delightful ease with which mediæval folk turned from magic to
religion, or _vice versa_, shows how simply they accepted what they
did not understand. At the same time it proves how intermingled the
two were, and that what some are inclined to separate now, were once
regarded as one and the same thing, the eccentricities and impositions
which have developed in both being of mere external growth, and to be
treated accordingly. In the lay of "Yonec" a young wife, passing fair,
is shut up by her jealous old husband in a great paved chamber in a
tower of his castle, to which no one save an ancient dame and a priest
has admittance. After seven years of this isolation and uncongenial
company, the lady remembers that she has heard tell that means have
been found to rescue the unhappy, and she wishes with all her heart
that deliverance may come to her. Suddenly a shadow comes across the
window, and into her chamber there flies a falcon, which forthwith
changes into a knight. As soon as the lady has recovered from her
surprise, the knight tells her that he has long loved her, but could
not come until she wished for him. Here we have an incident, borrowed
direct from Oriental magic, in which a modern believer in psychical
phenomena might find an element of telepathy. The will, as in all
magic, is the motive power which acts sympathetically on the object of
desire, that object being in a receptive condition. Quickly we turn
from magic, and the story goes on to tell that the lady, before
accepting the knight as her lover, makes it a condition that he
believes in God, and the knight offers to prove his belief by taking
the Sacrament. This demand is evidently in the nature of a protective
test. It was very usual to try some means of discovering whether a
person was in league with the powers of evil or not; for if any one
unworthy touched holy things, retribution came at once, either by
death or some dire visitation. But how is the priest to administer the
Sacrament without seeing the knight? The latter tells her that he will
make himself like her in appearance; in other words, that he will
hypnotise the priest, and make him see what he, the knight, wishes him
to. The ruse succeeds, and for a time all goes well; then comes
discovery, despair, and death. The whole story is a most extraordinary
medley of fairy-lore, religion, and magic, and most characteristic of
the mediæval mind.
The lay of "Eliduc," the last in the manuscript, is also the longest
and most elaborate. Marie unfolds her story with so certain yet so
subtle a hand, that the reading of it is like the unwinding of some
finely illuminated parchment-roll where miniature follows miniature,
each perfect in itself, yet all needful to the whole. To the charm of
its pictures of mediæval life, with the fine scene between the two
women, and their final reunion in the same convent, there is added an
incident which gives special interest and importance to the story,
since it brings us into touch with one of the oldest and most
widespread of traditions--the restoration to life, from apparent
death, by means of a flower. There are few pursuits more fascinating
than the tracing of traditions, except, it may be, that of symbols,
with which they have so much in common. We find the same traditions,
just as we find the same symbolic figures, common to the most widely
separated peoples, and the real interest in the case of each lies in
trying to discover how and why in the course of their migrations their
form and their significance have been varied or modified. But before
considering the tradition, let us first hear the story.
[Illustration: _Photo. Macbeth._
BOAT WITH KNIGHTS AND LADY.
Add. MS. 10294, Brit. Mus.
_To face page 49._]
Eliduc, a knight of Brittany, whose wife, Guildeluëc, was very dear to
him, had for over-lord one of the kings of Brittany, with whom, owing
to faithful service, he had gained high favour. Being defamed on this
account by envious tongues, he was banished from Court, and thereupon
determined to quit his country for a while and seek service in the
West of England. With many promises to his wife to be faithful to her,
he set out for Totnes, where he found many kings ruling in the land,
all at war with one another. One of them, a very old man, was ruler in
the province of Exeter, and at war with a neighbouring king on account
of his refusal to give to the latter his daughter, Guilliadun, in
marriage. So Eliduc determined to offer his services to the old king,
by whom they were accepted, and by his tact and prowess he soon proved
himself worthy of the trust reposed in him. Through a skilful ambush,
planned and conducted by him, he defeated the enemy. Guilliadun,
hearing of his deeds, sought an interview with him, and at once fell
in love with him, and after certain maidenly reserve and hesitation,
made her love known to him. This Eliduc secretly returned, but,
troubled at the remembrance of his wife and of his pledge to her, his
courage failed him to confess that he was already wedded. In order to
escape from his dilemma, he sought and obtained the permission of the
old king to avail himself of the entreaty of his liege-lord to return
to his own country to fight against the enemies who were desolating
the kingdom. This permission was granted under his promise to come
back if his services were again required. After pledging himself to
Guilliadun to do this on such a day as she should name, Eliduc,
having exchanged rings with her, and she having named the day for his
return, departed. Having speedily reduced the enemies of his
liege-lord to submission, he came once more to England, and
immediately sent to Guilliadun to apprise her of this, and to beg her
to be ready to start on the morrow. Guilliadun secretly left the
castle the next night and joined her lover, and together they hurried
to Totnes, whence they at once set sail. But as they were nearing
land, a violent storm arose. Finding that prayers were of no avail,
one of the company cried out, "We shall never make the land, for you
have a lawful wife, and you are taking with you another woman, setting
at naught God, the law, and uprightness. Let us cast her into the sea,
and anon we shall get to land." On hearing these words Guilliadun fell
as one dead, whereupon Eliduc in anger struck the esquire on the head
and hurled him into the sea. When the ship was brought to port
Guilliadun showed no sign of life. So Eliduc, believing her to be
dead, lifted her in his arms, carried her ashore, and, mounting his
horse, sadly bore her to a small chapel in a forest adjoining his own
lands. Here he laid her in front of the altar, and covered her with
his cloak, and then returned to his home. Filled with sadness, he
arose early each morning and went to the chapel to pray for her soul,
marvelling nevertheless to find that the face of his Love suffered no
change except to become a little paler. His wife, made anxious by his
melancholy and silence, and wondering whither he went, had him
watched, and soon discovered the truth. Taking a varlet with her, she
went to the chapel, and there discovered the beautiful maiden, looking
like a new-blown rose, and at once guessed the cause of her husband's
sadness and gloom. As she sat watching and weeping out of sheer pity,
a weasel ran from behind the altar and passed over the body of
Guilliadun, and the varlet struck it with a stick and killed it. Then
its mate came in and walked round it several times, and finding that
it could not rouse it, made sign of great sorrow and ran out into the
wood, and returning with a red flower between its teeth put it into
the mouth of its dead companion, which within an hour came to life
again. Guildeluëc, seeing this, seized the flower and laid it in the
mouth of the maiden, who after a short time sighed and opened her
eyes. Then she told Guildeluëc that she was a king's daughter, and had
been deceived by a knight called Eliduc, whom she loved, and who
returned her love, but who had hidden from her that he was already
married. Guildeluëc thereupon made known to her who she was, and sent
at once for her husband. When he came, she begged him to build a
nunnery, and to allow her to retire from the world, as she would fain
give herself to the service of God. When the nunnery was ready,
Guildeluëc took the veil, with some thirty nuns, of whom she became
the Superior. Then Eliduc wedded his love, and after some years of
happiness they too resolved to retire from the world, Guilliadun
joining Guildeluëc, who received her as a sister, and Eliduc going to
a monastery which he had founded near by.[17]
[17] M. Gaston Paris (_Poésie du Moyen Age_, vol. ii.), in
recalling various legends of "Le Mari aux deux femmes,"
suggests that the present story, borrowed by Marie from
Celtic tradition, is probably of Occidental, and not
Oriental, origin, since in the polygamous East the story of
two wives would not have furnished a sufficient motive for a
special narration.
In this charming romance, given here in epitome only, the two most
interesting points, after noting the mutual suffering of the lovers
for love's sake, are the episode of the sacrifice to the sea, and that
of the weasel and the life-giving flower. Both these incidents point
to the great antiquity of the fundamental theme of the story, which
Marie, possibly like many another before her, merely reclothed in
garments suited to the fancy of the time. In most stories where the
sea has to be appeased by the sacrifice of some one, it is the guilty
person who is thrown overboard, or if the offender is not known, lots
are cast to determine who shall be the one to make expiation to the
god. In the present instance Eliduc is clearly the wrong-doer, but he
is the hero, and must be treated as such, and accordingly the hostile
voice is the one to be silenced in the depths of the sea.
The other incident--the restoration to life by means of a flower or a
herb--frequently occurs in classical stories and folk-lore.[18]
Perhaps the most familiar example, and, owing to the recent
excavations in Crete, the most interesting one, is that connected with
Glaucos, son of Minos, king of Crete. In the story (Apollod. iii. 3)
Glaucos when a boy fell into a cask of honey and was smothered. His
father, ignorant of his fate, consulted the oracle to ascertain what
had become of him, and the seer Polyeidos of Argos was named to
discover him. When he had found him, Minos shut Polyeidos up in the
tomb with the dead body of the boy until he should restore the latter
to life. Whilst Polyeidos was watching the body, a serpent suddenly
came towards it and touched it. Polyeidos killed the serpent, and
immediately a second one came, which, seeing the other one lying dead,
disappeared and soon returned with a certain herb in its mouth. This
it laid on the mouth of the dead serpent, which immediately came to
life again. Polyeidos seized the herb and placed it on the mouth of
the dead boy, who was thereupon restored to life.
[18] Warnke, _op. cit._ civ.; Hertz, _op. cit._ p. 409.
[Illustration: _Photo. Macbeth._
GLAUKOS AND POLYEIDOS IN TOMB.
Greek Vase, Brit. Mus.
_To face page 52._]
This story is most graphically depicted on a fifth-century Greek vase
in the British Museum, and, whatever its real interpretation may be,
it has gained in significance since the life of the distant past of
the island has been laid bare, and large jars, which in all
probability were used for storing wine and honey and other
necessaries, and from their size and contents might well have
proved a snare to a venturesome and greedy boy, have been discovered
_in situ_. After a lapse of many centuries we find this idea of the
life-giving plant reappearing in mediæval garb, daintily fashioned by
Marie de France.
Marie, in her story, tells us that the weasel brings a _red_ flower.
This was possibly the verbena, well known in folk-medicine as vervain,
and much used in the Middle Ages. According to one writer, the weasel
uses vervain as a preservative against snake-bites, and this idea of
its effect might easily have been extended to include death. Even so
great an authority as Aristotle mentions that the weasel understood
the potent effects of certain herbs. The intervention of a weasel
instead of the usual serpent opens up the further interesting question
as to whether this weasel incident was not imported from India, where
Greek stories had become alloyed with Indian lore. Even to-day, in
India, a mongoose, a species of weasel, is sometimes taken on
expeditions by any one fearful of snakes, and kept at night in the
tent as a protection against them.
In addition to the choice of a weasel as medium, the unusual colour of
the flower is also of interest. Giraldus Cambrensis, writing in the
twelfth century on the subject of weasels, after remarking that they
have more heart than body (_plus cordis habens quam corporis_), goes
on to say that they restore their dead by means of a _yellow_ flower,
and in the still earlier record of the Lydian hero Tylon, where a
serpent is the intermediary--and serpents are often credited with a
knowledge of life-giving plants,--reference is made to a _golden_
flower.[19] This may possibly be connected with the idea of the
life-giving power of the god, since the golden flower is dedicated to
Zeus. Professor J. G. Frazer thinks that a red flower may perhaps have
been chosen to suggest a flow of blood--an infusion of fresh life into
the veins of the dead. It is also possible that red and yellow may
have been interchangeable terms, just as they are to-day amongst the
Italian peasantry. The choice of colour may, however, have been
derived from the red anemone, which is said to have sprung from the
blood of Adonis, with whom love and life are traditionally associated.
There are some, on the other hand, who ascribe to the story a deep
spiritual meaning. With them it is not the flower itself which brings
about resurrection from apparent death, but the spiritual truth of
which the flower is but the outward symbol. It may be that the red
blossom represents the joys of earth which Eliduc's wife voluntarily
renounces, and which, surrendered to her rival, in time became like a
burning thing whose fiery touch awakens to life the sleeping
conscience. In a story such as this, which has evidently travelled far
and wide before we find it in England in the eleventh century, it is
possible that any or all of these surmises may be true. The whole of
this incident of the weasel and the flower, read in the original, is
of extraordinary interest and beauty. What a touching picture of
animal sensibility is the account of the despair of the weasel on
finding its dead mate, and its tender display of solicitude and
sympathy, raising the lifeless head and trying to reanimate the small
inert body! Only one who loved animals and knew their habits well
could have told thus tenderly and graphically a story so simple, yet
so suggestive, of the love of two sentient things, a love which runs
like a thread of gold through all creation and makes it one.
[19] J. G. Frazer, _Adonis, Attis, Osiris_, p. 98.
The twelfth century was an age of humanism as well as feudalism. As
often happens in times of comparative peace, a growth of interest in
the individual was springing up and finding expression in lyric poetry
and stories. The day of epics was waning. Those vast and involved
poems, like to huge and complex frescoes, found little favour at a
time when men and women, or at least women, had more leisure and
inclination to try to get below the surface of things. Heroes had been
glorified till they had almost become deified, and something more
personal, more individual, was wanted. By the side of modern romance,
where the most sacred and secret intricacies of human nature are, as
it were, displayed under the microscope, Marie's narrations may seem
somewhat artless. But in putting into words the dawning desires of her
time she gave form and impetus to feeling and thought struggling for
expression, and gained for her work a definite place in the
development of human utterance. Evolution, whether of the spirit or of
matter, is the supreme law of things. Marie struck a spark from the
ideal which poets and writers down the ages have fanned into a flame.
A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY MYSTIC AND BEGUINE, MECHTHILD OF MAGDEBURG
The triumphant ecclesiasticism of the thirteenth century, manifested
in the forms of political power, material wealth, splendid
architecture, and worldly positions sufficiently commanding to satisfy
even the most ambitious, was, perhaps naturally, accompanied by a
gross materialism. Against this the truly pious-minded revolted,
thereby causing a reaction towards mysticism. Whilst before the eyes
of some there floated, as the ideal, the material ladder leading to
fame and power, before those of others there arose, as in a vision,
the "Ladder of Perfection," each rung of which gained brought them
nearer to the object of their quest--Divine Reality. These latter,
whether of great, or lesser, or even of no renown, and amongst whom
women played a great and very notable part, were scattered far and
wide; but each one cultivated some little corner of the mystic garden.
One such garden was the Cistercian convent of Helfta, near Eisleben,
in Saxony, in the thirteenth century a centre of mystic tendencies.
It was here that, harassed and ill, Mechthild of Magdeburg took
refuge, and entered as a nun in 1270. But we are anticipating.
Mechthild, at first a beguine, and afterwards a nun, but a visionary
from the days of her childhood, was born, most probably of noble
parents, in the diocese of Magdeburg, in 1212. That she is perhaps
better known to the general reader than are other contemplatives of
her day is probably due to the suggestion that she may be the Matilda
immortalised by Dante in the "Earthly Paradise" (_Purg._ xxviii. 22
_seq._), rather than to her own writings. This may be partly because
the personality of that supreme visionary and poet tended, as does all
superlative genius, to cast a shadow over the lesser lights of both
earlier and later times, and partly because, although Mechthild's
works were early translated into Latin, she wrote in Low German.
Though this original MS. has not yet been found, there exists one,
translated into High German in 1345 at Basle (a centre of the "Friends
of God") by the Dominican, Heinrich von Nördlingen, by which
Mechthild's work has been made known to us, but the language even of
this proves a very real stumbling-block to the most strenuous student.
Still, by recording her thoughts and visions in the language of her
country and her day, she gained a lay audience, a result which would
have been hardly possible if she herself had been a classic. But
though no classic--for she says Latin was difficult to her--she
evidently, as her work shows, grew up under the influence of courtly
life, and knew the language of minstrels. She tells us that her mind
was turned to the spiritual life when she was but twelve years of age,
and that from that time worldly glory and riches became distasteful to
her. Like the visionary and Saint, Theresa of Avila, of 300 years
later, she took into her confidence her younger brother, Baldwin, who
later, perhaps under her influence, became a Dominican. What we know
of her, we know from her writings, which exist in the above-mentioned
unique MS. (No. 277) now in the monastery Library of Einsiedeln, a
foundation south of the Lake of Zurich, and still one of the most
famous of pilgrim resorts. In seeking to know more of the history of
this MS. we get a most interesting and intimate glimpse of the methods
in religious centres in bygone days, when MSS. were few. In quite
early times--how early is not known--there dwelt in the valleys round
about Einsiedeln certain devout women-recluses, who later lived, as a
community, in four houses, and, ultimately, in a convent. They were
called "Forest Sisters," a name which may well express the poetry and
peace of their life and surroundings. Whilst they were still living in
the detached houses, the MS. was, through Heinrich von Rumerschein of
Basle, sent by Margaret of the Golden Ring, a beguine of that town, to
the one called "The Front Meadow." Heinrich addresses the gift "To
the Sisters in the Front Meadow." "You shall know that the book that
is sent by her of the Golden Ring is called _The Light of the
Godhead_, and to this you shall give good heed. It shall also serve in
all the houses of the wood, and shall never leave the wood, and shall
remain a month in each house. Also it shall go from one to another as
required, and you shall take special care of it. Pray for me who was
your Confessor, though, alas, unworthy."
In 1235, at the age of twenty-three, Mechthild--not without many a
heart-pang, and prompted to this determination by a troubled
conscience, a determination doubtless brought about by the preaching
of the Dominican friars, who were stirring all classes by their
impassioned zeal--left her home and went to Magdeburg, where she
entered a settlement of beguines. These settlements, semi-monastic in
character, were provided to afford some protection, by living in
community, for women who, whilst devoting themselves to a religious
life, did not wish to separate themselves wholly from the world. It
was at the time of the Crusades, when the land teemed with desolate
women, that their numbers increased so greatly, and the first
beguinage was founded about the beginning of the thirteenth century.
The beguine took no vows, could return to the world and marry if she
so desired, and did not renounce her property. If she was without
means, she neither asked nor accepted alms, but supported herself by
manual labour or by teaching the children of burghers, whilst those
who were able to do so spent their time in taking care of the sick or
in other charitable offices. Each community, with a "Grand-Mistress"
at its head, was complete in itself, and regulated its own order of
living, though, later, many of them adopted the rule of the Third
Order of St. Francis.
Mechthild tells us that she knew but one person in Magdeburg, and that
even from this one she kept away for fear lest she might waver in her
determination. In this very human way she indicated that her spiritual
adventure was no easy matter to her, as, indeed, it could not be so
long as her temperament and ideals were at variance. But gradually,
she says, she got so much joy from communion with God that she could
dispense with the world. As has been well said, "La loi des lois c'est
que tout morceau de l'univers venu de Dieu retourne à Dieu et veut
retourner à lui."
The book of her writings, which, under divine direction as she opens
by saying, she calls _The Flowing Light of the Godhead_,[20] is
composed of seven parts, of which six appear to have been written down
during the time she was a beguine at Magdeburg, and were collected and
arranged by a Dominican friar, Heinrich von Halle, whilst the
seventh, consisting of sundry visions and teachings during the last
years of her life, was put together just before her death at Helfta in
1282, and, as she pathetically adds, "by strange eyes and hands." In
all of these, whilst reflecting in them her inmost feelings, she
expresses her entire dependence on spiritual help and inspiration.
"The writing of this book," she says, "is seen and heard and felt in
every limb. I see it with the eyes of my soul, and hear it with the
ears of my eternal spirit, and feel in every part of my body the power
of the Holy Ghost."
[20] P. Gall. Morel, _Offenbarungen der Schwester Mechthild
von Magdeburg, oder das fliessende Licht der Gottheit_,
Regensburg, 1869.