Don't worry, Sir Gowther, I forgive you!

I’m beginning to see a theme here…forgiveness seems to be at the forefront of many of the last stories we’ve read in this class.  I’m sure this one will have its critics too, but I like to NOT try to find everything wrong with the story and focus on some of the good.  (What can I say? I’m an eternal optimist.) So I’d like to share my on-going debate about whether or not our hero/villain actually learns his lesson in the Christian realm of things.  Because I really think that is the point of these stories.  Regardless of the level of assholery in these characters, we can still see that they try to seek forgiveness (With the exception of the knight in the Wife of Bath’s Tale…I’m still not completely convinced of that one.) Anyway, this story is refreshing, because no one that is supposed to be (somewhat) likeable treats the main female character like shit.  That’s really awesome.

It’s interesting because yes, Gowther was a horrible person. Yes, he burned down a convent.  Yes, he killed people senselessly.  But I don’t feel as much malice toward him as I thought I would.

So here’s my theory: The stories we've been reading have been part of some sort of progression in achieving forgiveness. The Wife of Bath’s Tale basically teaches us what not to do.  Emare gets a little better because we get the sense that her father actually WANTS forgiveness, and he does at least a little something on his own volition to do it.  Sir Gowther actually suffers to earn his forgiveness.  I mean, eating from the mouth of dogs and being a fool…in my book, that’s dedication to a cause.  He also valiantly fights for a kingdom that has basically treated him as a joke.  So I’m completely okay with Gowther because I feel like he really does earn his forgiveness.  

It’s really not like this, where Emare’s father is like “Hey, these are my sins.  Good? Okay, done.”

I’m kind of tired of this “good person vs. bad person” conversation, because that’s all we ever seem to talk about now.  We can sit here and criticize these characters and pick apart every bad thing they do, but in the end I think we need to look at them as a whole.  Have they earned good-person status, despite their mistakes? In some cases, maybe not. But in many cases, they have.  Sometimes we just need to take an alternate point of view.

All Those Trees, Man....

So I had to start this by admitting that I had no idea what a grafted tree was before I read this story (I most definitely do NOT have a green thumb) So naturally, I googled the definition, as well as a few pictures. Please enjoy the following for your viewing pleasure:

Once, that was clear I had to figure out why the hell this even matters.  (And it does.  I don’t know how, but I can just feel it.) From a spin off site of Wikipedia (I know, I know, but it was the quickest) I got the following definitions:

Noun[edit]

imp (plural imps)

1.   (obsolete) A young shoot of a plant, tree etc. [9th–17th c.]  [quotations ▼]

2.   (obsolete) A scion, offspring; a child. [15th–19th c.]  [quotations ▼]

3.   A young or inferior devil; a malevolent supernatural creature, similar to a demon but smaller and less powerful. [from 16th c.]  [quotations ▼]

4.   A mischievous child. [from 17th c.]  [quotations ▼]

5.   (UK, dialect, obsolete) Something added to, or united with, another, to lengthen it out or repair it, such as an addition to a beehive; a feather inserted in a broken wing of a bird; or a length of twisted hair in a fishing line.

I focused on the first two definitions the most, which apply most in this situation because their use is obsolete and it just so happens to be the one used in this story.  With these definitions, I’m afraid I didn’t find much help, because I had trouble finding connections.  Almost every time we see Herodis in the story, she’s under an “impe-tree.” Now, this is me just trying to find the significance in that. 

I included the hyperlinks in case you wanted to see for yourself, but what is most interesting is that not only is an “impe” a young, slightly modified form of a tree, it’s also a scion, which is considered a child, or more specifically, a descendent.  So this is really cool, because this story is just a Medieval account of the story of Orpheus.  So this leads me to think: is Herodis meant to be a descendent of Eurydice? 

The way the author of this story makes a Christian world connect to Greek mythology is actually really awesome.  I noticed a lot of tiny nuances that made this possible.  Such as the tree imagery.  (“’He is wrinkled as a tree!’” (510)). And when the story alludes to Adam and Eve:

            He who in ermine robes was clad

            And sheets of purple linen had

            Now lies upon the moss and clover,

            Leaves and grasses for his cover (240-244).

And later when it says, “Nothing to give him joy or pride, / But just the snakes that past him glide” (251-252). I could be way off base there, but it’s interesting how there are parallels, not only with that story, but also of the Christian way of humbling yourself  ( just as Orfeo does in this situation)

I did say I was disappointed with the ending, though, although I think I can recognize that the audience of the time needed this kind of ending.

No one actually gets a happy ending at the end of this myth.  Instead, Orpheus actually DOES get ripped to shreds, and his wife doesn’t get to live at all.  I wish the author would’ve found a way to modify the ending in such a way that it was the same outcome, but achieved in a different way. Just like the rest of the story modifies the original tale. I feel like they just got lazy at the end and decided everyone was going to be happy.

But then again, maybe the author recognized that his audience wouldn’t be satisfied with that kind of ending.  It’s got everything a medieval person wants to read: suffering over the loss of a love, honor, chivalry, music, a happy ending, and a Christian, moral lesson.  Orfeo needs to test the loyalty of his people.  The author of this story had to modify the story to adapt to a relevant lesson for the time. 

I get it, but I don’t necessarily like it. 

And here are the links to those definitions, in case you wanna check 'em out:

Impe:

http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/imp

and Scion:

http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/scion

Happy Wife, Happy Life

          So the popular topic of conversation regarding this tale seems to be whether or not we think the knight learned his lesson in the end.  All I could think was well…he’s married now…isn’t that punishment enough? But all jokes aside, I can’t really say I was thinking about whether he learned his lesson or not by the time I finished the Wife of Bath’s tale.  I was strangely satisfied with the ending, actually.  Believe me that one definitely came as a surprise. 

          

          Actually, I kept referencing the Wife of Bath’s prologue instead.  The narrator of this story is the Wife herself, and she’s—for lack of a better term—a badass.  Many people think of her as an early feminist. (Not the man-hating type, but the real ones who take charge of their lives and do what they want.) The Wife loves men, actually, because she’s been married umpteen times.  At the end of her prologue her husband basically beats her up and she reciprocates with just as much force. She’s all like “always do what I say and we won’t have a problem again.” I can respect that…happy wife, happy life, eh?

          So with that in mind, I resolve to say that he did learn his lesson, in a way.  Now, I’m not condoning rape…but think about this: How many men actually find a definitive answer for what women want? And in a way this is totally true we want to have power over our men, or at least be equal with them.  And I kind of give him credit for being able to look past his wife’s ugliness long enough to consider that trusting her would be a good idea.  He puts all his power in her hands, and to quote the English version, he says, “You choose, for pleasing you now pleases me” (1235).  In that moment, he sacrifices all his power to her.  In the end, she was right all along, and he realizes that by the end of this story. Rather than just believe it because he wants to save his own life, he sees that what she says is true.  And I personally give him props for looking past her ugliness for two seconds she could show him the truth.  Can we say the same for some of the other men we've read about in these medieval stories? Relatively speaking, they kind of get a happy ending. 

          This story isn’t just about learning to respect women.  It’s also about learning to find humility and respect people in general.  Yeah, it’s about women gaining power (because the Wife is the ultimate symbol of power herself) but it’s also a great story to show how people deserve redemption and forgiveness. This knight lives because he serves as an example. He does a complete 180 by the end of this story.  Shouldn’t he get credit for that?  I think a happy ending is nice once in a while. 

Medieval Philadelphia

            If I read this story right, I believe it serves as a companion story to “The Knight of the Cart”. Both stories talk about love in two entirely different ways.  While Lancelot and Guinevere show the major follies of acts of love, I think Yvain presents the very noble aspect of the virtue.  Of course, this must include a lady in which Yvain falls deeply in love with…duh…but I’m way more interested in the almost brotherly love portrayed in this story. 

     First, with the lion.  The lion is so devoted to his master, he almost kills himself out of grief when he thinks his master is dead.  “Never have I heard told or described such grief, “the narrator says (298).  It also says he “threw himself about, clawing himself and screaming” (298). This is not unlike the lady at the beginning of the story whose lord was killed by Yvain.  So the story also shows the importance of grief.  It humbles you, makes you human.  And I think that’s why I grew to like that lion so much.  And the people did too, after they saw his devotion to his master.  I gotta admit, though, I was scared he wouldn’t make it. And honestly, I would’ve been pissed.  But I think the best portrayal of this is when Yvain tells King Arthur’s people not to be afraid of him:  “Do not fear or harm the lion you see approaching, “ he says, “Please believe me. He is mine and I am his” (334).  It’s only an animal and the story makes me love him just as much.

Next, the whole fight with Sir Gawain pulled at my heart strings.  Of course the readers know who each of the knights is, but they certainly don’t (I won’t even address how stupid that notion is). So the whole time, they’re fighting each other and I’m just like NOOOOOO he’s your companion too! Anyway, one of the most palpable parts of this story is when Chrétien personifies Love and Hate.  Just like in “The Knight of the Cart,” Love is a character.  But here, I don’t think it’s used as an excuse for an act, but rather I think we’re meant to  see love in an optimistic light—one that stops hate.  “Now Hate is ready for the forward attack, spurring and pricking against Love whenever he can, and Love does not even stir” (329). I find that absolutely beautiful.  When they recognize each other and cease fighting, King Arthur says, 

there is great love between you and prove this when each declares his own defeat” (333).

I think that Yvain represents everything Lancelot doesn’t.  He’s noble, not a hypocrite, and does everything—successfully—to nobly gain his woman back.  These two stories coupled together teach us parallel lessons about love and nobility, just in different ways.

            And all of this started because Kay had to be a dick. 

The Book of Erec?

So I can’t help but to notice that this is written similarly to the Bible.  Now, I tried to do some research on when and what style Bibles were written in 10^th century France, but I found so many different answers (as one often does with a quick Google search) that I did not have much success.  Rather, I was left more confused than anything else.  But I do know that some of the passages in “Enec and Enide” remind me of some excerpts in the book of Genesis in an NIV version of a Bible.  Mainly the lists and the “this is what I’m going to tell you” attitude.  Chrétien says things like “The others I shall name in no particular order because the ranking embarrasses me” (22). One long paragraph is dedicated to naming all the knights at the Round Table.  I know it’s important somehow, but I couldn’t come up with a definitive reason why we need to know the ranks of these barons.  I guessed it was to establish the importance of rankings, but I’m still not sure.  All this did for me was slow down the story and bore me to death.  

The next time he does this he says, “Now listen to me. I am going to tell you who the kings and the counts were” (24).  Then he goes on to ramble FOR AN ENTIRE PAGE about all these kings and counts who have no actual importance to the story, except for emphasizing the importance of Erec’s wedding.  This especially reminds me of the book of Genesis, where it proceeds to go on for pages about the genealogy past Adam and Eve.  Among hundreds of names, you really only hear a handful of them in the rest of the 65 books.  The situation is not so drastic here, but it’s the same idea.  And one reason why I have to admit that I skimmed over a lot of those parts. 

Now, the question that lingers is why establish all this importance if we’re not really meant to care about these people, no matter their rank in Court? Maybe the goal is to elevate Erec? Many times he is held in high regard, such as this:

Such was Erec’s renown that everyone talked of none but him.  There was no man of such noble excellence.  In beauty he resembled Absalom, and in eloquence, Solomon.  He had the pride of a lion.  And in generosity he was the equal of Alexander (29).

Hmm…more biblical references.  I think this would be an interesting thing to examine.  

No Side-Hugs or Supervision? Cool.

                Call me weird, but the first thing I considered when I finished this essay was the definition of “courtly.” I mean, we live in a world where “courting” means side-hugs, no hand-holding (EVER), and constant supervision (thanks a lot, Duggars).  So that was my rather uneducated misconception.  And Capellanus talks A LOT about sex in “The Art of Courtly Love” (and my definition of “courtly” does NOT, under any circumstances have anything to do with sex except for the prohibition of it.) So I was pleasantly surprised when the first sentence I read was, “Love is a certain inborn suffering derived from the sight of and excessive meditation of the beauty of the opposite sex…” (Capellanus).  Now, I think that is simply beautiful; and so is the rest of the sentence, which indicates that this meditation “causes each one to wish above all things the embraces of the other and by common desire to carry out all of love’s precepts in the other’s embrace” (Capellanus).  I really wasn’t expecting to have my mind blown so quickly.

                Mostly, I loved that I found so many similarities between this and our modern conceptions of how we should love.  That being said, I think this guy is one of the reasons why so many women harp on being romantic and all that sappy stuff.  Capellanus describes love, and its rules, in a rather blunt way, but in the same respect, it is also beautiful. 

                My favorite chapter is the one in which he describes, of all things, the TYPES of people who should love.  One difference is that “after the sixtieth year in a man and the fiftieth year in a woman…the natural heat begins to lose its force…” (Capellanus).  This just seems funny to me, because love is all about sex? Um, I think that’s what we’re currently trying to get away from, but it still amuses me.  Similarly, he talks about how no boy under the age of eighteen can be in love because he’s too caught up being clumsy and embarrassed by his genitals.  YES.  It’s so funny how even then men were men and boys were boys.  I was pleasantly comforted by the fact that these people (or their beliefs, rather) weren’t so much different from those we have now.  To put it into perspective, I think it really makes reading the work of this time a lot less daunting.  As long as we can put it into a historical perspective, the basic rules and ways in which they conducted themselves can be translated into something we can understand.  A lot of their social beliefs are the same as ours.  Or rather, they are the ones who paved the way for some of the social constructs we have today.  Pretty cool.