Amongst the lives of the ancient Fathers, wherein may be found much
profitable matter, this story is told for a true ensample. I do not say
that you may not often have heard a fairer story, but at least this is
not to be despised, and is well worth the telling. Now therefore will I
say and narrate what chanced to this minstrel.
He erred up and down, to and fro, so often and in so many places, that
he took the whole world in despite, and sought rest in a certain Holy
Order. Horses and raiment and money, yea, all that he had, he
straightway put from him, and seeking shelter from the world, was
firmly set never to put foot within it more. For this cause he took
refuge in this Holy Order, amongst the monks of Clairvaux. Now, though
this dancer was comely of face and shapely of person, yet when he had
once entered the monastery he found that he was master of no craft
practised therein. In the world he had gained his bread by tumbling and
dancing and feats of address. To leap, to spring, such matters he knew
well, but of greater things he knew nothing, for he had never spelled
from book--nor Paternoster, nor canticle, nor creed, nor Hail Mary, nor
aught concerning his soul's salvation.
When the minstrel had joined himself to the Order he marked how the
tonsured monks spoke amongst themselves by signs, no words coming from
their lips, so he thought within himself that they were dumb. But when
he learned that truly it was by way of penance that speech was
forbidden to their mouths, and that for holy obedience were they
silent, then considered he that silence became him also; and he
refrained his tongue from words, so discreetly and for so long a space,
that day in, day out, he spake never, save by commandment; so that the
cloister often rang with the brothers' mirth. The tumbler moved amongst
his fellows like a man ashamed, for he had neither part nor lot in all
the business of the monastery, and for this he was right sad and
sorrowful. He saw the monks and the penitents about him, each serving
God, in this place and that, according to his office and degree. He
marked the priests at their ritual before the altars; the deacons at
the gospels; the sub-deacons at the epistles; and the ministers about
the vigils. This one repeats the introit; this other the lesson;
cantors chant from the psalter; penitents spell out the Miserere--for
thus are all things sweetly ordered--yea, and the most ignorant amongst
them yet can pray his Paternoster. Wherever he went, here or there, in
office or cloister, in every quiet corner and nook, there he found
five, or three, or two, or at least one. He gazes earnestly, if so he
is able, upon each. Such an one laments; this other is in tears; yet
another grieves and sighs. He marvels at their sorrow. Then he said,
"Holy Mary, what bitter grief have all these men that they smite the
breast so grievously! Too sad of heart, meseems, are they who make such
bitter dole together. Ah, St. Mary, alas, what words are these I say!
These men are calling on the mercy of God, but I--what do I here! Here
there is none so mean or vile but who serves God in his office and
degree, save only me, for I work not, neither can I preach. Caitif and
shamed was I when I thrust myself herein, seeing that I can do nothing
well, either in labour or in prayer. I see my brothers upon their
errands, one behind the other; but I do naught but fill my belly with
the meat that they provide. If they perceive this thing, certainly
shall I be in an evil case, for they will cast me out amongst the dogs,
and none will take pity on the glutton and the idle man. Truly am I a
caitif, set in a high place for a sign." Then he wept for very woe, and
would that he was quiet in the grave. "Mary, Mother," quoth he, "pray
now your Heavenly Father that He keep me in His pleasure, and give me
such good counsel that I may truly serve both Him and you; yea, and may
deserve that meat which now is bitter in my mouth."
Driven mad with thoughts such as these, he wandered about the abbey
until he found himself within the crypt, and took sanctuary by the
altar, crouching close as he was able. Above the altar was carved the
statue of Madame St. Mary. Truly his steps had not erred when he sought
that refuge; nay, but rather, God who knows His own had led him thither
by the hand. When he heard the bells ring for Mass he sprang to his
feet all dismayed. "Ha!" said he; "now am I betrayed. Each adds his
mite to the great offering, save only me. Like a tethered ox, naught I
do but chew the cud, and waste good victuals on a useless man. Shall I
speak my thought? Shall I work my will? By the Mother of God, thus am I
set to do. None is here to blame. I will do that which I can, and
honour with my craft the Mother of God in her monastery. Since others
honour her with chant, then I will serve with tumbling."
He takes off his cowl, and removes his garments, placing them near the
altar, but so that his body be not naked he dons a tunic, very thin and
fine, of scarce more substance than a shirt. So, light and comely of
body, with gown girt closely about his loins, he comes before the Image
right humbly. Then raising his eyes, "Lady," said he, "to your fair
charge I give my body and my soul. Sweet Queen, sweet Lady, scorn not
the thing I know, for with the help of God I will essay to serve you in
good faith, even as I may. I cannot read your Hours nor chant your
praise, but at the least I can set before you what art I have. Now will
I be as the lamb that plays and skips before his mother. Oh, Lady, who
art nowise bitter to those who serve you with a good intent, that which
thy servant is, that he is for you."
Then commenced he his merry play, leaping low and small, tall and high,
over and under. Then once more he knelt upon his knees before the
statue, and meekly bowed his head. "Ha!" said he, "most gracious Queen,
of your pity and your charity scorn not this my service." Again he
leaped and played, and for holiday and festival, made the somersault of
Metz. Again he bowed before the Image, did reverence, and paid it all
the honour that he might. Afterwards he did the French vault, then the
vault of Champagne, then the Spanish vault, then the vaults they love
in Brittany, then the vault of Lorraine, and all these feats he did as
best he was able. Afterwards he did the Roman vault, and then, with
hands before his brow, danced daintily before the altar, gazing with a
humble heart at the statue of God's Mother. "Lady," said he, "I set
before you a fair play. This travail I do for you alone; so help me
God, for you, Lady, and your Son. Think not I tumble for my own
delight; but I serve you, and look for no other guerdon on my carpet.
My brothers serve you, yea, and so do I. Lady, scorn not your villein,
for he toils for your good pleasure; and, Lady, you are my delight and
the sweetness of the world." Then he walked on his two hands, with his
feet in the air, and his head near the ground. He twirled with his
feet, and wept with his eyes. "Lady," said he, "I worship you with
heart, with body, feet and hands, for this I can neither add to nor
take away. Now am I your very minstrel. Others may chant your praises
in the church, but here in the crypt will I tumble for your delight.
Lady, lead me truly in your way, and for the love of God hold me not in
utter despite." Then he smote upon his breast, he sighed and wept most
tenderly, since he knew no better prayer than tears. Then he turned him
about, and leaped once again. "Lady," said he, "as God is my Saviour,
never have I turned this somersault before. Never has tumbler done such
a feat, and, certes, it is not bad. Lady, what delight is his who may
harbour with you in your glorious manor. For God's love, Lady, grant me
such fair hostelry, since I am yours, and am nothing of my own." Once
again he did the vault of Metz; again he danced and tumbled. Then when
the chants rose louder from the choir, he, too, forced the note, and
put forward all his skill. So long as the priest was about that Mass,
so long his flesh endured to dance, and leap and spring, till at the
last, nigh fainting, he could stand no longer upon his feet, but fell
for weariness on the ground. From head to heel sweat stood upon him,
drop by drop, as blood falls from meat turning upon the hearth. "Lady,"
said he, "I can no more, but truly will I seek you again." Fire
consumed him utterly. He took his habit once more, and when he was
wrapped close therein, he rose to his feet, and bending low before the
statue, went his way. "Farewell," said he, "gentlest Friend. For God's
love take it not to heart, for so I may I will soon return. Not one
Hour shall pass but that I will serve you with right good will, so I
may come, and so my service is pleasing in your sight." Thus he went
from the crypt, yet gazing on his Lady. "Lady," said he, "my heart is
sore that I cannot read your Hours. How would I love them for love of
you, most gentle Lady! Into your care I commend my soul and my body."
In this fashion passed many days, for at every Hour he sought the crypt
to do service, and pay homage before the Image. His service was so much
to his mind that never once was he too weary to set out his most
cunning feats to distract the Mother of God, nor did he ever wish for
other play than this. Now, doubtless, the monks knew well enough that
day by day he sought the crypt, but not a man on earth--save God
alone--was aware of aught that passed there; neither would he, for all
the wealth of the world, have let his goings in be seen, save by the
Lord his God alone. For truly he believed that were his secret once
espied he would be hunted from the cloister, and flung once more into
the foul, sinful world, and for his part he was more fain to fall on
death than to suffer any taint of sin. But God considering his
simplicity, his sorrow for all he had wrought amiss, and the love which
moved him to this deed, would that this toil should be known; and the
Lord willed that the work of His friend should be made plain to men,
for the glory of the Mother whom he worshipped, and so that all men
should know and hear, and receive that God refuses none who seeks His
face in love, however low his degree, save only he love God and strive
to do His will.
Now think you that the Lord would have accepted this service, had it
not been done for love of Him? Verily and truly, no, however much this
juggler tumbled; but God called him friend, because he loved Him much.
Toil and labour, keep fast and vigil, sigh and weep, watch and pray,
ply the sharp scourge, be diligent at Matins and at Mass, owe no man
anything, give alms of all you have--and yet, if you love not God with
all your heart, all these good deeds are so much loss--mark well my
words--and profit you naught for the saving of your soul. Without
charity and love, works avail a man nothing. God asks not gold, neither
for silver, but only for love unfeigned in His people's hearts, and
since the tumbler loved Him beyond measure, for this reason God was
willing to accept his service.
Thus things went well with this good man for a great space. For more
years than I know the count of, he lived greatly at his ease, but the
time came when the good man was sorely vexed, for a certain monk
thought upon him, and blamed him in his heart that he was never set in
choir for Matins. The monk marvelled much at his absence, and said
within himself that he would never rest till it was clear what manner
of man this was, and how he spent the Hours, and for what service the
convent gave him bread. So he spied and pried and followed, till he
marked him plainly, sweating at his craft in just such fashion as you
have heard. "By my faith," said he, "this is a merry jest, and a fairer
festival than we observe altogether. Whilst others are at prayers, and
about the business of the House, this tumbler dances daintily, as
though one had given him a hundred silver marks. He prides himself on
being so nimble of foot, and thus he repays us what he owes. Truly it
is this for that; we chant for him, and he tumbles for us. We throw him
largesse: he doles us alms. We weep his sins, and he dries our eyes.
Would that the monastery could see him, as I do, with their very eyes;
willingly therefore would I fast till Vespers. Not one could refrain
from mirth at the sight of this simple fool doing himself to death with
his tumbling, for on himself he has no pity. Since his folly is free
from malice, may God grant it to him as penance. Certainly I will not
impute it to him as sin, for in all simplicity and good faith, I firmly
believe, he does this thing, so that he may deserve his bread." So the
monk saw with his very eyes how the tumbler did service at all the
Hours, without pause or rest, and he laughed with pure mirth and
delight, for in his heart was joy and pity.
The monk went straight to the Abbot and told him the thing from
beginning to end, just as you have heard. The Abbot got him on his
feet, and said to the monk, "By holy obedience I bid you hold your
peace, and tell not this tale abroad against your brother. I lay on you
my strict command to speak of this matter to none, save me. Come now,
we will go forthwith to see what this can be, and let us pray the
Heavenly King, and His very sweet, dear Mother, so precious and so
bright, that in her gentleness she will plead with her Son, her Father,
and her Lord, that I may look on this work--if thus it pleases Him--so
that the good man be not wrongly blamed, and that God may be the more
beloved, yet so that thus is His good pleasure." Then they secretly
sought the crypt, and found a privy place near the altar, where they
could see, and yet not be seen. From there the Abbot and his monk
marked the business of the penitent. They saw the vaults he varied so
cunningly, his nimble leaping and his dancing, his salutations of Our
Lady, and his springing and his bounding, till he was nigh to faint. So
weak was he that he sank on the ground, all outworn, and the sweat fell
from his body upon the pavement of the crypt. But presently, in this
his need, came she, his refuge, to his aid. Well she knew that
guileless heart.
Whilst the Abbot looked, forthwith there came down from the vault a
Dame so glorious, that certainly no man had seen one so precious, nor
so richly crowned. She was more beautiful than the daughters of men,
and her vesture was heavy with gold and gleaming stones. In her train
came the hosts of Heaven, angel and archangel also; and these pressed
close about the minstrel, and solaced and refreshed him. When their
shining ranks drew near, peace fell upon his heart; for they contended
to do him service, and were the servants of the servitor of that Dame
who is the rarest Jewel of God. Then the sweet and courteous Queen
herself took a white napkin in her hand, and with it, gently fanned her
minstrel before the altar. Courteous and debonair, the Lady refreshed
his neck, his body and his brow. Meekly she served him as a handmaid in
his need. But these things were hidden from the good man, for he
neither saw nor knew that about him stood so fair a company.
The holy angels honour him greatly, but they can no longer stay, for
their Lady turns to go. She blesses her minstrel with the sign of God,
and the holy angels throng about her, still gazing back with delight
upon their companion, for they await the hour when God shall release
him from the burden of the world, and they possess his soul.
This marvel the Abbot and his monk saw at least four times, and thus at
each Hour came the Mother of God with aid and succour for her man.
Never doth she fail her servants in their need. Great joy had the Abbot
that this thing was made plain to him. But the monk was filled with
shame, since God had shown His pleasure in the service of His poor
fool. His confusion burnt him like fire. "Dominus," said he to the
Abbot, "grant me grace. Certainly this is a holy man, and since I have
judged him amiss, it is very right that my body should smart. Give me
now fast or vigil or the scourge, for without question he is a saint.
We are witnesses to the whole matter, nor is it possible that we can be
deceived." But the Abbot replied, "You speak truly, for God has made us
to know that He has bound him with the cords of love. So I lay my
commandment upon you, in virtue of obedience, and under pain of your
person, that you tell no word to any man of that you have seen, save to
God alone and me." "Lord," said he, "thus I will do." On these words
they turned them, and hastened from the crypt; and the good man, having
brought his tumbling to an end, presently clothed himself in his habit,
and joyously went his way to the monastery.
Thus time went and returned, till it chanced that in a little while the
Abbot sent for him who was so filled with virtue. When he heard that he
was bidden of the Abbot, his heart was sore with grief, for he could
think of nothing profitable to say. "Alas!" said he, "I am undone; not
a day of my days but I shall know misery and sorrow and shame, for well
I trow that my service is not pleasing to God. Alas! plainly doth He
show that it displeases Him, since He causes the truth to be made
clear. Could I believe that such work and play as mine could give
delight to the mighty God! He had no pleasure therein, and all my toil
was thrown away. Ah me, what shall I do? what shall I say? Fair, gentle
God, what portion will be mine? Either shall I die in shame, or else
shall I be banished from this place, and set up as a mark to the world
and all the evil thereof. Sweet Lady, St. Mary, since I am all
bewildered, and since there is none to give me counsel, Lady, come thou
to my aid. Fair, gentle God, help me in my need. Stay not, neither
tarry, but come quickly with Your Mother. For God's love, come not
without her, but hasten both to me in my peril, for truly I know not
what to plead. Before one word can pass my lips, surely will they bid
me 'Begone.' Wretched that I am, what reply is he to make who has no
advocate? Yet, why this dole, since go I must?" He came before the
Abbot, with the tears yet wet upon his cheeks, and he was still weeping
when he knelt upon the ground. "Lord," prayed he, "for the love of God
deal not harshly with me. Would you send me from your door? Tell me
what you would have me do, and thus it shall be done." Then replied the
Abbot, "Answer me truly. Winter and summer have you lived here for a
great space; now, tell me, what service have you given, and how have
you deserved your bread?" "Alas!" said the tumbler, "well I knew that
quickly I should be put upon the street when once this business was
heard of you, and that you would keep me no more. Lord," said he, "I
take my leave. Miserable I am, and miserable shall I ever be. Never yet
have I made a penny for all my juggling." But the Abbot answered, "Not
so said I; but I ask and require of you--nay, more, by virtue of holy
obedience I command you--to seek within your conscience and tell me
truly by what craft you have furthered the business of our monastery."
"Lord," cried he, "now have you slain me, for this commandment is a
sword." Then he laid bare before the Abbot the story of his days, from
the first thing to the last, whatsoever pain it cost him; not a word
did he leave out, but he told it all without a pause, just as I have
told you the tale. He told it with clasped hands, and with tears, and
at the close he kissed the Abbot's feet, and sighed.
The holy Abbot leaned above him, and, all in tears, raised him up,
kissing both his eyes. "Brother," said he, "hold now your peace, for I
make with you this true covenant, that you shall ever be of our
monastery. God grant, rather, that we may be of yours, for all the
worship you have brought to ours. I and you will call each other
friend. Fair, sweet brother, pray you for me, and I for my part will
pray for you. And now I pray you, my sweet friend, and lay this bidding
upon you, without pretence, that you continue to do your service, even
as you were wont heretofore--yea, and with greater craft yet, if so you
may." "Lord," said he, "truly is this so?" "Yea," said the Abbot, "and
verily." So he charged him, under peril of discipline, to put all
doubts from his mind; for which reason the good man rejoiced so greatly
that, as telleth the rhyme, he was all bemused, so that the blood left
his cheeks, and his knees failed beneath him. When his courage came
back, his very heart thrilled with joy; but so perilous was that
quickening that therefrom he shortly died. But theretofore with a good
heart he went about his service without rest, and Matins and Vespers,
night and day, he missed no Hour till he became too sick to perform his
office. So sore was his sickness upon him that he might not rise from
his bed. Marvellous was the shame he proved when no more was he able to
pay his rent. This was the grief that lay the heaviest upon him, for of
his sickness he spake never a word, but he feared greatly lest he
should fall from grace since he travailed no longer at his craft. He
reckoned himself an idle man, and prayed God to take him to Himself
before the sluggard might come to blame. For it was bitter to him to
consider that all about him knew his case, so bitter that the burden
was heavier than his heart could bear, yet there without remedy he must
lie. The holy Abbot does him all honour; he and his monks chant the
Hours about his bed, and in these praises of God he felt such delight
that not for them would he have taken the province of Poitou, so great
was his happiness therein. Fair and contrite was his confession, but
still he was not at peace; yet why say more of this, for the hour had
struck, and he must rise and go.
The Abbot was in that cell with all his monks; there, too, was company
of many a priest and many a canon. These all humbly watched the dying
man, and saw with open eyes this wonder happen. Clear to their very
sight, about that lowly bed, stood the Mother of God, with angel and
archangel, to wait the passing of his soul. Over against them were set,
like wild beasts, devils and the Adversary, so they might snatch his
spirit. I speak not to you in parable. But little profit had they for
all their coming, their waiting, and their straining on the leash.
Never might they have part in such a soul as his. When the soul took
leave of his body, it fell not in their hands at all, for the Mother of
God gathered it to her bosom, and the holy angels thronging round,
quired for joy, as the bright train swept to Heaven with its burthen,
according to the will of God. To these things the whole of the
monastery was witness, besides such others as were there. So knew they
and perceived that God sought no more to hide the love He bore to His
poor servant, but rather would that his virtues should be plain to each
man in that place; and very wonderful and joyful seemed this deed to
them. Then with meet reverence they bore the body on its bier within
the abbey church, and with high pomp commended their brother to the
care of God; nor was there monk who did not chant or read his portion
that day within the choir of the mighty church.
Thus with great honour they laid him to his rest, and kept his holy
body amongst them as a relic. At that time spake the Abbot plainly to
their ears, telling them the story of this tumbler and of all his life,
just as you have heard, and of all that he himself beheld within the
crypt. No brother but kept awake during that sermon. "Certes," said
they, "easy is it to give credence to such a tale; nor should any doubt
your words, seeing that the truth bears testimony to itself, and
witness comes with need; yea, without any doubt have we full assurance
that his discipline is done." Great joy amongst themselves have all
within that place.
Thus endeth the story of the minstrel. Fair was his tumbling, fair was
his service, for thereby gained he such high honour as is above all
earthly gain. So the holy Fathers narrate that in such fashion these
things chanced to this minstrel. Now, therefore, let us pray to God--He
Who is above all other--that He may grant us so to do such faithful
service that we may win the guerdon of His love.
Here endeth the Tumbler of Our Lady.