical technical vocabulary the tret of the Prologue phrase «et tret d’un conte d’avanture / une molt bele conjointure» (Erec et Enide, ll. 12-13). The materials are mentioned and an overall description is provided in a manner analogous to that used in the description of the thrones: silk, white, well made, and supple; the poet-narrator, as craftsman, approves and thereby elicits our sympathy for Soredamor’s accomplishment. Again, no ordinary or usual thread has been included; as in the case of Vulcan’s forging of Eneas’ armor, the threads are either of gold or silver. But Soredamor, in this respect, goes Vulcan one better. (Her work is unsigned, as far as Alexandre is concerned, but it has her name associated with it, from the first mention of the shirt, in the eyes of the poet-narrator and the reader and, eventually, in the minds of Guenevere and Alexandre. This audience suffices, for Soredamor is interested in her work less from the point of view of craftsmanship than as a means of finding a husband.) The most arresting characteristic of this shirt is its principle of composition—a principle based on the fact that all that glitters is not gold. Soredamor has sewn into the seams, next to the gold threads, one of her own blond hairs, beside which the gold pales in comparison. She has improvised this technique as a test—to see if she can locate that one man who will be able to tell the two apart, appreciate the value of her hair, and value it and, presumably, her more than gold: a romantic notion which, incidentally, goes in part unfulfilled. Alexandre apparently is incapable of examining the shirt or of appreciating its method of composition on his own—a weakness which reappears when the worth

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and workmanship of the cup are concerned. The point is glossed over and not mentioned again. Apparently, it is of no consequence that Alexandre fails the illusion-reality test; Soredamor has decided that he is the one for her anyway. The method is lost on the character, although the end is achieved. Guenevere, however, is astute enough to notice the difference—eventually— and to connect the workmanship with Soredamor, whom, by then, she knows to be the object of Alexandre’s undeclared affections. Guenevere takes this opportunity to have a shy, but willing Soredamor recount the making of the shirt. Soredamor is asked to explain the origins of the shirt, her particular role in its production, and, literally, what part of herself went into its fabrication. The author herself, therefore, describes the creation of an artfully contrived, decorative object. Her description includes the origins, materials, method, and artist’s name. The revelations this description brings about cause the audience (i.e., Alexandre) delight. The correspondences between Soredamor’s description of the shirt, the poet-narrator’s Prologue, and his description of Thessala and her potion should be more than clear enough by now for us to grasp the general pattern involved. The importance of this pattern is reinforced, moreover, by the frequent occurrence of such descriptive moments. One further point may serve to show how this particular kind of description serves in some measure to delineate the character of Cligés in contradistinction to the general mood of Erec et Enide as symbolized, in part, by the description of the thrones. In the earlier poem, we recall, the description of the thrones also . involved a principle of twinness, or similarity, deliberately intended; furthermore, this principle was the basis for a challenge presented by the poet-narrator to the reader to examine and distinguish the two chairs. Because of the perfection of the duplication, the reader, or the general spectator, is intended to fail at this task. It is a sort of rhetorical challenge, for, in this romance, the appearance of equality is a reality and an essential principle underlying the conjointure of the mutually supportive couple. In the case of Cligés, conversely, the romance distinction between appearance and reality is stretched to its limits in order to augment the «romanceness» of the poem to an unusual

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el

degree. Here appearance does not equal reality (6). We have already seen that Alexandre functions at his best as a chevalier precisely by inventing and executing a successful plan of deception and disguise. Soredamor fails to perceive this maneuver. She, in turn, behaves similarly when it comes down to the way she devises to choose a husband. Interestingly enough, the lovers doubly deserve each other, since they both indulge in similar methods, and yet each fails to react positively to the other’s contrivance. The example of Soredamor’s sewing of the shirt serves to underscore the irony and the playfulness of the theme that illusion is not reality in this text and that the delight to be gained from its reading stems from a grasp of this distinction. In the second and longer story, which concerns Fenice and Cligés, we are faced with additional marvelously executed artifacts: the potion that allows Fenice to feign death, the potion that deceives Alis, the sepulcher commissioned by Fenice, where she will suffer no harm while waiting for her lover to rescue her, and, one of the most impressive of this conglomeration, the tower where Fenice will be hidden away and Cligés will visit her. (Unlike the first story, in which both artifacts were received by the hero—masculine—all the marvels in this story are destined for Fenice.) This last description, which is of a locus ameenus, is one of the highpoints of the poem and equals, no doubt, the midpoint description in metaphorical implications for the romance poetics of Cligés. Once again the reader is treated to the familiar introductory portrait of the artificer—unusually, it is Cligés himself who speaks the words of praise concerning his servant Jehan. Perhaps it is fitting for the principal character of the poem finally to render homage in this way to one of the fictionalized representatives of his own creator. This passage has points in common with the description of Thessala, with the self-portrait of the poet-narrator encased in the Prologue, and with the description of the anonymous craftsman of the identical thrones in Erec et Enide. The introduction of Jehan names the artificer, entitles him to be called mestre, and describes him exclusively in terms of the works he has finished; Cligés is careful to let the interlocutor learn that Jehan’s reputation has spread to both the Greek

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and the Roman worlds and that, in his field, it is fair to consider him as an auctor, since so many try to imitate his work and owe what they do know of their craft to his example (7). This litany of claims to fame would normally be sufficient indication of Jehan’s status; however, Chrétien allows the role of this character to develop so that, within this romance world, he becomes the male counterpart to, and partner of, Thessala. In return for his freedom (franchise), he accepts the task of devising a special sepulcher conceived according to Fenice’s peculiar specifications. But he surprises his patron and benefactor, as well as the reader, by having already constructed a marvelous monument beyond even Fenice’s wildest and most devious dreams—a monument more than fit to house her and her lover in style and seclusion. The tower that Jehan offers to show Cligés and to put at his disposal is his own idea, a gratuitous result of the pleasure he derives from the act of inventing and creating marvelous things known to, and done by, himself alone. The tower is not a commissioned work, but an ultimate marvel that represents an act of almost gratuitous creative ingenuity, which more than assures him and his heirs of their freedom. (Similarly, Cligés is not one of Chrétien’s romances that attach themselves to a patron. It liberates itself still further by enjoying a gratuitous literary play that celebrates clergie, at times in clear opposition to chevalerie.) The tower, built in an out-of-the-way place, is not only the ideal spot to hide away one’s lady-love, but also the place where Jehan himself retreats to work: «La ou il oevre, et point, et — taille, / Tot seul a seul, sanz plus de gent; / Lou plus beau leu et lou plus gent» (Il. 5482-84). The locus of elegant, courtly beauty conjoins the place of romance and of creative expertise. Romance and self-conscious poetic activity coexist in «lou plus beau leu... qu'il veist onques.» True to procedures already followed by the Prologue and by the midpoint, the discourse of our third description-metaphor is shared and equally supported by the poet-narrator and by Jehan himself, who takes great delight in describing and vaunting the wonders of his greatest creation. Allow me to quote this extensive passage in full; it bears rereading:

CONJOINTURE IN CLIGES Desoz la vile, en un destor Avoit Jehanz feite une tor. S’i ot par molt grant san pené. La a Cligés Jehanz mené, Si le mainne par les estages, Qui estoient point a ymages, Beles et bien anluminees. Les chanbres et les cheminees Li mostre, et sus et jus le mainne. Cligés voit la meison sostainne, Que nus n’i maint ne ne converse; D’une chanbre en autre traverse, Tant que tot cuide avoir vel; Si lia molt la torz plei, Et dit que molt est boene et bele: Bien i sera sa dameisele Toz les jorz que ele vivra, Que ja nus hon ne 1’i savra. «Non voir, sire,ja n’iert setie; Or cuidiez vos avoir veile Tote ma tor et mes deduiz? Encor i a de tex reduiz Que nus hom ne porroit trover; Et se vos i loist esprover Au mialz que vos porroiz cerchier, Ja n’i savroiz tant reverchier, Ne nus, tant soit soutix et sages, Que plus trovast ceanz estages, S’aincois ne li mostre molt bien. Sachiez, il n’i faut nule rien, Ne chose qu’a dame coveingne; Or n’i a plus mes que Ga veingne, Car molt est bele et aeisiee, Et s’est par desoz esleisiee

Ceste torz, si con vos verrez, Ne ja l’uis trover n’i porrez Ne antree de nule part. Par tel engin et par tel art Est fez li huis de pierre dure Que ja n’i troveroiz jointure. —Or oi mervoille, fet Cligés, Alez avant, et je aprés, Car molt m’est tart que je ce voie.» Lors s’est Jehanz mis a la voie, Si mainne Cligés par la main

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES Jusqu’a un huis poli et plain, Qui toz est poinz et colorez. Au mur s’est Johanz acostez Et tint Cligés par la main destre. «Sire, fet il, huis ne fenestre N’est hom qui an cest mur seust;

Et cuidiez vos que l’en petit An nule guise trespasser Sanz anpirier et sanz quasser?» Cligés respont que il nel croit, Ne nel crerra ja, s’il nel voit. Lors dit Jehanz qu’il le verra Et l’uis del mur li overra. Jehanz, qui avoit feite l’uevre, L’uis del mur li desserre et oevre, Si ne le malmet, ne ne quasse. Li uns avant l’autre trespasse, Et descendent par une viz. Par mi un estage vostiz, Ou Jehanz ses oevres feisoit,. Quant riens a feire li pleisoit. «Sire, fet il, ci ou nos somes, N’ot onques de trestoz les homes Que Dex a fez fors que nos deus, Et s’est si aeisiez cist leus Con vos verroiz jusqu’a n’a gaires. An cest leu soit vostre repaires, Et vostre amie i soit reposte. Tex ostex est boens a tel oste, Qu’il ia chanbres, et estuves, Et eve chaude par les cuves,

Qui vient par conduit desoz terre. Qui voldroit leu aeisié querre Por s’amie metre et celer, Molt li covandroit loing aler, Einz qu’il trovast si covenable. Molt le tanroiz a delitable, Quant vos avroiz par tot esté.» Si le a Jehanz tot mostré. (Il. 5487-5570)

Jehan takes Cligés on a general tour of the house; the narrator emphasizes the particular details of estages which are point a ymages; there are various levels to this construction and each one is painted, illuminated beautifully by some colorful picto-

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the likes of which are unspecified. When

Cligés has wandered throughout from room to room, has been adequately impressed, and is ready and willing to buy for the equal advantages of isolation and elegant comfort, Jehan reveals to his client the best selling point with less than moderate satisfaction in what he has built. Jehan intends that his protector be more than merely interested by the service this house may render to his love-life; he wishes Cligés to admire what he has been able to invent and implement, because it is unprecedented and seemingly impossible. Speaking to him directly, Jehan—as did the poet-narrator of Erec et Enide—challenges the spectator to examine his work and dares him to find an entrance into that most marvelous part of it. He is pleased by what he has made and by the fact that only he can so easily conceal and reveal its inner workings: Or cuidiez vos avoir veiie Tote ma tor et mes deduiz? Encor ia de tex reduiz Que nus hom ne porroit trover; Et se vos i loist esprover Au mialz que vos porroiz cerchier, Ja n’i savroiz tant reverchier, Ne nus, tant soit soutix et sages, Que plus trovast ceanz estages,

S’ancois ne li mostre molt bien. (il. 5506-15)

Jehan taunts Cligés, letting him surmise that he has not been able to see the entire tower, despite the fact that Jehan has allowed him to roam freely and has even shown him around. Cligés has not been able to discover the complete disposition of the house; some of the architectural «puttings-together» have escaped him, as they would escape anyone, or so Jehan categorically affirms. They do so escape everyone’s eyes because no one —no matter how clever or learned—knows how to look, no one possesses the proper methodology or can attune himself to the correct perspective, unless he be admitted into Jehan’s confidence and be on very good terms with the author of the tower, who will then also assume the role of the guide to his own creation and show him how his work is structured. He reveals to

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him the proper way into the deeper, more marvelous level the edifice contains. (Jehan probably need not fear that Cligés will prove an exception to this rule; we have already seen that his father failed the test of the strand of hair versus the golden thread in Soredamor’s weaving of the shirt.) The importance of Jehan’s role as guide is emphasized repeatedly by the frequent usage of the verb mener and by the narrator’s picturing of him as literally leading Cligés around by the hand: «La a Cligés Jehanz mené» (1. 5490), «Si le mainne par les estages» (1. 5491), «...les cheminees / Li mostre, et sus et jus le mainne» (Il. 549495), «Si mainne Cligés par la main» (1. 5531), «Et tint Cligés par la main destre» (1. 5535), «Si li a Jehanz tot mostré» (1. 5570). Jehan plays a role with respect to Cligés that is, perhaps, similar to that adopted by Bel Acueil with respect to Amant in the Rose or by Vergil with respect to Dante in the Divine Comedy, with the important distinction that Jehan is guiding Cligés through the inner workings of his own self-contained, manmade world. He provides his benefactor with more than he bargained for—a wondrous, highly sophisticated, delightful world and a simultaneous commentary on it, which has the virtue of increasing the on-looker’s admiration of it as well as the degree and number of possible uses he may make of it. This is, of course, exactly the same role the poet-narrator plays with respect to the reader of Cligés (8). Jehan maximizes the importance of the opening—/’uis—the secret entrance into this deeper Jocus of artifice and bliss. The gateway is seemingly of a piece with the impenetrable material that makes up the main structure of the house; the place where it fits together is so artfully concealed that the door seems invisible to anyone who has not been initiated to the secret rites of the tower. This boastful claim sparks Cligés’ curiosity to the point that it makes of him a willing disciple, a docile follower of the artificer, ready to accept his ways and to follow his lead:

«‘—Or oi mervoille, fet Cligés, / Alez avant, et je aprés, / Car molt m’est tart que je ce voie’» (Il. 5527-29). Similarly, the reader is aware of the primary importance of the entrance into the poet’s world that the Prologue affords. He must listen carefully for the signals that the poet-narrator—in direct asides

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and/or in his artful arrangement of his material—will call out to him. With a willing and curious Cligés in tow, Jehan directs his steps to that part of a wall which is smooth and colorfully painted. There he pauses, leans against the wall while holding Cligés by the hand, purposefully arresting his attention and forcing him to consider carefully the painted, glossy surface. Likewise, Chrétien’s poet-narrator has asked us to pause and meditate on what lies behind the descriptions he has presented us throughout the poem, such as this one. Cligés thinks the structure impenetrable; indeed, he does not even see it as a structure, but rather as one smooth surface, not made up of parts at all. He cannot perceive the jointure (1. 5526); his attention is preoccupied only with the appearance of the painting on a smooth, seemingly dimensionless and uninteresting background. We recall that the test of one’s ability to discern illusion from reality, and thereby to admire the craftsman’s artifice in the case of Soredamor’s shirt, was also located in the place of the joining together, in the costures, and, if I read the passage in question correctly, in the costures which are also strategically located according to the structure of a shirt: Es costures n’avoit un fil Ne fust d’or ou d’argent au mains. Au queudre avoit mises les mains

Soredamors, de leus an leus; S’avoit antrecosu par leus Lez l’or de son chief un chevol, Et as deus manches et au col, Par savoir et por esprover Se ja porroit home trover

Qui l’un de l’autre devisast Tant cleremant i avisast. (il. 1148-58)

Cligés has been warned that here, indeed, is the opening—the entrance to Jehan’s marvelous world—but he cannot see it, although he is anxious to do so. It takes the decisive act of the creator-guide to open the door and show him the way; then the two can enter together the underground wonderland:

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES Jehanz, qui avoit feite l’uevre (9) L’uis del mur li desserre et oevre, Si ne la malmet, ne ne quasse. Li uns avant |’autre trespasse, Et descendent par une viz Par mi un estage vostiz, Ou Jehanz ses oevres feisoit, Quant riens a feire li pleisoit. (ll. 5545-52)

The two enter together—as guide and disciple—and descend in stages to that secret place where Jehan goes to work, the inner sanctum of his creative art in-the-making. This place—complete with everything a courtly lady could wish for, including luxurious baths and hot running water!—is perfectly suited to a Fenice. In truth, it strikes the reader as a sort of enchanted mausoleum which vies with a structure like Camilla’s tomb for first place. There seems to be an underlying aura of decadence about it, despite its delights akin to a paradise on earth, somewhat similar to the garden of the Joie de la Cort episode of Erec et Enide. Any justification that the miseries of the Morrois forest could afford for our sympathetic viewpoint of Tristan and Iseut has been replaced here by physical delights so that the isolation of the illegitimate couple from society might be presented in a different light and the artifical means used by the artificer to cast his spell might be made more visible (10). Further implications for the relationship between Cligés and Béroul’s Tristan may now be mentioned. Béroul’s narrator points out the talents of Tristan and Governal, for example, ° where natural crafts necessary to their survival are concerned. The following passage furnishes evidence of this fact: En Tristran out mot buen archier, Mot se sout bien de I’arc aidier. Governal en ot un toloit A un forestier quil tenoit, Et deus seetes enpenees, Barbelees, ot l’en menees. Tristran prist l’arc, par le bois vait, Vit un chevrel, ancoche et trait, El costé destre fiert forment:

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Brait, saut en haut et jus decent. Tristran l’a pris, atot s’en vient. Sa loge fait: au brant qu’il tient Les rains trenche, fait la fullie; Yseut l’a bien espés jonchie. Tristran s’asist o la roine. Governal sot de la cuisine, De seche busche fait buen feu. Mot avoient a faire queu! Il n’avoient ne lait ne sel A cele foiz a lor ostel. (ll. 1279-97)

Craftsmanship and service are involved and alluded to in this text; these principles have been augmented and turned upsidedown by Chrétien’s poem so as to underscore and celebrate artifice as a noteworthy theme. In fact, the following parallels or relationships which operate in such a fashion may be adduced between the two Tristan versions: Governal-Orri/Jehan, Brangien/Thessala, and, finally, Berox/Crestien. These relationships have been further augmented in the courtly romance so that each of the artificers exercises his talents twice: Thessala prepares two potions, Jehan is called upon to sculpt the tomb as well as to furnish the bower of bliss, and Chrétien, or rather his poet-narrator, recounts two stories within one poem. (The principle of doubles is maintained in the story of Alexandre and Soredamor by the presence of the two artifacts, the one being connected to love and the circle of feminine characters, the other with chevalerie and the concerns of Arthur and _ his

knights.) _ This description of Jehan’s tower is a good stopping-off place for the series of descriptiones-translationes, since it applies fancifully the generally functional principle of the world-upsidedown topos to a key section of the Béroul poem, while culminating effectively the representation of the fictional process invented and celebrated by Cligés (11). The premiers vers established, in the presence of the shirt, the theme of the playful opposition between illusion and reality that supplies the general stuff of which a romance is made; it pointed out significantly the hierarchy of values pertaining to craftsmanship that one

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must bear in mind in order to delight successfully in the composition. All this information is conveyed to the reader—on his level—through the poet-narrator’s presentation, in the text, of the cup. To all intents and purposes, these meanings are unavailable to, or missed out on by, the characters; quite simply, they are concerned with other developments. Consequently, it is primarily the reader who is supposed to enjoy these privileged moments. Nevertheless, at times, the implications of a given creation are gradually clarified, to a certain extent, for a character; the methods or achievements involved must, however, be shown, or explained, to him. This clarification, in itself, as process, participates in the poetic «allegory» the text weaves, for, as we observed, the meanings and operations of what is put before the reader have to be demonstrated to him too. The poet-narrator thus plays a Jehan to the reader’s Cligés. In addition, and, in part, thanks to these means, the esthetic structuring of our romance is both reinforced and more explicitly depicted by the second story. Whereas the midpoint description of Thessala’s potion had evoked the generally informing poetic process of the translatio studii, the concealed entrance to the sculptor-painter-architect’s atelier poeticizes the procedure of a specialized description capable of revealing the path leading into the inner workings of the poem and of showing us where, precisely, to look. Taken together, these description-metaphors invite the reader to meditate on the art of poetry as he reads the poem closely (something he must do). They form an outer structure of their . own, like the gems encrusted on the cup, where translatio and iunctura merge productively to the advantage of clergie. The descriptions provided by the poet-narrator, at times strengthened by the words of the artificers who populate this romance world, emphasize specific, abstracted, and conceptualized poetic processes; artfulness itself becomes the thing and is, furthermore, the real value championed by the poet-narrator. The description-metaphors, en bloc, constitute the shining points in a constellation of monuments constructed to the honor of the art of clergie by the poet-narrator as he simultaneously exercises this art. «Construction» and «exercise» go hand in hand. The

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process so reflects upon the subject that clergie is revealed to be

at once the matere, l’uevre, and the sen(s) of Cligés. This selfconscious, self-reflective poetic celebration of an artificer and his creation-in-the-making—da Ja Arachne—is the delightful, dazzling find of Chrétien in his weaving of Cligés. The poem uncovers a wealth of narrative possibilities for romance poetry of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; and these, I believe, will have lasting consequences for Western fiction.

CONCLUSION

In our reading of the Cligés Prologue, we noticed that nowhere is the hero of the romance ever really named or the poem ever clearly titled. The revelation of the identity of the hero and his quest is postponed; this, we saw, is significant. In contrast to this marked absence of names in the Prologue, there is an abundance of names and titles at the midpoint; they are always the same two, mestre Thessala. The close associations between these two passages have led me to conclude that the naming process so marked in the midpoint supplies the information missing in the Prologue. That is, we may conclude that the hero is Thessala, or, rather, that the heroic courtly couple encouraging each other to succeed in their conjointure and their avanture is Thessala and the persona she poeticizes, the poet-narrator. At last, and at this juncture, the hero is defined and the quest revealed, for it is in this text that Chrétien has decided con-— sciously to explore the rules of romance composition rather than the chivalric behavior of a particular knight. The behavior of the text is presented as exemplary romance, a model for other translatio studii poems. Certain aspects of the nature of romance are revealed with an importance given them as great as that accorded certain truths concerning marriage and avanture which were exposed to scrutiny in Erec et Enide. Within this context, in fact, it might be interesting to explore the story of Alexandre and Soredamor as a premiers vers with respect to the remainder of the poem. The

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first narrative creates a perfect, courtly model for the second story in the same way that the story of Erec and Enide which closes with their marriage seems to be perfect and complete. But the seeds they sow are capable of much further and more profound development. The boundaries of each premiers vers are pushed out, allowing for the dépassement worked out by the new couple. Chrétien found it useful and amusing to synthesize—proceeding from previous literary finds—his own literary precedent, the story of Alexandre and Soredamor, upon whose poetic scale he playfully builds new chords and patterns. With respect to the biography of Cligés, the first story plays the part of the model which shines in every manner of courtly romance perfection. It is, in this respect, comparable—in a literary context—to the role of Gauvain, the perfect courtly chevalier, who is the old stand-by of Arthurian values inevitably challenged and surpassed by the hero. From these brief observations, then, Cligés can be viewed as a romance whose background is the accepted norms of romance behavior, but one which tries to escape from the well-trod paths of the narrative adventure in order to stake out new areas of romance achievement, or, at the very least, to approach the known landmarks from a fresh angle or in an unprecedented order, endowing them thereby with new meanings when contrasted with the original perspective. Cligés involves itself in a constant effort to discover, challenge, and redefine the givens of romance narrative in order to revalue and broaden the boundaries

of its domain.

In its mock

innocence

and whimsy,

it

renders the same type of service to romance poetry—or what may generally be called clergie—that the Graal, or Perceval, will render to chevalerie. Indeed, the new understanding of identity that the romance achieves in Cligés may, in fact, have enabled the exploration of unprecedented poetic combinations in the service of nobler ideals which the Graal undertakes. Both texts explore facets of narrative comedy. These unprecedented possibilities and newly staked-out territories that Cligés claims for romance are deemed valuable and are even more fully explored by the romancers who come after Chrétien. Among these possibilities may be included the follow-

170

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

ing: the emergence of the poet-narrator as the hero of the romance; the putting together of the poem as its avanture; the designation of romance as a place for criticism of ideas, especially for literary commentary; the reworking of the Tristan material in an upside-down fashion and in a comic mode (which

Aucassin et Nicolette will eventually explore); the play on the juxtaposition of genres under the sway of romance that engenders the fruitful principle of generic transposition, responsible, in part, for the Romance of the Rose and for the emergence of the vernacular theater; the reappraisal of Ovid’s aeuvre as a rich vein of material to be mined by poets of the Middle Ages; the role of the Prologue as a compact, explosive set of possibilities that set off and define the ways of the narrative by means of interplay between exordium and poem; the revelations that can be disclosed at the midpoint (this is important, for example, in the Prose Lancelot); the description of a finely wrought object that functions as a symbol of the processes at work in the poem (renewed by the description of the chalice in Jehan Renart’s L’Escoufle); the self-conscious demonstration of narrative techniques (also explored by Floire et Blanchefleur); the emphasis on craft and artifice as major themes of romance; and more. All these possibilities are engendered by the exemplary fashion in which Cligés exploits translatio and conjointure. These inventions, in their richness and complexity, have barely been hinted at by this essay. Their birth and development in Chrétien’s second romance and their continuations at the hands of later romancers are matters that require more detailed examination, preferably by means of closer readings enlightened by a deeper ° understanding of the tradition which nurtured these works. If one fails to grasp the significance of the translatio studii in

Cligés, the poem may mistakenly appear to be somehow inferior when compared with the remainder of Chrétien’s ceuvre. The situations are not «believable»; there is little possibility for the reader to identify himself with a character, or to do so consistently. For, in fact, the reader’s interest in the words and actions of the protagonists is constantly thwarted by the ordering of events—that is, by the deliberate shift of interest directed by the poet-narrator, in true comic fashion, to other matters. Indeed,

CONCLUSION

171

the entire system of interruptions works deliberately towards this end. It is a method of narrative procedure not unfamiliar to other, and very much later, romances in the European comic tradition; one thinks, for example, of Candide, Tristram Shandy, or Jacques le Fataliste. The system provokes laughter due to a pleasurable and critical recognition specifically of what is unexpectedly taking place on the level of artistic appreciation, since the procedure of interruption abandons the expected order of events or turns the previously established hierarchy of priorities topsy-turvy. The reader’s interest in the protagonist is deliberately replaced by a fascination for those very things which subvert a continued absorption in the fate of the characters: for example, the metaphorical elaborations taken to absurd lengths that distinguish the monologue of Alexandre (ll. 618-864) or the interruptions of the narrative perpetrated by the poet-narrator which shift gears suddenly from love scene to battle scene without warning (a technique perhaps originally gleaned from the Eneas); or, again, the gratuitous insertion of a lengthy description or of an annominatio word-play, indulged in to the extent that these brusque and frequent movements of the narrative submit the material of the subject matter to sufficient wear and tear for it to become threadbare, the print becoming hardly appreciable while the pattern of the weave predominates more obviously. The reader’s new interest in these unforeseen directions taken by the poet-narrator—his awakening to the possibilities of comedy—usurps the rights of his original curiosity in the knight errant and his quest. Indeed, the tale he expects to be told is abandoned or postponed at the outset! The poet-narrator promises his public a romance «D’un vaslet qui an Grece fu / Del linage le roi Artu» (ll. 8-9), only to interrupt himself immediately and begin another narrative in its place. This change of mind constitutes a clever juggling or reversal of the rules, for Chrétien justifies the reordering of his histoire—namely, his decision that he will ultimately follow the ordo naturalis—in an announcement (ll. 8-11) which obeys the ordo artificialis: «Mes ainz que de lui rien vos die / Orroiz de son pere la vie, / Dom il fu, et de quel linage» (Il. 11-13, emphasis added). The story of Alexandre and Soredamor is told with such attention to detail

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

and to completeness that we do not actually meet Cligés, the hero announced in verse 8, until approximately one-third of the way through the text, at verse 2565. Thus, to take but one case in point, these last remarks bring to mind similar occurrences in Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, no doubt a product of that comic tradition which begins with Chrétien’s Cligés—even the Christian name of the hero leads us back to a story of a new, not so heroic Tristan. In Sterne’s novel, the poet-narrator also ostensibly attempts to provide the historical origins of his narrative-life. He furnishes the necessary background explanations by literally beginning at the beginning, giving a complicated and amusing account of his own conception, resorting, therefore, to references to his parents before supposedly getting under way with his own adventures. Sterne’s poet-narrator apparently chooses to follow a comically literal application of the ordo naturalis, only to interrupt himself rather frequently in order to play on the historical presentations of chronology. In this work as well, the reader does not witness or hear of the birth of the hero as character until approximately one-third

of the way through the narrative, although Tristram

Shandy, as poet-narrator and self-conscious master of the digressio, has been with him and held his attention from the very beginning.

It is easy to see that Chrétien does not mean his Cligés to be taken only at face value. One can and yet cannot read Cligés as one would Chrétien’s other four romances. The same structural patterns and narrative techniques apply, but they are used differently and to a new, and idiosyncratic, purpose. One could, perhaps, apply metaphorically a topos familiar to critics of Cligés and say that the usual structural patterns and narrative techniques are upside-down, for, with Chrétien, even the structural regularities familiar to a reader of his Arthurian poems may not be taken for granted. A reader of Chrétien cannot allow himself the luxury of accepting passively what appears familiar. If he does, he will surely miss out on quite a lot. Just as the characters of Chrétien’s romances encounter difficulty when, mistaking appearances for reality, they find comfort in an uninspiring routine of existence, so does the reader of Chrétien’s

CONCLUSION

P73

romances fall into a trap if he is content to follow blindly a pat literary rule system. Chrétien himself weaves in and out of rule systems—including those of his own making—to invent the unexpected which challenges the reader if he dares undertake the quest the reading offers (1). In our reading of the midpoint as an important instance of conjointure, we saw that it slowed down the narrative and iso-

lated its processes sufficiently so that the reader might fully awaken to them and to their fresh implications. Like the Blood Drops scene, the isolation and revelatory meditation is made possible by means of significant metaphor. The metaphor opens the reader’s eyes to the uniqueness and purpose of this poem. This fact in itself may serve as a narrative model to be imitated by future vernacular poems interested in celebrating the poetic processes themselves, for a dramatized metaphor placed at the very heart of Cligés is specifically positioned at the focal point of poetry. It lies at the core of what poetry is, and its apprehension on the part of the reader unlocks for him the vision that the poem encloses. This revelation disclosed for us by Chrétien in his Cligés is perceived as a modern concern of poetry as well. What Chrétien envisioned has survived the centuries successfully. Witness the following remarks concerning Allen Tate and his conception of metaphor: Metaphors grow, and their meanings seem to unfold within the framework of reference provided by the various stages traversed. This referential deployment, a process of motion, constitutes the main characteristic of a kind of discourse turned inward, as it were, on its own wavelength. This discourse

is typically

poetic. By developing, as Tate says, «the complica-

tions of metaphor,» the reader renders himself available to the complexity of meanings inherent in the sample of poetic discourse he is experiencing; he submits to its play of tensions, he penetrates its economy. This theory

is in part a reworking of Richards’ fundamental doctrine of «functional metaphor» (a product of «imagination,» as opposed to «fancy’s»y ornamental simile), but, unlike Richards’ notion, it deals specifically and ultimately with the identity and value of poetry. Tate is in effect saying that by analyzing metaphors the reader can both identify the text, i.e., ascertain its discoursive intent, and finally grasp its total richness, the entire gamut of meaningful reverberations of which it is the synthesis and orderprinciple (2).

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

This is, perhaps, the greatest lesson that Cligés impresses upon the reader and future romancers: the development of metaphors that call to one another throughout the text and which draw the attention of the reader ever deeper into the inward dynamics of the poem. It is the tension Chrétien carefully builds between the juxtaposition or contiguity of parts of his construction that invites the reader to resolve it by meshing the pieces together in patterns of images. This makes up the richness of his poem and ensures its continuation—«tant con durra crestiantez» (Erec et Enide,1. 25). Even as the strand of golden thread neighboring on the strand of blond hair invites Alexandre unconsciously not to make the distinction, but to perceive the creation as «hair of spun gold,» so Chrétien has labored to situate parts of his poem side by side at strategic narrative points, so that the reader perceives them almost at once as coterminous and, then, immediately as fusing together into a new meaning as image. This is the wondrous possibility of collaboration that Chrétien holds out to us in his Cligés by dramatizing the interdependability of translatio and conjointure. The poem is completed in the reading, in the dépassement of the text as it stands, achieved in the active response made by Chrétien’s interlocutor as he understands: Por ce dist Crestiens de Troies que reisons est que totevoies doit chascuns panser et antandre a bien dire et a bien aprandre; et tret d’un conte d’avanture une molt bele conjointure. (Erec et Enide, ll. 9-14)

NOTES

INTRODUCTION

1. «Appropriately, the twelfth- and thirteenth-century arts of poetry use the term iunctura to designate disposition and linking on all levels of composition.» Douglas Kelly, «The Source and Meaning of Conjointure in Chrétien’s Erec 14,» Viator, Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 1 (1970), 185. 2. Here is the crux of John’s text: «Et quia splendor orationis aut a proprietate est, id est cum adjectivum aut verbum substantivo eleganter adjungitur, aut a translatione, id est ubi sermo ex causa probabili ad alienam traducitur significationem, haec, sumpta occasione, inculcabat mentibus auditorum. Et quoniam memoria exercitio firmatur ingeniumque acuitur, ad imitandum ea quae audiebant, alios admonitionibus, alios flagellis et poenis urgebat. Cogebantur exsolvere singuli die sequenti aliquid eorum quae praecedenti audierant, alii plus, alii minus: erat enim apud eos praecedentis discipulus sequens dies. Vespertium exercitium, quod declinatio dicebatur, tanta copiositate grammaticae refertum erat, ut si quis in eo per annum integrum versaretur, rationem loquendi et scribendi, si non esset hebetior, haberet ad manum et significationem sermonum, qui in communi usu versantur, ignorare non posset... . Quibus autem indicebantur praeexercitamina puerorum in prosis aut poematibus imitandis, poetas aut oratores proponebat et eorum jubebat vestigia imitari, ostendens juncturas dictionum et elegantes sermonum clausulas.» Metalogicus, I, 24, quoted from E. Faral, Les Arts poétiques du XII@ et du XIIT® siécle. Recherches et docu-

ments sur la technique littéraire du moyen age, Bibliothéque de l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes, 238 (Paris: Champion, 1962), pp. 99 ff., n. 3. 3. In her Prologue to the Lais, Marie de France attests the poetic creativity of the twelfth century as the practice of enlightening commentary in the spirit of continuation (Marie de France, Les Lais, ed. Jean Rychner, CFMA, 93 [Paris: Champion,

1968], 1 ff.). 4. «Les commentaires intellectuel

des ceuvres en honneur

et qui ont constitué l’aliment

d’un siécle livrent plus d’un secret: c’est un autre moyen. Il y en a un

autre encore, qui consiste 4 se rapporter aux traités ot les principes de l’art d’écrire

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

ont été codifiés.» Faral, Arts poétiques, pp. xii-xiii.

5. Etienne Gilson summarizes the history of this literary theme in his discussion of medieval humanism in his Les Idées et les lettres (Paris: Vrin, 1932), pp. 18285: «... Beaucoup plus conscient de sa place dans Vhistoire qu’on ne limagine

communément, il [le moyen-4ge] a accepté et revendiqué comme un honneur le réle de transmetteur d’une civilisation qui lui était dévolu. . . . Pour constater la réalité et la vivacité de ce sentiment, il faut suivre histoire d’un théme littéraire trop négligé, le De translatione studii. Le plus ancien témoin que nous en connaissions, et peut-€tre son initiateur, est le moine anonyme qui rédigea la Chronique de Saint-Gall. . . . Le savoir d’Alcuin fructifia si bien 4 Saint-Martin de Tours, affirme le chroniqueur du IX€ siécle, que les Gaulois, ou Francs, d’aujourd’hui sont devenus les égaux des Grecs et des Romains d’autrefois: cujus in tantum doctrina fructificavit, ut moderni Galli sive Franci antiquis Romanis et Atheniensibus aequarentur. Nous avons ici l’amorce du théme de translatione studii. Puisque Athénes s’est transportée en France depuis la

venue d’Alcuin, c’est donc que la science grecque, transmise jadis par la Gréce a Rome, a désormais été transmise par Rome a la France. A mesure que l’importance de Paris augmente, c’est naturellement Paris qui prend la place d’Athénes, mais on ne doute pas du résultat produit par l’enseignement d’Alcuin et nul ne se trompe sur sa portée véritable....Chrétien de Troyes est le premier, a4notre connaissance du moins, qui ait réussi 4 donner au théme de translatione studii sa formule complete. ...il réapparaft dans les Grandes Chroniques de France, qui s’inspirent a la fois du moine de Saint-Gall et de son imitateur Vincent de’ Beauvais: ‘. .. Tant multiplia et fructifia sa doctrine a Paris que, Dieu merci! la fontaine de doctrine et de sapience est

a Paris aussi comme elle fu jadis 4 Athénes et a Rome.’ II ne s’agit donc pas d’une idée formulée par hasard et demeurée sans écho, mais d’une conviction assez profonde et assez généralisée pour que l’on prenne en considération ce qu’elle implique. Ce que l’on trouve de plus apparent, c’est la conscience qu’eut le moyen age d’étre Vhéritier d’une antique culture morale et intellectuelle, la fierté d’en avoir recu le dép6ét, Vinquiétude de le laisser perdre ou corrompre. Les peuples ne sont ici, dans leurs successions, que des réalités transitoires, des transmetteurs de civilisation.»

6. Peter Haidu states the following concerning the Prologue to Cligés and the translatio studii topos it draws upon: «Whether this should be considered a profession de foi humaniste or its reverse, it is a striking passage to find at the beginning of a romance. But the beginning of a work is an important place for effects that will condition the reader’s attitude toward what follows—it is not only rhetoric that says so—-

and our question is the function of this passage. Though there is a good deal of chevalerie in Cligés, clergie (knowledge, culture) does not play a major role. Nor does the sadness and sympathy of the closing couplet quoted above [Il. 41 ff.] cohere with the tone of the romance: it is the first and last time this note will be struck.» Peter Haidu,

Aesthetic Distance in Chrétien de Troyes: Irony and Comedy in Cligés and Perceval (Geneva: Droz, 1968), p. 64.

7. Haidu’s study provides a detailed account of the uses Chrétien makes of allegoria and significatio. Just as the principle of iunctura could apply to the smallest as well as to the largest units of composition, so does Haidu judge irony to function on a sliding scale of structural possibilities (Aesthetic Distance, p. 26). Similarly, Cligés could be approached on the basis of the study of metaphor considered along the lines of a hierarchy of structure. This essay investigates a few aspects such an approach would entail. Frappier has already pointed out Chrétien’s extensive elaboration of metaphor in Cligés: «...c’est la métaphore, et son emploi continu, ou du

NOTES

ad

moins trés fréquent, qui apparaissent comme un élément essentiel . . . je ne crois pas exagérer l’importance

de notre auteur en disant que son réle a été d’emmagasiner

dans Cligés les métaphores essentielles de la préciosité, éparses avant lui, d’augmenter peut-étre leur nombre, mais surtout de mettre au point une technique du style métaphorique dont limitation devait se prolonger pendant des siécles.» Jean Frappier, Le

Roman breton, Chrétien de Troyes: Cligés (Paris: Centre de Documentation Universitaire, 1951), p. 78. This coherence of thought, style, and structure based on a hierarchical amplification of a principle or technique seems to be a characteristic of Chrétien’s style. Perhaps it could tell us something of his view of poetics or, more generally, of the esthetics of the Middle Ages. The fact that both irony and metaphor seem to color the world of Cligés may further indicate a compatibility and a basic connection between the two that may tell us something about poetry, or, at least, about romance poetry. 8. Arthur Franz, «Die reflektierte Handlung im Cligés,» Zeitschrift fiir roma-

nische Philologie, 47 (1927), 61-86. 9. Franz, op. cit., p. 81. 10. «In addition to the materials of literary tradition, the formal structures of literature themselves can be used for ironic purposes. Techniques normally associated with the profound emotional impulses behind lyric and religious poetry can be transferred to the battle descriptions and other literary situations where they are incongruous by reason of the subject or the character’s intent.» Haidu, Aesthetic Distance, p. 108, emphasis added. 11. Unless otherwise indicated, the edition used in this study is Chrétien de Troyes, Cligés, ed. Alexandre Micha, CFMA, 84 (Paris: Champion, 1970). Passages quoted (and corresponding line numbers) refer to this text.

PART I

CHAPTER I

1. «Cette Rhétorique a Herennius était alors, d’un accord unanime, attribuée a Ciceron. Elle était trés célébre. Les catalogues de bibliothéques la mentionnent trés fréquemment; les auteurs y font d’innombrables allusions; et aujourd’hui encore il en

reste de trés nombreux exemplaires. Avec le De Inventione, a la suite duquel elle est souvent copiée dans les manuscrits, elle constituait le manuel fondamental de l’art d’écrire. Le De Inventione était appelé la Rhetorica vetus, ou prima, ou prior; la Rhétorique a Herennius, la Rhetorica nova, ou secunda, ou posterior. Les deux traités réunis ont été traduits en francais dans la seconde moitié du XIII® siécle par Jean d’Antioche.» Faral, Arts poétiques, pp. 48-49.

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

2. «Si, d’autre part, il n’a pas multiplié les confidences sur ses principes de composition et d’art (en quoi il suit la coutume des auteurs de son temps), on peut extraire des prologues de ses romans quelques indications trés utiles 4 la compréhension et 4 l’interprétation de son euvre.» Frappier, Le Roman breton, p. 10. 3. [Pseudo-Cicero], Ad C. Herennium. De Ratione dicendi (Rhetorica ad Herennium), trans. Harry Caplan, The Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard Univ. Press and W. Heinemann, Ltd., 1954). 4. E.R. Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Harper and Row, 1963), p. 83. 5. «To a large extent, it is a bravura display by a young writer confident enough in the admiration of his audience to rehearse, at the opening of a new work,

the bibliography of his former publications and to pit against these former achievements the present evidence of his creative powers. This beginning in itself is already a recognition by the author and an indication to his audience that the romance to follow is intended to impress by skill and literary prowess rather than by effect and

mystery.

It is artificial in the admirable sense of the word, suggesting a compact

between author and audience at the very entrance to the aesthetic world, a compact in which both writer and reader agree to a large measure of gratuitous adventure which, without denying the possibility of serious concerns and implications, is directed primarily to aesthetic delights in the tools of literature themselves. Chrétien opens his romance by calling attention to himself as a literary creator; he invites us to enjoy his creation at the same level that he enjoyed writing it; Cligés is a romancier’s romance.» Haidu, Aesthetic Distance, p. 26. 6. An interesting variant to the second half of this line appears in MSS P, C, and T (Foerster’s sigla)—«. . . de haut parage»—where parage may mean both parenté and ornement, two themes of importance in Cligés, of greater importance, perhaps, than fier corage. 7. In all available manuscripts of Chrétien’s Cligés, with the exceptions of the Guiot manuscript (A of Foerster) and B.N. f. fr. 1450 (B of Foerster), two additional

lines appear after 1. 22 in which Chrétien’s name appears for the first time in the Prologue: «Don cest romanz fist Crestiiens. / Li livres est mout anciiens.» These lines add to the variety of literary terminology present in the Prologue: contes (1. 22), romanz

(I. 23), livres (1. 24), and estoire (Guiot’s |. 23). Furthermore, with respect to MSS A and B, the meaning of Guiot’s 1. 24 is changed by the addition of these two lines. The story is now more believable because of its ancienneté, not merely because it has ° previously been written down. The scribe who added or included these lines shows a sense of proportion, for this first mention of the poet’s name falls exactly in the middle of the Prologue (1. 23 in a passage of 46 lines). This placement puts the strategic emphasis squarely on Chrétien’s «translation» of the text. The centering of the main emphasis in the Prologue is a practice legitimized in the @uvre of Chrétien by the Prologue to Erec et Enide, where the important lines concerning the conjointure constitute the middle couplet of the Prologue. In an important sense, the reading offered by the Guiot manuscript is also an acceptable and interesting reading, since the absence of these two lines maintains the sense of mystery that surrounds the expression «Cil qui fist» and conforms to the general absence of proper names. 8. In the Prologue to Erec et Enide, Chrétien mentions himself twice by name in the context of his role as a responsible and talented clerk whose poem will always be remembered (ll. 9 and 26); Chrétien again signs his work in the Prologue to the Charrette (1. 25); and in the Graal, he identifies himself and his romance with the

NOTES

Li9

hard labor of planting and tilling the fields, in keeping with the Prologue’s opening proverb. The missing signature in the opening lines of Yvain constitutes a different kind of problem. See Karl D. Uitti, «Narrative and Commentary: The Devious Narrator in Chrétien’s Yvain,» forthcoming Romance Philology (August 1979).

in the Marden

Memorial/Willis Testimonial,

9. Chrétien conceivably could be using the verb feire in the Platonic sense of which Curtius reminds us: «The Greek poiein means ‘to make’ in the sense of ‘to produce,’ ‘to fabricate’... Plato defines the usage as follows: All production of things is poiesis. Producing poetry stands to the general domain of production as a part to the whole. ‘Poets’ are ‘those who possess this small part of poesis’ (Symposium, 205 C)» (Curtius, European Literature, p. 145). We shall see in the last chapter the relevance of this description in Cligés. 10. Ovid, Les Métamorphoses, trans. Joseph Chamonard, I (Paris: Editions Garnier, 1953). 11. Micha, ed., Cligés, p. 228; Jean Frappier, Chrétien de Troyes, Connaissance des Lettres, 50 (Paris: Hatier, 1968), p. 7; Paul Zumthor, Essai de poétique médieévale, Collection «Poétique» (Paris: Seuil, 1972), p. 477. 12. Chrétien de Troyes, Le Chevalier de la charrette, ed. Mario Roques, CFMA, 86 (Paris: Champion, 1970). 13. Ovid, Ars Amatoria, II, ll. 743 ff., in The Art of Love and Other Poems, trans. J.H. Mozley, The Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard Univ. Press and William Heinemann, Ltd., 1962). 14. Chrétien de Troyes, Erec et Enide, ed. Mario Roques, CFMA, 80 (Paris: Champion, 1970).

15. See Curtius, European Literature, pp. 29 ff. 16. See the Brocéliande forest episode, recounted by Wace in the Roman de Rou, ed. H. Andresen (Heilbronn and Paris: Henningen and Franck, 1879), ll. 6415 ff. 17. The thirteenth-century scribe of B.N. f. fr. 1450 specifically calls upon Chrétien to testify as the witness to the fact that Arthurian stories have become neither completely factual nor completely false. They have so often, and presumably

for so long, been told that people take pleasure in the very relating of them. The telling of the tales has transformed the facts and given them another value: they are now delitables. The scribe considers this transformation, remarked upon by Wace, to warrant a significant amplification. The scribe interrupts the Roman de Brut in order to incorporate Chrétien’s @uvre. In fact, Wace’s history becomes, in a way, subservient to Chrétien’s romances, since now it provides an outer frame for this new middle section. Perhaps the scribe asks of his patron that he evaluate the Brut by means of the gloss that Chrétien’s example provides: En cele grant pais que jo di Ne sai se vos l’avez oi Furent les mervelles provees Et les aventures trovees Qui d’Artu sont tant racontees Que a fable sont atornees

N’erent mensonge, ne tot voir, Tot folie ne tot savoir; Tant ont li conteor conté

Et par la terre tant fablé Pour faire contes delitables

180

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES Que de verité ont fait fables Mais ce que Crestiens tesmogne

Porrés ci oir sans alogne (MS. BN.

f. fr. 1450, folio 139v., as quoted by Alexandre Micha in La Tradition

manuscrite des romans de Chrétien de Troyes {Geneva: Droz, 1972], p. 37). 18. «In seinem zweiten grossen Roman unternimmt Chrestien etwas ganz Verbliiffendes: Antike, Matiére de Bretagne und imperiale Gegenwart werden durcheinandergewirbelt.

Griechenland

und

Konig

Artus, deutscher

Kaiser und Herzog von

Sachsen werden aufgeboten, Anti-liebestranke werden gemischt, die Romanfiguren protestieren gegen ihren literarischen Rollen; dazu: rhetorische Kunstgriffe aus der Scola. Das alles lasst eine hinreissende Parodie der modischen Literatur entstehen.» Karl Bertau, «Roman als Romanparodie,» in Deutsche Literatur im europdischen Mittelalter, I (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1972), p. 498. 19. Lambert le Tort, Alexandre en Orient, ed. Alfred Foulet, Vol. VI of The Medieval French Roman d’Alexandre, ed. E.C. Armstrong (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1976).

20. Le Roman de Thébes, publié d’aprés les manuscrits, ed. Léopold Constans, Société des Anciens Textes Francais, 31, 2 vols. (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1890). 21. Wace, Le Roman de Brut, ed. Ivor Arnold, Société des Anciens Textes Frangais, 1 (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1938). 22. Gustave Cohen, Un Grand Romancier d’amour et d’aventure au XII siécle: Chrétien de Troyes et son ceuvre (Paris: Boivin, 1931), makes the following comment, which would tend to support this argument concerning the conflict between clergie and chevalerie in the Prologue to Cligés: «On remarquera encore que Chrétien, confident de la chevalerie, semble attacher autant d’importance au lustre qu’elle donne qu’aux sciences et arts qu’enveloppe le mot de clergie, mais ce n’est

qu’une

apparence

destinée

a flatter son vaillant et ignorant auditoire

masculiny

(pp. 170-71).

23. In this respect, one may also remember Marie de France’s rejection of classical subjects in favor of Celtic sources: Pur ceo comengai a penser D’aukune bone estoire faire Et de latin en romaunz traire;

Mais ne me fust guaires de pris Itant s’en sunt altre entremis! (Lais, «Prologue,» ll. 28-32) 24. Benoit de Sainte-Maure, Le Roman de Troie, publié d’aprés tous les manuscrits connus, ed. Léopold Constans, Société des Anciens Textes Frangais, 51, 5 vols.

(Paris: Firmin Didot, 1904).

NOTES

181

CHAPTER II

1. Eneas, Roman du XII siécle, ed. J.-J. Salverda de Grave, CFMA, 44, 62, 2 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1964 and 1968). 2. Later this expertise will be quite to the point . . . and useful! (See Il. 56475740.) 3. Remedia Amoris, in The Art of Love and Other Poems, trans. J.H. Mozley, pp. 181 and 183.

CHAPTER III

1. «Selon l’ingénieuse interprétation d’E. Hoepffner (Archivum romanicum, XVIII, 1934, pp. 433-434), Chrétien a désigné par ‘ le premier vers’ l’introduction de son roman en faisant allusion au premier vers, c’est-a-dire, a la strophe initiale qui célébrait le plus souvent dans une chanson lyrique le renouveau de la nature. Cette strophe d’introduction contrastait frequemment avec le caractére mélancolique ou douloureux des strophes suivantes; d’aprés R.R. Bezzola (Le Sens de l’aventure et de l'amour, pp. 87-88), ce contraste vaudrait aussi pour Erec. M. Roques (éd. d’Erec et d’Enide, p. ix, n. 1) discerne dans l’expression un sens analogue, mais plus discret: ‘...On a pu appeler «premier vers» le début plaisant, ou du moins sans émoi, d’une histoire dont il convient pourtant d’attendre la suite; c’est ainsi qu’on doit se soucier du «revers de la médailley ou qu’on dit prudemment: «mais attendons la fin.»’—Peutétre s’agissait-il d’une expression a la mode, au moins chez les lettrés, comme permet de le croire un autre exemple qu’on trouve au v. 11 de la Branche I du Roman de Renart (éd. Martin): Ce dit l’estoire el premer vers—, ce qui enléverait tout soupcon de pédantisme ou de raideur technique a son emploi» (Frappier, Chrétien de Troyes, pp. 88-89, n. 2). 2. The first scene may be similar to the interview we have discussed between Fenice and Thessala. Erec notes that something is obviously upsetting his wife and he tries to persuade her to divulge her secret. Enide—like Lavine—at first denies that there is anything wrong and tries to convince her husband that he only dreamed she was crying. At this point, there occurs a play on the ambiguity between illusion

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

and reality—between songes and menconges (words often used in rhyme position with one another in an important couplet in Old French romances): «—Ha! biax sire, onques ne l’oistes, / mes je cuit bien que ce fu songes. / —Or me servez vos de manconges» (Il. 2530-32). This play is reversed in the scene from Cligés (ll. 3299 ff.). In the first instance, Enide tries in vain to convince her husband that what took place was, in fact, a dream; in Cligés, the potion convinces Fenice’s husband that what he dreams takes place in fact. Both scenes depend on dramatic irony to be effective. Both scenes, in addition, are motivated by concern for reputation: Erec is branded a recreant; Fenice wants to keep up the appearances of respectability. 3. Wendelin Foerster, Worterbuch zu Kristian von Troyes’ Samtlichen Werken (Tiibingen: Niemeyer, 1967), p. 65.

4. «Infailliblement courtois, le poéte nous engage ainsi 4 ne pas nous poser, a propos d’un conte ‘vain et plaisant,’ des problémes qui ne se sont jamais posés a lui. Et il invite en méme temps ses successeurs et ses continuateurs a entreprendre un vaste travail de renouvellement; non, certes, pour découvrir le sens ‘primitif? des choses—personne, a l’époque, ne s’en souciait,—mais pour leur donner une signification qui puisse se recommander par sa cohérence méme, une conjointure doublement féconde, englobant 4 la fois les récits existants et ceux qui devaient naitre a leur suite.» Eugéne Vinaver, A la Recherche d'une poétique médiévale (Paris: Nizet,

1970), p. 128. 5. Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun, Le Roman de la Rose, ed. Félix Lecoy, CFMA, 92, 95, 98, 3 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1966-1970). 6. Ovid, Tristia. Ex Ponto, trans. Arthur Leslie Wheeler, The Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard Univ. Press and William Heinemann,

1958), 4. 10, 51 ff. and p. 201. 7. Grace Armstrong, «The Scene of the Blood Drops on the Snow: A Crucial Narrative Moment in the Conte du Graal,» Kentucky Romance Quarterly, 19 (1972),

127-47. 8. The motif of Arthur’s court, we recall, was the signal in Erec et Enide for the start and/or finish of an adventure. See Wilhelm Kellermann, Aufbaustil und Weltbilt Chrestiens von Troyes im Percevalroman, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift fiir romanische Philologie, 10, 88 (Halle: Niemeyer, 1936). 9. Chrétien de Troyes, Le Roman de Perceval ou le Conte du graal, ed. William Roach, Textes Littéraires Francais, 71 (Geneva: Droz, 1959). 10. Consider Perceval’s encounter with the five chevaliers (ll. 130-54) and his: discovery of the tent-maiden’s tent (ll. 642-55). It is interesting to note that Perceval

happens upon all three events by pure chance; he and the sights coincide. In addition, as part of a sequence of similar motifs which include the procession at the Graal Castle, the first two encounters are, in Perceval’s mind, related to some part of the Christian experience: God and his angels, on the one hand, and a church, on the other. 11. «Each section is an analogue for every other section and also involves a progression. ...» Stanton de V. Hoffman, «The Structure of the Conte du Graal,» Romanic Review, 52 (1961), 81-98. 12. Perceval enlightens Gauvain at last. It is significant that their exchange of names at the scene of the Blood Drops reveals nothing new to the reader. He has deliberately not been put in the same position as Arthur and his knights. The poetnarrator has very neatly seen fit to slip Perceval’s name into his text—twice (il. 443, 4464)—immediately before Perceval introduces himself to Gauvain. Our values, discoveries, and emotions are not those of Arthur or of Gauvain, but those of Perceval.

_ NOTES

183

13. In this connection, it must be mentioned that Perceval’s name is also specifically and repeatedly included according to a planned verse pattern. Twenty lines after the opening of the Blood Drops scene (1. 4144), we obtain the following pattern: «Et Percevax la matinee» (1. 4164, emphasis added), «Veiies les a et oies» (Perceval is the implied subject) (1. 4174), «Et Percevax comence a poindre» (1. 4184, emphasis added), «Quant Percevax vit defoulee» (1. 4194, emphasis added).

14. For further discussion of the Blood

Drops scene and its relationship to

Ovid’s «Narcissus,» see my «Problems of Romance Composition: Ovid, Chrétien and the Romance of the Rose,» Jean Frappier Memorial Issue, Romance Philology, 30

(1976-1977), 158-68. 15. Arthur’s awakening might be contrasted with a similar account of Charlemagne’s mornings: Par main en Il’albe, si cum li jurz esclairet, Guenes li quens est venuz as herberges. AOI (laisse LIT) Li empereres est par matin levet; Messe e matines ad li reis escultet.

Sur l’erbe verte estut devant sun tref. (laisse LIV) La Chanson de Roland, ed. and trans. Joseph Bédier (Paris: Piazza, 1964). In fact, Chrétien makes the juxtaposition between Perceval and Arthur quite clear, precisely in terms of this motif: «Si quidierent qu’il [Perceval] someillast» (1. 4215) as opposed to «Angois que li rois s’esveillast» (1. 4216).

PART II

CHAPTER I

1. Chrétien, incidentally, is not alone in his loyalty to «les commandemanz d’Ovide» ;Thessala also puts Ovid’s precepts into practice in her handling of Fenice’s situation. She follows Ovid’s suggestions as recorded in the Ars Amatoria for deceiving a crafty husband or eluding a vigilant guardian: Fallitur et multo custodis cura Lyaeo, Illa vel Hispano lecta sit uva iugo; Sunt quoque, quae faciant altos medicamina somnos, Victaque Lethaea lumina nocte premant. (III, ll. 645-48) In order to deceive Alis, Thessala chooses a drink (quite probably wine, considering

184

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

that the potion that figures in Tristan et Iseut is a «vin herbé») and particular drugs so that the husband will conveniently fall into a dream-filled slumber. In her To the King’s Taste (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1975), Lorna J. Sass provides the following details on the type of wine drunk at a medieval banquet: «Strength and harshness were the qualities most characteristic of medieval wines. ... Many recipes call for gode wyne (wine of good quality), or specifically for wyne greke (Greek wine). The term wyne greke did not necessarily designate the origin of the wine, but

that it was made after the style of either Greek or Calabria . . . [wines, which] were heavy and sweet. By adding honey, herbs, and spices, attempts were made to disguise the natural harshness and acidity of improperly aged wines. Such blends were known as piments, named for the pigmentarii or apothecaries who recommended them as medicinal cures. Ypocras, a red or white wine infused with various aromatic ingredients, was thought to be a salutary and digestive drink» (pp. 26-28, emphasis added). In addition, Sass informs us that a drink like Ypocras would be served at the end of a meal, at sundown, before retiring—precisely the moment Thessala chooses to have Cligés present Alis with the magic potion: «The feast lasts as long as the daylight. Just as the sun begins to fade, the cupbearer serves goblets of ypocras and wafers. The pantner places trays of whole spices in confection on each table. After a few moments King Richard rises and bids farewell to his guests. Healthful digestion and a good night’s rest are now the primary concerns» (p. 32). The combination of the probably white wine imbued with sweet, aromatic spices and the crystal cup can suggest an impression of a crystal-clear liquid, tempting by virtue of its delightful, mysterious fragrances, which is almost invisible, an impression that enhances the description of the wedding night as a dream filled with delights, but a dream that is intangible, sheer, and made seemingly of nothing (meant). (This incident is not the only instance in Cligés of Fenice’s escape of husband or guardian due to their timed falling asleep. Witness her «escape» from the tomb, Il. 6081-6137.) 2. See Freeman, «Problems of Romance Composition: Ovid, Chrétien and the Romance of the Rose.» 3. For a comprehensive view of the narrative complexities of this saint’s life, I refer the reader to K.D. Uitti’s Story, Myth, and Celebration in Old French Narrative Poetry 1050-1200 (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1973), pp. 3-64. 4. La Vie de saint Alexis, ed. Gaston Paris, CFMA, 4 (Paris: Champion, 1925).

5. The narrator’s marked interest in Eufemien and his son seems, at first glance, to jar with the opening lines of the Prologue: Bons fut li siecles al tems anciénour, Quer feit i eret e justisie ed amour, S’i ert credance dont or n’i ad nul prout; Toz est mudez, perdude at sa colour: Ja mais n’iert tels com fut as anceisours.

(il. 1-5) In describing Eufemien, the poet has stressed his social position, power, and wealth, qualities likely to be far removed from the charity and justice the narrator values. However, the description he has given succeeds in attracting the reader’s interest. Like the narrator of the Cligés Prologue, what the Alexis narrator will apparently

concern himself with is not necessarily the point of his story. Furthermore, the father is described before the account of his son’s life is begun.

6. Béroul, Le Roman de Tristan, poéme du XIIe@ siécle, ed. Ernest Muret, CFMA, 12 (Paris: Champion, 1967).

NOTES

185

7. Wace was less dogmatic than Béroul when he spoke of Arthur and his expected return:

An Avalon s’an fist porter Por ses plaies medeciner. Ancor i est, Breton l’atandent, Si com il dient et antandent; De la vanra, encer puet vivre. Mestre Waces, qui fist cest livre, Ne volt plus dire de sa fin Que fist li profetes Mellin; Mellins dist d’Artur, si ot droit, Que de sa mort dote fereit.

Li profetes dist verité; Toz tans an a l’an puis doté, Et dotera ce croi toz dis,

Se il est morz ou il est vis. La Partie arthurienne du Roman de Brut, ed. I.D.O. Arnold and M.M. Pelan, Bibliothéque Francaise et Romane,

série B: Textes et Documents,

1 (Paris: Klincksieck,

1962), ll. 4707-20. 8. Vinaver, A la Recherche, p. 59. 9. An interesting comment: an «oral,» knowledge, «lore.»

«authorization»

based

on

«common,»

or

10. «Les vers: Vos estes oncle et il tes niés: / A vos ne mesferoit il mie (11041105), indispensables pour l’intelligence de l’ensemble du récit, ne sont d’aucune

utilité lorsqu’il s’agit de faire sentir

a Marc les risques qu’il court en livrant Iseut au

bicher. Ici comme ailleurs chez Béroul, le personnage parlant s’adresse a nous plutét qu’a son interlocuteur, un peu comme les figures parlantes de la tapisserie de Bayeux» (Vinaver, A la Recherche, p. 81, n. 4).

11. Renée L. Curtis, «Le Philtre mal préparé: le théme de la réciprocité dans l'amour de Tristan et Iseut,» in Mélanges offerts a Jean Frappier, Publications Romanes et Francaises, 112 (Geneva: Droz, 1970), I, 196-206. 12. The texts that follow were pertinently chosen by Renée L. Curtis for her study and are interesting for this one. 13. Gottfried von Strassburg, Tristan, ed. Karl Marold (Leipzig, 1912). The translation provided by R.L. Curtis, in «Le Philtre mal préparé,» p. 196, is as follows: «Tandis que Tristan et ses compatriotes s’apprétaient, Iseut, la reine prudente, mélangea dans une fiole une boisson d’amour concue et préparée avec tant d’artifice. ... » 14. Thessala’s description of the potion: Je cuit que molt amer le doive, C’onques de si boen ne gosta, Ne nus boivres tant ne costa.

(ll. 3244-46) and:

Et por ce que vos esprovastes Et santistes au vant de l’air De boenes espices le flair

Et por ce que cler le veistes, Le vin an sa coupe meistes. (il. 3254-58)

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

15. This last detail of the midpoint scene constitutes another direct commentary on a donnée of the Béroul text. Cligés, in this instance, turns upside-down the role played by Tristan at the corresponding moment of Béroul’s romance. When Ogrin has composed the letter to Marc, he also looks about him for a messenger to deliver his invention. Tristan volunteers: Seelé est, Tristran le tent, Il le recut mot bonement: «Quil portera?» dist li hermites.

«Gel porterai. —Tristran, nu distes. —Certes, sire, si ferai bien.» (ll. 2433-37) Tristan goes on to deliver the brief at evening, when Marc is asleep, a fact which underlines another interesting coincidence between the two texts. Obviously, unlike Cligés, he has been in on the preparation of the «secret weapon» from the very beginning. He is not unsuspecting of the potential powers of something which will benefit him, unbeknownst to himself. On the contrary, it would appear to the «outside world» that Tristan himself is the instigator, author, and bearer of the elaborate selfjustification. Chrétien has once again turned the tables on Tristan. (Another such instance, following a similar pattern, which leads indirectly to the ridicule of the Tristan character, takes place in the Chevalier de la Charrette, \l. 4737 ff. Here Keu is «substituted» for Tristan; he is a character whom the reader cannot take seriously. Furthermore, Lancelot champions the wounded Keu, fighting to maintain that the seneschal did not enjoy Guenevere’s favors. His offer appears noble, but is somewhat undercut by the presence of Keu and resembles the «sermon» redolent with ambiguities that Iseut swears at the Mal Pas. The Tristan tragedy is translated into a comic mode. The myth is undercut amusingly and the romance, as such, benefits from this new variation.)

CHAPTER II

1. The pertinent passages are as follows:

Thessala tranpre sa poison, Espices i met a foison Por adolcir et atranprer; Bien les fet batre et destranprer Et cole tant que toz est clers Ne rien n’i est aigres n’amers; Car les espices qui i sont Dolces et de boene oldor sont. (ll. 3209-16)

>

NOTES

187

«Amis, dist ele, a cest mangier Voel l’empereor losangier D’un boivre qu’il avra molt chier; Si vos di bien, par saint Richier, Ne vuel qu’enuit mes d’autre boive. Je cuit que molt amer le doive, C’onques de si boen ne gosta, Ne nus boivres tant ne costa. Et gardez bien, jel vos acoint, Que nus autres n’an boive point, Por ce que trop enia po. Et ce meismes vos relo Que ja ne sache dom il vint, Fors que par aventure avint Qu’antre les presanz le trovastes,

Et Et De Et

por ce que vos esprovastes santistes au vant de l’air boenes espices le flair, por ce que cler le veistes,

Le vin an sa coupe meistes; Se par avanture l’enquiert, Sachiez que a tant peis en iert. Mes por chose que vos ai dite, N’en aiez ja male souspite, Car li boivres est clers, et sains, Et de boenes espices plains,

Et puet cel estre en aucun tans Vos fera lié, si con je pans.» (il. 3239-66) 2. The exclusive use of spices in Cligés, compared with the exclusive use of herbs in Béroul’s poem, presents an interesting distinction. This difference may characterize in itself the attitudes of the two texts. Herbs may be considered more natural, but short-lived, and easily available, whereas spices are usually considered to be somewhat artificial, «longer-lived» or used for preserving foods, and generally imported, often from the Orient. 3. In this connection, espice should also remind us of the scene of leave-taking - between Fenice and Cligés. His parting words are ambiguous and lend themselves to two possible interpretations: either as a cliché indulged in for courtly etiquette’s sake or as an avowal of his true love for Fenice: «Mes droiz est qu’a vos congié praigne / Com a celi cui ge sui toz» (Il. 4282-83). This scene dramatizes the familiar Tristan paradox wherein one’s concern for appearances, which may dictate what one says because society is ever vigilant, comes into conflict with one’s desire to communicate a personal message which one wishes to keep hidden from society. It would seem that Fenice has a harder time playing this game of double entendre than did Iseut, at least at first. But her bewilderment or ineptitude is amplified for our amusement. Cligés’ parting words constitute the pretext for a long and convoluted monologue by Fenice (reminiscent of those delivered by Cligés’ parents). It is an amusingly absurd, but highly technical exercise of gloser la letre. This letre, or phrase, she treats like an espice, placing it on the tip of her tongue, savoring it over and over again, to the

188

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

point where its substance practically disappears: Aprés, par boene boche feire, Met sor sa leingue un po d’espece: Que ele por trestote Grece, An celui san qu’elle le prist, Ne voldroit que cil qui le dist

L’eiist ja pansé par faintié, Qu’ele ne vit d’autre daintié, Ne autre chose ne li plest. Cil seus moz la sostient et pest, Et toz ses maz li asoage. D’autre mes ne d’autre bevrage

Ne se quiert pestre n‘abevrer; Car quant ce vint au dessevrer,

Dist Cligés qu’il estoit toz suens. Cist moz li est pleisanz et buens, Que de la leingue au cuer li toche, Sel met el cuer et an la boche, Por ce que mialz en est setre.

Desoz nule autre serretire N’ose cest tresor estoier;

Nel porroit si bien envoier En autre leu com an son cuer. Ja nel metra fors a nul fuer, Tant crient larrons et robeors; Mes de neant li vient peors

Et por neant crient les escobles, Car cist avoirs n’est mie mobles,

Einz est ausi com edefiz Qui ne puet estre desconfiz Ne par deluge, ne par feu, Ne ja nel movera d’un leu. Mes ele n‘an est pas certainne,

Por ce i met et cure et painne A encerchier et a aprandre A quoi ele s’am porta prandre; En plusors menieres l’espont. A li seule opose et respont, Et fet tele oposition: (ll. 4328-65) (The oposition continues until 1. 4529.) The italics here are intended either to draw

attention to details that corroborate our general observations of espices or to underscore specific parallels—in expression, for example—between this scene and the potion-plus-wedding-night episode, correspondences which, for the present, this study does not intend to explore. In this scene, espice is associated with an ambiguity that exists as a barrier to communication between lovers and courtly society, as well as with exaggerated attention given to banalities of expression. These additional associations of espice, then, may also inform our interpretation of the midpoint passage. The putting together of the potion includes those things which are ambiguous or

NOTES

189

which ironically present one face to the world and another in intimate company. 4. H.O. Taylor, The Classical Heritage of the Middle Ages (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1901), p. 10. 5. The potion is depicted in a situation which generally turns its usual Tristan context upside-down. The drink is deliberately made for a deceitful purpose; it is drunk by the person for whom it was originally intended—the husband—and only by him; it grants only the illusion, not the reality, of requited passionate love; one of the lovers—eventually both—and the servant girl are perfectly aware of what they are doing. This inversion of the Tristan situation prepares the way for other such inversions in this romance—e.g., Jehan’s castle—as well as in subsequent romances. 6. «Metre le sorplus» may, at times, have a less than innocent intention.

CHAPTER III

1. See the «Index des mots relatifs a la civilisation et aux mceurs» in Mario Roques’s edition of Erec et Enide. 2s En la’sale ot deus faudestués d’ivoire, blans, et biax et nués d’une meniere et d’une taille.

Cil qui les fist, sanz nule faille, fu molt soutix et angigneus, car si les fist sanblanz andeus d’un haut, d’un lonc, et d’un ator,

ja tant n’esgardessiez an tor por l’un de |’autre dessevrer que ja i poissiez trover an l’un qui an l’autre ne fust. N’i avoit nule rien de fust, se d’or non, et d’ivoire fin;

antaillié furent de grant fin, car li dui manbre d’une part

3. Foerster’s (l. 1169).

orent sanblance de liepart, li autre dui de corquatrilles. Uns chevaliers, Bruianz des Illes, en avoit fet don et seisine le roi Artus et la reine. (ll. 6651-70) text reads more correctly: «La reine prant la chemise,»

4. Foerster, ll. 1609-10.

etc.

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

190

5. This scene is essentially redone in Chrétien’s Chevalier de la Charrette, with certain roles undergoing a reversal. In the story of Lancelot, it is a dameisele who recognizes the comb, where several blond hairs are still caught, and laughs because Lancelot does not realize what he sees before him. He is, at first, concerned with the comb rather than with the lock of hair. The golden strands this time belong to Guenevere. Similarly, Lancelot—who has not the inhibitions of a convention-minded Alexandre—falls into a trance of adoring veneration before the hair in the presence of the young lady. This is identical to the ecstasy in which Alexandre indulges himself at night, when he is alone and can concentrate in solitude on the strands woven into the shirt. See Mario Roques’s edition of the Charrette, ll. 1384-1494.

6. Erec et Enide:

Cligés:

Por Vun de l’autre dessevrer que ja poissiez trover (ll. 6659-60); Por savoir et por esprover Se ja porroit home trover Qui l’un de l’autre devisast (ll. 1155-57). Un mestre ai que j’en vuel proier, Qui mervoilles taille et deboisse: N’est terre ou l’en ne le conoisse Par les oevres que il a feites, Et deboissiees, et portreites; Jehanz a non, et s’est mes sers. N’est nus mestiers, tant soit divers, Se Jehanz i voloit entandre, Que a lui se poist nus prandre; Car anvers lui sont tuit novice, Com anfes qui est a norrice.

Ts

AS soes oevres contrefeire Ont apris quanqu’il sevent feire Cil d’Antioche et cil de Rome (ll. 5314-27).

8. «It frequently seemed to range the reader with the author as against the characters, as if Chrétien de Troyes were offering a guided tour through a living laboratory of charming foolishness: with a sideward wink or a meaningful nudge, he would suggest comparisons which both brought together certain aspects of his story and provided the observer with material or instructive meditation» (Haidu, Aesthetic

Distance, pp. 9-10).

:

9. Note the similarity between this line and the use of the verb feire in the Prologue previously alluded to by this study, as well as the similarity with the last line of the poem: «Ci fenist l’uevre Crestien» (1. 6664), that spot where Chrétien does indeed sign his composition. 10. Significant parallels with parts of Béroul’s text seem pertinent to this passage, since they may be considered as general authorizations for the directions this particular description has taken in order to situate itself in relation to the first poem as another version of the Tristan and as a commentary on the particular treatment of it that the Béroul poem represents. They are as follows: 1)

2)

Orest Tristran si a setir

Con s’il fust en chastel o mur (ll. 1277-78); Par entree priveement Le mist Orri el bel celier. Tot li trove quant q’ot mestier (Il. 3016-18);

NOTES 3)

LOT

O Tristran ert la sejornanz Priveement en souterrin (ll. 3024-25).

11. Gottfried’s Lovers’ Cave also recasts the Morrois forest or Thomas’ verger according to similar principles, followed by the description of Jehan’s tower, that include artifice, architecturalness, isolation, and hidden meaning or allegory. However, the description of this cave differs markedly in that the allegory is quite explicit and the narrator—and the narrator alone—furnishes both the description and the detailed allegory. (In addition, Jehan’s tower seems to be situated in an out-of-theway section of the city, whereas Gottfried’s cave is decidedly in the wilds of nature.) The extant fragments of Thomas’ Tristan do not include a description of the verger, so we cannot compare Gottfried’s text with the passage that probably inspired it. However, part of the passage devoted to «La Salle aux Images,» in which Tristan is depicted as a sculptor, has survived. Here, too, it is significant that, to all intents and purposes, it is the narrator who speaks—who conceptualizes and articulates poetically—Tristan’s changes of moods. Tristan is not depicted—in the fragments remaining, at least—in the process of sculpting the statues, nor are the statues described, except, perhaps, to hint that the statue of Iseut might portray her as she was about to give Tristan the ring. Artifice is less apparent in this scene, which, to my mind, suggests a kind of futile and infantile lyric situation which serves to underscore instead the poignancy of Tristan’s aloneness in love, whether Iseut be present or not. The statues do not capture or preserve an articulation of a feeling, but serve as very privately understood catalysts either to conjure up past scenes or to imagine new, threatening ones. In either case, they afford Tristan an opportunity to play out the drama of his feelings which he apparently cannot do without. No version of the Tristan, however, has seen fit to put the reader directly into contact with artifice through the characters themselves in a self-celebrative, self-referential position, as has Chrétien. Nevertheless, allusions to architecture or to sculpture consistently appear in all three versions. (Furthermore, Geoffroi de Vinsauf also compares the poet’s preparation of his material—the inventio—to the architect’s drawing up of blueprints. Ars Poetica, 43-59, as quoted by Faral, Arts poétiques, pp. 198-99.)

CONCLUSION

1. Again, a quotation from Sterne’s poet-narrator, who himself feigns an interest in Horace’s Ars Poetica, seems appropriate to this context: « .. . For which cause, right glad I am that I have begun the history of myself in the way that I have done; and that I am able to go on tracing everything in it, as Horace says, ab Ovo. Horace, I

know, does not recommend this fashion altogether: But that gentleman is speaking only of an epic poem or a tragedy—(I forget which) —besides, if it was not so, I should beg Mr. Horace’s pardon;—for in writing what I have set about, I shall confine myself

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to neither his rules nor to any man’s rules that ever lived.» Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, ed. lan Watt (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1965), pp. 5-6. It is interesting to note that Chrétien also plays with the fact that he is writing neither an epic, although he incorporates epic-like scenes and motifs, nor a tragedy, even though Cligés is a version of the Tristan, itself, no doubt, a romance tragedy.

2. K.D. Uitti, Linguistics and Literary Theory (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1969), pp. 162-63, emphasis added.

SELECTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY

The following titles comprise such texts and works as I have consulted and found particularly pertinent to my study (in some instances, citing them in the preceding pages). By no means does this constitute a complete list of works devoted to Chrétien de Troyes, his work, or, still less, to Old French romance. Dates given correspond to the editions and printings which I have consulted and quoted; they do not always correspond to the first printing or edition.

Texts Benoit de Sainte-Maure. Le Roman de Troie, publié d aprés tous les manuscrits connus. Ed. Léopold Constans. Société des Anciens Textes Frangais, 51. 5 vols. Paris: Firmin Didot, 1904. Béroul. Le Roman de Tristan, poéme du XII@ siécle. Ed. Ernest Muret. Classiques Frangais du Moyen Age, 12. Paris: Champion, 1967. La Chanson de Roland, publiée daprés le manuscrit d’Oxford. Ed. and trans. Joseph Bédier. Paris: H. Piazza, 1964. Chrétien de Troyes: Kristian von Troyes. Sdmtliche Werke, 1: Cligés. Ed. Wendelin Foerster. Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1884. Cligés. Trans. Alexandre Micha. Paris: Champion, 1969. Les Romans de Chrétien de Troyes édités d‘aprés la copie de Guiot (Bibl. nat. fr. 794): I -Erec et Enide. Ed. Mario Roques. Classiques Frangais du Moyen Age, 80. Paris: Champion, 1970. II - Cligés. Ed. Alexandre Micha. Classiques Francais du Moyen Age, 84. Paris: Champion, 1970.

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CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

Ill -Le Chevalier de la Charrette. Ed. Mario Roques. Classiques Francais du Moyen Age, 86. Paris: Champion, 1970. Chevalier au lion (Yvain). Ed. Mario Roques. Classiques -Le IV Francais du Moyen Age, 89. Paris: Champion, 1970. Le Roman de Perceval ou le Conte du graal. Ed. William Roach. Textes Littéraires Francais, 71. Geneva: Droz, 1959. [Pseudo-Cicero]. Ad C. Herennium. De Ratione Dicendi (Rhetorica ad Herennium). Trans. Harry Caplan. The Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass., and London:

Harvard Univ. Press and W. Heinemann,

Ltd, 1954. Eneas, Roman du XII@ siécle. Ed. J.-J. Salverda de Grave. Classiques Francais du Moyen Age, 44, 62. 2 vols. Paris: Champion, 1964 and 1968. Folie Berne. Ed. E. Hoepffner. Publications de la Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg, Textes d’étude, 3. Strasbourg, 1949. Gottfried von Strassburg. Tristan. Ed. Karl Marold. Teutonia Arbeiten zur germanischen Philologie, 6. Leipzig: Eduard Avenarius, 1912. Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun. Le Roman de la Rose. Ed. Félix Lecoy. Classiques Frangais du Moyen Age, 92, 95, 98. 3 vols. Paris: Champion, 1966-70. Horace. Epistles and Ars Poetica. Trans. H. Rushton Fairclough. The Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard Univ. Press and William Heinemann, Ltd, 1955. Lambert le Tort. Alexandre en Orient. Ed. Alfred Foulet. Vol. VI of The Medieval French Roman d’Alexandre. Ed. E.C. Armstrong. Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1976. Marie de France. Les Lais. Ed. Jean Rychner. Classiques Frangais du Moyen Age, 93. Paris: Champion, 1968.

Ovid. The Art of Love and Other Poems. Trans. J.H. Mozley. The Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass., and. London: Harvard Univ. Press and William Heinemann, Ltd, 1962. ———. Tristia. Ex Ponto. Trans. Arthur Leslie Wheeler. The Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard Univ. Press and William Heinemann, Ltd, 1953. ———. Les Métamorphoses. Trans. Joseph Chamonard. Vol. I. Paris: Editions Garnier, 1953. Piramus et Tisbé, poéme du XII€ siécle. Ed. C. de Boer. Classiques Francais du Moyen Age, 26. Paris: Champion, 1921. Le Roman de Thébes, publié d’aprés tous les manuscrits. Ed. Léopold Constans. Société des Anciens Textes Frangais, 31. 2 vols. Paris: Firmin

Didot, 1890. Sterne, Laurence. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.

SELECTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY

195

Ed. Ian Watt. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1965. La Vie de saint Alexis. Ed. Gaston Paris. Classiques Frangais du Moyen Age, 4. Paris: Champion, 1925. Wace. La Partie arthurienne du Roman de Brut. Eds. I.D.O. Arnold and MM. Pelan. Bibliothéque Frangaise et Romane, série B: Textes et Documents, 1. Paris: Klincksieck, 1962:

———. Le Roman de Brut. Ed. Ivor Amold. Société des Anciens Textes Frangais. 2 vols. Paris: Firmin Didot, 1938-1940. ——~—. Le Roman de Rou. Ed. H. Andresen. Heilbronn and Paris: Henningen and Franck, 1879.

Critical Studies

Armstrong, Grace. «The Scene of the Blood Drops on the Snow: A Crucial Narrative Moment in the Conte du Graal.» Kentucky Romance Quarterly, 19 (1972), 12747. Auerbach, E. Literatursprache und Publikum in der lateinischen Spdatantike und im Mittelalter. Bern: Francke, 1958. Bayrav, Stiheyla. Symbolisme médiéval: Béroul, Marie de France, Chrétien. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1957.

Benton, John F. «The Court of Champagne as a Literary Center.» Speculum, 36 (1961), 551-91. Bertau, Karl. «Roman als Romanparodie.» In his Deutsche Literatur im europaischen Mittelalter. Vol. 1. Munich: C.H. Beck, 1972, pp. 498-509. Bertolucci, Valeria. «Commento retorico all’Erec e al Cligés.» Studi mediolatini e volgari, 8 (1960), 9-51. ———. «Di nuovo su Cligés e Tristan.» Studi francesi, 18 (1962), 401-13. Bik, Elisabeth J. «Les Interventions d’auteur dans le Tristan de Béroul.» Neophilologus ,56 (1972), 3142. Blakey, Brian. «Truth and Falsehood in the Tristan of Béroul.» In History and Structure of French: Essays in Honour of Professor T.B. Reid. Oxford and Totowa, N.J.: Blackwell and Rowman and Littlefield, 1972, pp. 19-29. Cocito, L. /] Cligés di Chrétien de Troyes. Geneva: M. Bozzi, 1968. Cohen, Gustave. Un Grand Romancier damour et d’aventure au XIIe siécle: Chrétien de Troyes et son ceuvre. Paris: Boivin, 1931. Colby, Alice M. The Portrait in Twelfth-Century French Literature: An Example of the Stylistic Originality of Chrétien de Troyes. Geneva: Droz, 1965. Curtis, Renée L. «Le Philtre mal préparé: le théme de la réciprocité dans

196

CHRETIEN DE TROYES’S CLIGES

amour de Tristan et Iseut.» In Mélanges offerts a Jean Frappier. Publications Romanes et Frangaises, 112. Vol. I. Geneva: Droz, 1970, pp. 196-206. Curtius, Ernst Robert. European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages.

Trans. Willard R. Trask. New York: Harper and Row, 1963. Faral, Edmond. Les Arts poétiques du XII et du XIII siécle: Recherches et documents sur la technique littéraire du moyen age. Bibliothéque de

V’Ecole des Hautes Etudes, 238. Paris: Champion, 1962. ——~—. Recherches sur les sources latines des contes et romans courtois du moyen age. Paris: Champion, 1913. Favati, Guido. «Le Cligés de Chrétien de Troyes dans les éditions critiques et dans les manuscrits.» Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale, 10 (1967), 385-407. ———. «Una traccia di cultura neoplatonica in Chrétien de Troyes ....» In Studi in onore di Carlo Pellegrini. Biblioteca di Studi Francesi, 2. Turin: Societa Editrice Internazionale, 1963, pp. 3-13. Foerster, Wendelin. Worterbuch zu Kristian von Troyes’ Sdmtlichen Werken. Rev. ed. by Hermann Breuer. Tiibingen: Niemeyer, 1967.

Fourrier, Anthime.

«Encore la chronologie des ceuvres de Chrétien de

Troyes.» Bulletin Bibliographique de la Société Internationale Arthurienne, 2 (1950), 69-88. ———. Les Débuts (XII® siécle) . Vol. I of Le Courant réaliste dans le roman courtois en France au moyen age. Paris: Nizet, 1960. Franz, Arthur. «Die reflektierte Handlung im Cligés.» Zeitschrift fiir roma-

nische Philologie ,47 (1927), 61-86. Frappier, Jean. Chrétien de Troyes. Connaissance des Lettres, 50. Paris: Hatier, 1968. ———. Le Roman breton, Chrétien de Troyes: Cligés. Paris: Centre de Documentation Universitaire, 1951. ——~. «Variations sur le théme du miroir de Bernard de Ventadour a Maurice Scéve.» Cahiers de l’Association Internationale des Etudes Frangaises, 11 (1959), 134-58. Freeman, Michelle A. «Chrétien de Troyes’ Cligés: A Close Reading of the

Prologue.» Romanic Review, 67 (1976), 89-101. ———. «Problems of Romance Composition: Ovid, Chrétien de Troyes and the Romance of the Rose.» Romance Philology ,30 (1976-1977), 15868. Frye, Northrop. A Natural Perspective: The Development of Shakespearean Comedy and Romance. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1965. Genette, Gérard. Figures II. Collection «Poétique.» Paris: Seuil, 1972.

SELECTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY

Lot

Esp. «Métonymie chez Proust,» pp. 41-63. Gilson, Etienne. Les Idées et les lettres. Paris: Vrin, 1932. Green, D.H. «Irony and the Medieval Romance.» Forum for Modern Lan-

guage Studies, 6 (1970), 49-64. Grisward, Joél..«Com ces trois gouttes de sanc furent, Qui sur le blance noif parurent—Note sur un motif littéraire.» In Etudes de langue et de littérature du moyen age offertes a Félix Lecoy. Paris: Champion, 1973, pp. 157-64.

Guiette, Robert. «Sur quelques vers de Cligés.» Romanic Review, 12 (1921), 97-134, 21646. Haidu, Peter. Aesthetic Distance in Chrétien de Troyes: Irony and Comedy

in Cligés and Perceval. Geneva: Droz, 1968. Hauvette, Henri. La Morte vivante. Paris: Boivin, 1933. Hoffman, Stanton de V. «The Structure of the Conte del graal.» Romanic

Review, 52 (1961), 81-98. Hunt, Tony. «The Rhetorical Background to the Arthurian Prologue: Tradition and the Old French Vernacular Prologues.» Forum for Modern Language Studies ,6 (1970), 1-28. ———. «Tradition and Originality in the Prologues of Chrétien de Troyes.» Forum for Modern Language Studies, 7 (1972), 32044. Jakobson, Roman, and Morris Halle. Fundamentals of Language. Vol. 1 of Janua Linguarum, Studia memoriae Nicolai van Wijk dedicata. Ed. C.H. van Schooneveld. The Hague: Mouton, 1956. Kahane, Henry, and Renée. «L’Enigme du nom de Cligés.» Romania, 82 (1961), 113-21. Kellermann, Wilhelm. Aufbaustil und Weltbild Chrestiens von Troyes im Percevalroman. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift fiir romanische Philologie, XI: 88. Halle: Niemeyer, 1936. Kelly, Douglas. «The Scope of the Treatment of Composition in the Twelfth- and Thirteenth-Century Arts of Poetry.» Speculum, 41 (1966), ’ 261-78. ———. Sens and Conjointure in the Chevalier de la Charrette. Paris: Mouton, 1966. ———. «The Source and Meaning of Conjointure in Chrétien’s Erec 14.» Viator, 1 (1970), 179-200. ———. «Theory of Composition in Medieval Narrative Poetry and Geofrey de Vinsauf’s Poetria Nova.» Mediaeval Studies, 31 (1969), 117-48. Kuhn, Hugo. «Erec.» In his Dichtung und Welt im Mittelalter. Stuttgart: J.B. Metzlersche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1959, pp. 133-50. Lacy, Norris J. «Form and Pattern in Cligés.» Orbis Litterarum, 15 (1970), 307-13.

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———, «Narrative Point of View and the Problem of Erec’s Motivation.» Kentucky Romance Quarterly, 18 (1971), 355-62. ——~—, «Thematic Analogues in Erec.» L Esprit Créateur, 9 (1968), 267-74. Lyons, Faith. «La Fausse mort dans le Cligés de Chrétien de Troyes.» In Mélanges de linguistique et de littérature romanes offerts a Mario Roques. Vol. I. Paris: Didier, 1950, pp. 167-77. Maddox, Donald L. «Critical Trends and Recent Work on the Cligés of

Chrétien de Troyes.» Neuphilologische Mitteilungen, 74 (1973), 73045. ——~—, «Kinship Alliances in the Cligés of Chrétien de Troyes.» L ‘Esprit Créateur, 12 (1972), 3-12. Micha, Alexandre. «Eneas et Cligés.» In Mélanges de philologie romane et de littérature médiévale offerts a Ernest Hoepffner. Publication de la Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg. Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1949, pp. 23743. ——~—. Prolégoménes a une édition de Cligés. Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1938. ——~—. La Tradition manuscrite des romans de Chrétien de Troyes. 2nd ed. Publications Romanes et Frangaises, 90. Geneva: Droz, 1966.

———. «Tristan et Cligés.»» Neophilologus ,36 (1952), 1-10. Nitze, W.A. «Conjointure in Erec, vs. 14.» Modern Language Notes, 49

(1954), 180-81. Noble, Peter. «Alis and the Problem of Time in Cligés.» Medium Aevum, 39 (1970), 28-31. Nolan, E. Peter. «Mythopoetic Evolution: Chrétien de Troyes’s Erec et Enide, Cligés, and Yvain.» Symposium, 25 (1971), 139-61. Nykrog, Per. «Two Creators of Narrative Form in Twelfth-Century France: Gautier d’Arras - Chrétien de Troyes.» Speculum, 48 (1973), 258-76. Owen, D.D.R. «Profanity and Its Purpose in Chrétien’s Cligés and Lancelot.» Forum for Modern Language Studies, 6 (1970), 3748. : Paris, Gaston. Review article of 1901 ed. of Cligés, by W. Foerster. Journal des Savants, February, June, July 1902, pp. 57-69, 289-309, 345-57. Polak, L. «Cligés, Fénice et l’arbre d’amour.» Romania, 93 (1972), 303-16. Richards, Earl Jeffrey. «The Poetics of the Roman d’Eneas.» Senior thesis Princeton 1974. Riquer, M. de. «Perceval y las gotas de sangre en la nieve.» Revista de filologia espanola, 39 (1955), 186-219. Robertson, D.W., Jr. «Chrétien’s Cligés and the Ovidian Spirit.» Comparative Literature, 7 (1955), 3242. ———. «The Idea of Fame in Chrétien’s ‘Cligés.’» Studies in Philology ,69 (1972), 414-33. Sass, Lorna J. To The King’s Taste. New York: Metropolitan Museum of

SELECTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY

12,

ATUL LOTS. Taylor, H.O. The Classical Heritage of the Middle Ages. New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1901. Thiry-Stassin, Martine. «Interventions d’auteur dans le Cligés en prose de 1454.» In Hommage au professeur Maurice Delbouille. Marche Romane,

numéro spécial. Ed. Jeanne Wathelet-Willem. Liége: Cahiers de l’A.R.U.Lg., 1973, pp. 269-77. Uitti, Karl D. «Chrétien de Troyes’ Yvain: Fiction and Sense.» Romance

Philology ,22 (1968-1969), 471-83. ———. Linguistics and Literary Theory. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: PrenticeHall, 1969. ———. «Remarks on Old French Narrative: Courtly Love and Poetic Form.» Romance Philology ,26 (1972-1973), 77-93; 28 (1974-1975), 190-99. ———. Story, Myth, and Celebration in Old French Narrative Poetry 10501200. Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1973.

———. «Le Temps retrouvé: sens, composition et langue.» Romanische Forschungen, 75 (1963), 332-61. Van Hamel, A.G. «Cligés et Tristan.» Romania, 33 (1904), 465-89. Varvaro, Alberto. Béroul’s Romance of Tristan. Trans. John C. Barnes. Manchester and New York: Manchester Univ. Press, 1972. Vinavér, Eugéne. A la Recherche d'une poétique médiévale. Paris: Nizet, 1970. ———. «From Epic to Romance.» Bulletin of the John Reynolds Library (Manchester), 46 (1963-1964), 476-503. Wagner, Robert-Léon. «Sorcier» et «magicien,» contribution a histoire de la magie. Paris and Geneva: Droz, 1939. Whitteridge, Gweneth. «The Tristan of Béroul.» In Medieval Miscellany Presented to Eugéne Vinaver by Pupils, Colleagues and Friends. Eds. F. Whitehead, A.H. Diverres, and FE. Sutcliffe. Manchester and New York: Manchester Univ. Press and Barnes and Noble, 1965, pp. 337-56. Zaddy, Z.P. Chrétien Studies. Problems of Form and Meaning in Erec, Yvain, Cligés,and the Charrette. Glasgow: Univ. of Glasgow Press, 1973. Ziltener, W. Chrétien und die Aeneis: eine Untersuchung des Einfluss von Vergil auf Chrétien von Troyes. Cologne: Graz, 1957. Zumthor, Paul. Essai de poétique médiévale. Collection «Poétique.» Paris: Seuil, 1972.

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