TEACHING THE MIDDLE ENGLISH BEAUTIFUL TRUTH IN CONTEXT

DR DAVID MOSES

Whenbeginning to read a play by Shakespeare in class I always ask our young people to try to define the language used by that playwright. Hands shoot up; ‘Old English’ is invariably the confidently delivered answer. Poetic, and archaic at times though it may be, Shakespeare’s language is, however, early modern, and far from Old (Anglo-Saxon) English. At that point I usually read aloud Anglo-Saxon versions of The Lord’s Prayer (10th century, Fæder ure þu þe eart on heofonum) and get students to attempt to read ‘Cædmon’s Hymn’ (7th century, Nu scylun hergan hefaenricaes uard). They certainly come to understand the difference then.

That begs the question, for them, of what comes in between the old and the modern. Middle English emerges after the Norman conquest and we find its various (regional) forms until the late fifteenth century. I always now introduce it by looking at a poem which I first used because of its accessibility. In addition, the version (below) of it which I use is regularised to make it visually easier to read. As time has passed, I have found it increasingly compelling, and have taken to using it often with our older students. The poem presents us with a fixed image, though it is also an ‘open text’ accessible at several levels of interpretation:

Whyt is thi naked brest and blodi is thi side, Starkë are thine armes that stretcchëde are so wyde. Falwe is thei fairë ler and dimmyëth thi sighte, Drie is thin hendë body on rodë so y-tight.

Thine thighës hongen colde al so the marble-ston, Thine thirlëde fet the redë blod by-ron.

This beautiful poem, versified as a lyric to be spoken in Middle English, has several versions, many of which are in manuscripts and sermon books from the early 14th century. It is older, however; its analogue has been said to be St Augustine of Hippo’s Candet nudatum pectus, though recent commentators now attribute it to a sermon

by

John of

Fécamp (d. 1079),

whose Latin text is homiletic, reflecting as it does on the sufferings of Christ. It is, of course, the crucifixion on which we gaze as we read, but in its newer Middle English context the description is highly poetic. The first word ‘whyt’ here sets the theme of purity in the poem, but also sets up a number of oppositional visual contrasts. The tortuous description of Christ, not just pale but ‘Starkë’, ‘stretcchëde’ and ‘thirlëde’, is matched by the continued sense of grace in suffering - the ‘fairë ler’ and the ‘hendë’ body. Light and dark imagery seems dominant but gives way to the more visually arresting red of the blood. The description suggests at once an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, yet acceptance and composure. Christ – never named here - is described as having thighs cold ‘as marble’. It is a perhaps unwitting simile which makes us think of sculptural representations of the crucifixion. Figuratively and literally, beneath all of that visual ‘noise’ those final lines emphasise silence. Indeed, the final punctuating image of the blood-soaked, pierced feet, abruptly finishes a poem in which a strategy of significant contrasts has been used to maximum artistic and theological effect. The word ‘passion’ was rarely used in the earlier part of the medieval period; ‘pathos’ was more common and often translated to affectus. The lyric’s beauty lies in its ability emotionally to affect those who read it by their involvement. The speaker addresses Christ. There is a real intensity to the words spoken because of the way it places the speaker as present – a witness to the scene of the crucifixion – and who addresses Him on the cross. The intimate, observational ‘thi’ takes us closer still to the physical body, not merely highlighting the visual details of the Crucifixion and its effects, but producing an intimate communion between the speaker of the lyric and its subject: Christ.

Most of our students enjoy reading this and, with a little effort, quickly comprehend the literal elements of the text. With further guidance and encouragement, they start to see more. In its medieval context the genre is that of devotional poem. It is perhaps meant to be read in the oratory of a household; its styling in the vernacular is a sure sign that its intended audience were not going to hear it at Mass. As they should be, Ampleforth students tend to be ready to search for, find, and be moved by Christian meanings in the texts they read, whether those meanings are oblique or direct. An uncomplicated way to see this poem is to look at it as an icon. We could say that language fails adequately to represent the transcendence of the moment contemplated; once the words are spoken, we are left in silent prayer and contemplation before Christ on the cross.

Older readers want to discuss the poem in more detail still, and it was those A level class discussion groups which have prompted my further reflection and my next comments. It is worth noting that I cannot now separate the poem from the crucifix which I lived with for so many years and which is still on the wall of the study in St John’s House. Its near white ivory Christ stands out in relief from the ebony black cross, and allows me to attach the poem to a cherished image. Like the poem, it was and remains for me full of beauty because of its message, its delicacy, and its light. Indeed, thirteenth century thinkers placed great emphasis on proportion and light, and the term we use for this approach to art and beauty is Hylomorphism. This aesthetic says we can experience beauty through proportion, light, and the references, reminders and manifestations of God in things. It was asserted that one is able to experience physical being (ousia) and metaphysical beauty at once, and thus may feel an associated passion. We should be moved by a beauty which represents not just the outward appearance of things, but their inner significance. The most challenging aspect of any such discussion with students can be when I say that a piece of writing is ‘beautiful’. How does one define ‘beauty’? Beauty, perhaps because of this increasingly secular world, seems to have fallen into disrepute; and yet beauty until relatively recently was a value as much as Truth, and in much of western art the two are synonymous.

The very juxtaposition, in a literature class, of discussing notions of beauty with an ugly act and suffering, seems contradictory. I think, though, we can and must reconcile the two. Medieval artists and poets were aware that human life is full of chaos and suffering. Roger Scruton has described the simple remedy as ‘beauty.’ ‘The beautiful work of art brings consolation in sorrow and affirmation in joy. It shows human life to be worthwhile.’ Indeed, the first readers of the poem were supposed to take delight (delectatio) in such images and texts, and the poem certainly suits an imagistic, devotional context. Honorius of Autun had said, back in around 1025, that images were the literature of the laity (laicorum literatura), so there may be a sense in which we see this image, even in its original context, as having a role in education. To see it as devotional is important too because this image also requires us quietly to participate, to kneel before the cross, and to recognise its beauty. Works of art were designed with aesthetic perception in mind, presupposing the nature of experience and empathy in the subjectivity of the perceiver.

The medieval mind was passionate about the truth, though its notions of evidence were different to ours. It might be enough to say simply that this poem is beautiful because it is True. Uncompromising in itself though the statement is it does not help our students pass exams, and something more is needed. We do seem to have lost our ability to define beauty, and to have lost the conceptual tools that allow us to recognise and identify with it as the medievals did: as interactive, significant, and comprehensively meaningful. They knew that beauty can restore the sacred space, and this lyric does perfectly what beautiful art is intended to do by lifting our gaze, by making us look beyond, by closing distances of time and space, and by bringing us closer to the Divine.