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Story, Myth, and Celebration in Old French Narrative Poetry, 1050-1200
By Karl D. Uitti PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS
Copyright © 1973 Princeton University Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-691-06242-6
CHAPTER 1
The "Life of Saint Alexis"
Introduction and Summary
The Old French Life of Saint Alexis, though usually dated around the middle of the eleventh century, by no means constitutes the earliest example of vernacular French narrative. Many such texts surely have been lost; a goodly number of tales were probably never formally committed to writing or were set down much later. Certain texts — the Passion of Our Lord (often referred to as La Passion de Clermont) and the Life of Saint Legier — may be traced back to the closing years of the tenth century. The lyrico-narrative Cantilène de sainte Eulalie, probably the oldest surviving literary text written in Old French, belongs to the final quarter of the ninth century. Also, a number of Old Provencal narratives antedate the Alexis. Yet most critics agree that the OF Alexis is a masterpiece, some claiming that it is the first major literary work of the language. Gaston Paris' judgment is measured, but nonetheless very favorable: "Le poème ... offre, dans sa simplicité gracieuse et sévère, de réels mérites de style et de sentiment; il ouvre dignement l'histoire de la poésie nationale."
Of course it is hard to remain entirely insensible to the charm and considerable craftsmanship of the venerable Clermont Passion. Many of the devices later to be exploited by the Alexis poet are already in full evidence there. Yet we may be justified in beginning our investigation of the French narrative with a study of the Alexis; indeed we may even agree with Gaston Paris that the Alexis does in fact "open ... the history of French poetry," despite such noble antecedents as the Passion, because, as we shall see in due course, the poem summarizes a kind of narrative poetics. The Alexis derives from a tradition that, more than any other early OF poem, it helps to perfect and pass on, under the guise of narrative possibilities, to subsequent works. The Alexis thus partakes of a literary and historical process, but the intensity of its participation in this process makes of it a kind of milestone. Little would be gained here by our returning to earlier works. Conversely, had we neglected the Alexis much would have been lost. We should be unable to read as thoroughly either the Song of Roland or Chrétien's Yvain. And, let me say right off, the Alexis is a jewel: it is intellectually very rewarding to come to grips with this intricate and thoroughly beautiful text.
Before taking up the critical issues, let me recapitulate briefly the events of the poem (as given by MS L, the version usually preferred by editors since Gaston Paris).
In olden times, when faith and justice and love prevailed, when our "ancestors" were true Christians, the noble Roman count Eufemien and his wife prayed God for a son. Their wishes were granted; they baptized the boy Alexis. He received the best education possible. When it was time for him to marry, Eufemien betrothed him to a noble Roman maid. The marriage takes place. On the wedding night Alexis goes to his bride: he sees the girl, but thinks of his Lord, fearing that sin will cause him to lose God. He tells his wife of the frailty of mortal life. In this world, he avers, there is no "perfect love." She should take for her husband Him who has saved us with His precious blood. He then presents her with his sword-belt and a ring; he commends her to God and leaves his father's dwelling, fleeing the country. A ship awaits him in port; he pays his passage and embarks for Laodicea (Latakia). After an indefinite sojourn there, Alexis removes to Edessa (Alsis in the poem, today called Orfa), where there exists a famous "image" that the angels had made in the name of the Virgin. He distributes all his belongings to the needy, after which he becomes himself a beggar, keeping only of the alms given to him what is strictly necessary to maintain life, and giving the rest to the poor.
The narration shifts back to Rome, where Alexis' father, mother, and bride express their grief. Eufemien sends two servants to look for his son. Ironically, they find him and even give him alms, but so completely has he been transformed by his ascetic existence that they do not recognize him. They return to Rome empty-handed. Alexis' mother bitterly laments her own and Eufemien's loss; she destroys Alexis' old room with all its furnishings. Her violence contrasts with the bride's soft sadness: "From now on I shall live in the manner of turtledoves ... I wish to stay with you." And the mother reflects this softness in giving the bride permission to remain: "Let us together bewail the sadness we feel over our beloved friend; you for your lord, I for my son."
Alexis serves his God in Edessa. Seventeen uneventful years pass; he is utterly faithful. God causes the "image" to speak. It commands the "altar servant" or custodian to call in the "man of God," for he is worthy of entering into Paradise. The custodian does not know whom to call; the "image" specifies: "The one who sits beyond the door" — Alexis. The news is out; the entire city wishes to honor Alexis, but he will have none of the celebration. In the middle of the night he slips away, once again, to Laodicea, where he boards a waiting ship. Buffeted by winds, the vessel changes course, arriving at a port near Rome. Alexis is afraid lest he be recognized and that his parents "burden him with the honors of the world." He does not intend to be welcomed back into his family; a very moving speech, or prayer, contained in stanzas 41 and 42 expresses his feelings. Strolling through the familiar streets of Rome, Alexis meets (and recognizes) his father. For "his son's sake," he requests board and shelter in Eufemien's house, specifying a humble abode under the staircase. Eufemien answers: "For the love of God and on behalf of my dear friend, I will give you, good man, all that you have asked for — bed, shelter, bread, meat, and wine." A servant is freed provided he consents to look after the "stranger's" needs.
Alexis takes up residence in Eufemien's house, under the staircase. He sees his father frequently, as well as his mother and his bride. No one thinks to ask him where he was born nor does he volunteer any information. He observes their tears but is resigned to silence. He does not wish his mother to know about him: "He loves God more than his own flesh and blood." Alexis eats only enough to keep body and soul together; he goes often to church; he suffers the insults and demeaning conduct of the household help (who throw dirty scrub water on him), but begs God's pardon on their behalf. Seventeen years go by; Alexis has lived thirty-four years of total devotion and he knows that he is about to die. He requests ink and parchment of his servant so that he may write down his story.
In the very week that Alexis is fated to die, a voice is heard three times outside the church; it commands the people of Rome to seek out the "man of God" in their midst. The people are frightened lest the city be destroyed. Rich and poor alike ask Saint Innocent, their pope, for advice and counsel. The pope joins them to seek the holy man in Eufemien's house. (Some turn on Eufemien at this point for having hidden the fact that a holy man was at his house, but Eufemien and all his household deny any knowledge of this blessing.)
Meanwhile, as the pope, the emperors, and town elders pray, Alexis' soul departs from his body, going straight to Paradise. His servant rushes to announce the news to Eufemien, telling him that the unknown guest "was a good Christian," that in fact, he must be the "man of God." Eufemien returns home; he finds Alexis' body, the "fair handsome face" of the saint. But he cannot remove the letter from the dead man's fist. He hurries back to the pope and tells what has happened. Pope and emperors, praying all the while, make their way to Eufemien's home. The pope takes Alexis' letter, giving it to a "wise clerk" to read: Alexis' story becomes public.
Eufemien launches into a long planctus that expresses his grief that his son did not live the way a nobleman of his rank ought to live, "carrying the flag of the emperor." The disturbance brings on Alexis' mother, who faints upon seeing her dead son. She tears her hair and mortifies her body: "Oh son, how you have hated me!" she cries, "And how blind I have been!" Her complaint is long and bitter, full of reproach and pain. The bride's beautiful planctus is the last of the series: eloquent, bereaved, but somehow also serene and composed. Thus: "Had I known you were here under the staircase ... nobody in the world could have stopped me from joining you ..." — this after her moving recollection of her husband's "beautiful mouth, beautiful face, beautiful body" now to "rot in the earth," and preceding her decision to serve God, "the King who governs all." The contrast with Alexis' mother is striking.
At this point the pope intervenes. He explains that the occasion is one not of sadness but of joy. All Rome crowds around Alexis' body. The people pay no attention to money scattered before them in order to make them disperse; Alexis has brought them a truer happiness. The deaf, the blind, the crippled, the lepers, the mute, the paralyzed — all the sick who congregate about Alexis are cured: "Whoever approaches in tears, departs singing." The emperors carry Alexis' body to the church of Saint Boniface. For seven days the body remains there before at last being buried in a marble sepulchre that had been decorated with gold and jewels. Father, mother, and bride once more give vent to their grief; all Rome joins them and "a hundred thousand tears are shed that day." But, the narrator reminds us, that "holy body" has saved Eufemien, his wife, and the faithful maid.
Saint Alexis is finally in heaven; his bride from whom he had been so "estranged" is now with him, together with God and the angels: "Their souls are united; I cannot tell you how great their joy is!" The last three stanzas of the poem explain the lesson of Saint Alexis' life; they constitute a sermon, beseeching us to remember the holy man and to pray to him so that we may enjoy peace and happiness in this world and the most lasting glory in the next.
Critical Perspectives and Background
An understanding of the narrative processes at work in the Life of Saint Alexis must be built upon a systematic examination of factors, or dimensions, usually studied fragmentarily or separately. Critical interpretations of the poem's literary characteristics and meanings, textual questions, and the problems related to the poem's legendary background all stand to benefit from a joint review of what might be called their relational possibilities. Many of the issues have been touched upon in previous studies; much information is available. Thus, the OF manuscripts, their possible filiations, and the most "accurate" reconstruction of the lost eleventh-century Urtext have, for over a century, occupied the attention of scholars whom one might call the school of Gaston Paris. To this unquestionably brilliant philological tradition may be added still other scholars who, though not ostensibly concerned with the editorial problem as a whole, have nonetheless contributed interpretations and information of considerable use in revising and even in reading the OF text(s). On the other hand, the structure and literary texture of the poem have been dealt with, in various ways, by diverse critics. Not unnaturally, these scholars have worked with one or more of the previously established editions of the poem; only incidentally have they added any commentary of a textual nature to the philological discussion. Curtius, who examined the Alexis in terms of the poetics current at the time in order to refute the aesthetic anti-historicism of critics like Emil Winkler, constitutes a rare exception to this trend toward specialization and fragmentation in Alexis studies; while Gaston Paris, though, as we saw, certainly not insensitive to the poem's impressive beauty, never really studied its literary character.
The broader and highly complex question of the pan-Christian Alexis legend — intimately related to the OF Alexis scholarship — has been the concern of yet a third group of scholars. Ramifications of the Alexis story have been traced back to fifth-century Byzantium (Roesler) beside Syria (Amiaud), or even earlier. Later Greek renewals of this material extend to Rome and, quite mysteriously, it has been claimed, even to tenth-century Spain. From Rome the story, in renewed form, spread to medieval, Renaissance, and modern Europe. Reworked Greek, Romance, and later Latin versions rival in number and variety with Middle English, Middle High German, Czech, Russian, and other texts. To the extent that relationships between the OF Life and the legend have received attention, these have usually been formulated in a kind of genetic framework designed to shed light on the "origins" of the OF poem and its textual make-up. Such studies have unearthed many significant facts. It is clear that the OF Life — in both its oldest and its rejuvenated manifestations — belongs to a general European legendary tradition that must be related specifically to a Latin source dating, presumably, in its basic form, from the tenth century and rather closely resembling the "composite" prose text of the Vita S. Alexii published by the Bollandists (Acta Sanctorum, 17 July, iv: 251-3). There remains some doubt whether, as Amiaud contended, its oldest traces are to be found in the fifth- or sixth-century Syriac Life he published and translated into French. Yet Roesler's early Byzantine text and Amiaud's Syriac Life are so similar that they may conveniently be described as representing together the "earliest stage" of the legend. This early (Græeco-?) Syriac version was, in any case, subsequently refashioned in Byzantium, and the story, thus revised, reached the Latin West, where it was codified and rediffused over Europe and, ironically, back to the Eastern Mediterranean.
How, then, might one usefully posit a functional relationship between the textual, the literary, and the legendary factors of the OF Life? To what extent may we reconcile our poem's historical — or "existential" — and literary existence, and, within a literary framework, hope to define better its extraordinary artistic importance at once in relation to its proper time and in relation to its "narrative possibilities"? Theoretical and practical problems abound. Recent discussion of the textual question, as exemplified in the polemic between H. Sckommodau and H. Lausberg, has not led to any definitive solution of that issue. Exclusive focus upon the establishment of the hypothetical Urtext has caused both those learned critics to introduce, somewhat arbitrarily, data from the poem's historical context in ways that render the work's status as a poem highly insecure. An Urtext, though certainly a legitimate object of scholarly investigation and therefore worthy of careful study on its own terms, differs essentially in kind from the sort of object that must also legitimately interest students of literary operations, a fortiori when, as is the case with the Alexis, competently edited texts (with variants) are available along with diplomatic transcriptions of the principal manuscripts. Curtius has shown, however, that unyielding anti-historicism hardly advances the cause of literary analysis. And, as for genetically oriented studies of the Alexis legend, we must agree in principle with Tatiana Fotitch, who reiterated Roesler's early (and later partly retracted) criticism of Amiaud in her 1958 article: "It would be vain to attempt any classification or to establish genealogical trees of the Alexis legend on linguistic grounds. Manuscript tradition, Church history, theology, and folklore play here a much greater part." Yet, since, as we observed, many of the issues involved in a critical study of the OF Alexis have been touched upon with remarkable insight and with the most careful sifting of available data in the work of the textualists, critics, and historians so far mentioned, care should be taken to place these insights in the perspectives that stand the best chance of helping us gauge the poem's value and meaning.
Rather, then, than blurring our focus in yet another discussion of the "lost original" of the Life of Saint Alexis or, worse, simply ignoring the textual problem altogether, we must try to respect both the "poem" and the surviving manuscripts. The manuscript situation is too well known to bear detailed repetition here, but, for the sake of clarity, a brief review is appropriate.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Story, Myth, and Celebration in Old French Narrative Poetry, 1050-1200 by Karl D. Uitti. Copyright © 1973 Princeton University Press. Excerpted by permission of PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS.
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