A Complaynt of a Loveres Lyfe

john-lydgate

This coming year at Kalamazoo I will be giving a paper on Lydgate. It is still very early, and I am not entirely sure how I want to frame my paper, but I figured the best approach is to first brush up on my Lydgate scholarship, and reacquaint myself with his works that I have not visited in a while.

I am not sure if any of what I blog about over the next few weeks will ever even make it into my paper, but it will be a fun exercise anyway. I am going to start by looking at A Complaynt of a Loveres Lyfe. However, I won’t attempt all 85 stanzas in one post – I will break it up over a series.

The work is found in nine extant manuscripts, and I will be using Bodley MS. Fairfax 16 as my base text (the infamous manuscript that spends nearly two folios rebuffing the poet, in a long line of others who have felt the need to mercilessly discredit his poetry). Despite some variations this manuscript is the least corrupt. The poem is considered to be one of Lydgate’s earlier poems, from 1398-1412.

The work is typically Lydgatean, especially in his formative years that closely mimicked Chaucerian works but without the later Lydgatean voice that contained a measured seriousness and propensity for over-explanation, all of which allowed him a great range of genres and tones to work with, turning him from a Chaucerian imitator to a nuanced poet in his own right. Although, his indebtedness to Chaucer remained visible to readers familiar with both, along with his own accounts of his inspiration that was clearly drawn from Chaucer’s works.

The Complaynt immediately signals its ties to the Complaint unto Pity, Troilus, and perhaps most obviously, the Book of the Duchess, especially considering the The Complaynt of the a Loveres Lyfe later becomes referred to as The Complaint of the Black Knight – a figure drawn directly from Duchess. The process of loving, as described by the lover in the poem bears a close resemblance to the Roman, especially Amors’s speech to L’Amant. The latter part of the Roman, namely Jean de Meun’s contributions, bear little implications for Lydgate – he does not appear interested in the more complicated conjectures about love. Further, at no point does he attempt to alter the lover’s state of mind or to pacify his lament, probably because despite the anguish and torment the knight is experiencing, there is no moral conflict present in the story, and thus nothing exists to modify or reprimand.

Yet, it is during the knight’s lament, in which he outlines his grief and heartache where Lydgate demonstrates his early career compulsions for rhetorical exercises, over-explanation, and over-drawn examples. This is most interesting when taking into account that while he does not attempt to remedy these laments, but simply allows them to exist as they are, he encapsulates them by a succinct, beautifully and well written beginning and ending to the poem comprised by the descriptio loci and the closing prayer to Venus.

Here is the first part of the poem with some brief descriptions and analyses for each stanza. For more detailed scholarship, I have included a list of sources.

In May when Flora, the fressh lusty quene,
The soyle hath clad in grene, rede, and white,
And Phebus gan to shede his stremes shene
Amyd the Bole wyth al the bemes bryght,
And Lucifer, to chace awey the nyght,
Agen the morowe our orysont hath take
To byd lovers out of her slepe awake,

If flowers are engendered by April’s sweet showers, by May they are in full bloom. Clearly this is an echo from the “when” “then” statements of the General Prologue. In another borrowing from Chaucer, Lydgate’s description of Flora as a “fressh lusty quene” is the same as Chaucer created for Dido in the Legend of Good Women, which also serves to taint the reader’s perception of Flora as she becomes intricately tied to Dido’s history. However, Lydgate liked his Flora imagery, and redeveloped it within a more mature poetic state nearly a decade later in the Prologue to the Siege of Thebes: “Whan that Flora the noble myghty quene / The soyle hath clad in newe tendre grene…” (lines 13-14).

However, beginning a lover’s lament in May also keeps with convention. May is associated with rejuvenation, the casting off of winter, and brings with it a general celebratory mood. Thus juxtaposing the ways in which May is typically conceived with a lover’s melancholy draws attention to the lament as something that should not be.

The poem is set up in such a way in which May is the harbinger of all that is initially expected, and placed within a natural world ripe and fertile with possibility. Phebus, the sun, burns brightly, as Lucifer, the morning star, chases away the night across the sky in order to shepherd in the next day and allow lovers to awaken from their sleep.

These lines echo a cornucopia of previous works. In Troilus, “Whan Phebus doth his bryghte bemes sprede / Right in the white Bole, it so bitidde” (Book 2, 54-55). In De Consolatione Philosophiae where we learn the day and evening star are one and the same, “and aftir that Lucifer, the day-starre, hath chased away the dirke nyght.” In the Romaunt “A slowe sonne! shewe thin emprise! / Sped thee to sprede thy beemys bright, / And chace the derknesse of the nyght….” (lines 2636-2638).

The beginning stanza of this poem clearly works to situate it within the realm of its predecessors as it carves out a piece of the mythology that is embroidered within the text of the others, for itself.

And hertys hevy for to recomforte
From dreryhed of hevy nyghtis sorowe,
Nature bad hem ryse and disporte
Ageyn the goodly, glad, grey morowe;
And Hope also, with Seint John to borowe,
Bad in dispite of Daunger and Dispeyre
For to take the holsome, lusty eyre.

This stanza takes the reader directly into the Romaunt, with references to personified Hope and Danger in conjunction with the lover. Despite Danger and Despair, Nature and Hope invite lovers to step outside and ease their sorrow with some fresh air. Of course this brings to mind the lover’s quest for the rosebud in the Romaunt, and draws a parallel of how these allegorical figures will function in this poem.

While the phrase “with Seint John to borowe,” is a direct reference to Chaucer who uses it in the Complaint of Mars, and at least twice in the Canterbury Tales, it is also a common sentiment to convey while wishing someone good luck in an endeavor. Thus Hope, with the luck endowed by St. John, will, despite Danger and Despair, bade the lovers to partake in some wholesome lusty air.

And wyth a sygh I gan for to abreyde
Out of my slombre and sodenly out stert,
As he, alas, that nygh for sorowe deyde –
My sekenes sat ay so nygh myn hert.
But for to fynde socour of my smert,
Or attelest summe relesse of my peyn
That me so sore halt in every veyn,

In an inversion of the traditional dream vision poems, the Lydgatean world is awakening. As the narrator awakens full of heartache, the third line is a direct reference to Troilus who, like the narrator, “that neight for sorowe deyde” (Book 4 line 432). He wishes to find a solace for the lovesickness that is clearly effecting him – a malady that in the Middle Ages was a serious matter which could transcend metaphorical heartache into physical ailments and even eventually lead to death.  He apparently has only enough strength to rouse himself from slumber and take Nature and Hope up on the offer for a breath of fresh air.

I rose anon and thoght I wolde goon
Unto the wode to her the briddes sing,
When that the mysty vapour was agoon,
And clere and feyre was the morownyng.
The dewe also, lyk sylver in shynyng
Upon the leves as eny baume suete,
Til firy Tytan with hys persaunt hete

Much like the narrator of the Romaunt dreams he awakens in May and goes on a sojourn to a more idyllic location, here the narrator does awaken in May and goes into the woods to hear birds singing. Lydgate again keeps with convention and relies on the locus amoenus to guide the plot which requires the lover to enter a idealized location surrounded by nature and providing comfort for lovesickness and melancholy. The place is typically a forest, alcove, or paradisal garden.

The description is an echo of the Knight’s Tale in which “fiery phebus riseth up so bright / That al the orient laugheth of the light, / And with his stremes dryeth in the greves / The silver dropes hangynge on the leves” (line 1493-1496). Tytan and Phebus may be interchanged for a similar effect that ends in silver dew drops on leaves being dried by bright rays of “persaunt” (piercing) sun. I love this adjective that comes directly from the French in the original Roman, here denoting a piercing and pure heat, unlike anything experienced before.

Had dried up the lusty lycour nyw
Upon the herbes in the grene mede,
And that the floures of mony dyvers hywe
Upon her stalkes gunne for to sprede
And for to splay out her leves on brede
Ageyn the sunne, golde-borned in hys spere,
That doun to hem cast hys bemes clere.

This is a straightforward stanza that describes the effects of the hot sun upon the leaves, drying them with his “golde-borned” or in Chaucerian terms, burned gold beams (CT 1247 in regards to Phoebus). This is also the part of the poem that can be considered over-explanatory, drawing out the description of the sun’s rays perhaps more than needed. However, I have to personally interject and comment on the beauty of these lines that narrate such a simple event to the core minutia of its being. It halts the movement of the poem and hyper-focuses on an event otherwise overlooked, not just in literature, but in everyday life. How often have you stopped to look at dew evaporating from herbs in a garden at the exact moment the sun is rising and makings its way across the sky to the topmost point when the leaves may be proclaimed dry? Probably never, and neither have I, but these lines recreate this inconsequential, yet delicate moment for us to vicariously enjoy through the eyes of the narrator, even if never in our own gardens. So, while others may think these types of stanzas unnecessary, and unendingly verbose, there is much to be said for a man who can translate these negligible and seemingly trivial acts into elegant poetry.

And by a ryver forth I gan costey,
Of water clere as berel or cristal,
Til at the last I founde a lytil wey
Touarde a parke enclosed with a wal
In compas rounde; and, by a gate smal,
Hoso that wolde frely myght goon
Into this parke walled with grene stoon.

The narrator enters the garden and begins going towards the river reminiscent of the Romaunt in which the narrator walks “thorough the mede, / Dounward ay in my pleiyng, / The river syde costeiyng” (lines 133-135). However, this is not the lake of Narcissus, or any other mythological creature. This garden may exist within the trope of locus amoenus but it is restorative and wholesome, similar to the effects of sleep upon the dreamer in Duchess, but nevertheless unlike anything before. Even as there are hints of previous compositions, and Lydgate borrows imagery, in  this case the concepts are truly his own.

The last line of this stanza recalls “the park walled with grene stone” in Chaucer’s Parlement (line 122), and many critics believe it is a reference to the abundance of the park, laden with gems such as emerald or jasper. This is especially the case considering the other references to green stones within both Chaucer and Lydage (De Consolatione, and Pur le Roi, respectively), in which the imagery is that of abundance, in line with the luxurious garden the narrators within these stories, including A Complaynt, find themselves. However, I would like to offer another reading in which the park walled with green stone is simply an elaborate allusion to stone walls overflowing with moss and natural verdant overhanging plants. The verbiage might be there, but this is not the opulent garden of the Romaunt, but rather, as we shall shortly find, a self reflexive haven for the narrator to reach his own insights and nurse his wounds. The Lydgatean narrator does not attempt rehabilitating the lover solely because by virtue of his locale, and his abilities at reason, he will accomplish the task himself.

I think this is a good stopping place for this segment, and I will continue forth, posting the poem piecemeal,  until I have completed the entirety of the work. As usual, any suggesting or insights are most welcome.

Sources:

Krausser, E. “The Complaint of the Black Knight.”

MacCracken, Henry Noble, ed. The Complaint of the Black Knight. In The Minor Poems of John Lydgate.

Mortimer, Nigel. John Lydgate’s Fall of Princes: Narrative Tragedy in its Literary and Political Contexts. 

Norton-Smith, John, ed. A Complaynt of a Loveres Lyfe. In John Lydgate, Poems.

Skeat, Walter W., ed. The Complaint of the Black Knight. In Chaucerian and Other Pieces.

Ne Reprenez, Dames, si J’ay Aymé…

250px-Louise_Labé

(Engraving by Pierre Woeiriot)

Louise Labé was known for various reasons, all centered around the corpus of poetry attributed to her. Many believe her poetry had been the fabrication of notorious contemporary male poets seeking an outlet for their creativity. However, recent scholarship has decidedly credited Labé with her work, even as the specifics of her perhaps tumultuous life remain unaccounted for.

She was in fact the daughter of a well-off ropemaker in Lyon, and married a man of the same profession who was significantly older than her. She held a following of those enamored by her, either because she was charismatic, or due to her physical appearance according to those who testified to her unending beauty. Perhaps these traits are not as mutually exclusive as many texts have made them out to be.

I am less concerned with the details of her personal life, as I am with the message in her works, specifically her sonnets that recall earlier female writing, namely the trobairitz and their unprecedented chansons.

Labé wrote during a time of transition between what would later be referred to as the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of the Italian Renaissance, significantly living in a town that straddled both Parisian and Italian culture. This afforded her exposure to art forms and conventions appealing to both. The region was well known in literary circles for its connection to the Pléiade poets, however, Labé’s contribution to the form received mixed reviews. She has often been criticized for the lack of breadth her work provides. Once again the connection between herself and the trobairitz becomes apparent, as they too only ever sang about a single unrequited love, but nevertheless, their oeuvres were significantly smaller, often no larger than half a dozen works. Despite the modest size of Labé’s corpus, it was still considered too large to be only concerned with a single subject.

All of her work was published in a single volume, Œuvres, containing Débat de Folie et d’Amour, three elegies, and twenty four sonnets. Her last sonnet, “Ne Reprenez, Dames,” beautifully sums up the entire work as she appeals to the ladies of Lyon, candidly and unapologetically attesting to her love history, while reminding them that they may suffer the same fate. And the suffering might just be bittersweet.

Here is the sonnet and my translation:

Ne reprenez, Dames, si j’ay aymé,
Si j’ay senti mile torches ardenttes,
Miles travaus, mile douleurs mordentes.
Si, en pleurant, j’ay mon tems consumé,Las! que mon nom ne soit par vous blamé.
Si j’ay failli, les peines sont presentes,
N’aigrissez point leurs pointes violentes:
Mais estimez qu’amour, a point nommé,Sans votre ardeur d’un Vulcan excuser,
Sans la beauté d’Adonis acuser,
Pourra, s’il veut, plus vous rendre amoureuses,

En ayant moins que moy d’ocasion,
Et plus d’estrange et forte passion.
Et gardez vous d’estre plus malheureuses!

Do not reproach me, ladies, if I have loved
If I have felt a thousand torches burning,
A thousand labors, a thousand biting pains.
If, in crying, I have my days consumed,Alas! Let my name not be by you blemished,
If I have failed, my pains are present,
Do not further sharpen needles to a point:
But consider that love, at the right moment,Without your ardor by Vulcan excused,
Without beauty by Adonis accused,
Can, if he wants, to render you more in love,

Having much less occasion than me,
And with a stranger and stronger passion.
And take care not be be even more unhappy!

The rhyme scheme is abba abba ccd ccd, clearly in the form of a Petrarchan sonnet, also known as an Italian sonnet. However, note her breaks in the octave and sestet, rearranging the rhythm into quatrains and tercets. Even though this is hardly anomalous to this text, it signals her penchant for authority over her work, and her larger departures from conventions.

Additionally, while the topoi remains intact, the genders are reversed, and in another comparison to the trobairitz, Labé usurps male control when crafting her sonnet that clearly subverts gendered norms as she endows herself, a female speaker, with authority. Further, as this piece references her singular concern throughout her corpus of works, namely her love for a man that was not her husband, she positions herself as an everywoman. She cautions her audience of their own susceptibility towards love who “pourra, s’il veut, plus vous redre amoureuses,” (can, if he wants, to render you more in love), implying a complete lack of autonomy on anyone’s part in trying to withstand the power of love.

The piece begins with an imperative against reproach for having loved, enumerating the various sensations love engenders, all of which more closely resemble torture rather than the bliss generally associated with amorous feelings. The images of burning pain and tears depict the suffering endured by the lover to better demonstrate the burden which comes with the feeling, garnering sympathy for the trials she must, almost unwillingly, endure. This duty-laced performance ties back into the beginning request, since reproach cannot be doled out towards those who lack the freewill to resist love in the first place.

The same imperative command appears in the second quatrain that again absolves the speaker of volition. Paradoxically she uses this sonnet to relinquish autonomy, but not agency. She attests to her lack of choice in the matter of loving, but does not demonstrate regret, nor account for acquiescing to acting upon it. After all, to love in one’s head against one’s will is different than to follow through with actions. She most notably does not attempt to absolve herself in this regard. Within this quatrain also commences the cautionary prospect of love overcoming the sonnet’s audience who judges Labé for her actions.

She references Vulcan who had to suffer Aphrodite’s indiscretions as she openly chased after Adonis, and then Ares (among others). Here the husband will not excuse the same conduct, nor be blamed for his wife’s infidelity. Labé then evokes the image of Adonis, but here the man’s perfect form cannot be accused of seduction, however, neither can the one encountering these passions. The blame rests squarely upon the shoulders of a disjointed love. As the last tercet asserts, love cannot be deferred, or ignored, only tolerated, and placated.

The closing line summonses  the beginning of the first quatrain as “malheureuses” refers to the unhappiness love has the ability to endow upon its victims. The caution she imparts in her closing remark is not against love, which is unstoppable, but against resisting it and causing more pain than is necessary. Here her line and stanza arrangement serves to increase the tension of the poem, relying on these final lines to convey the full impact of her meaning. Her last line, a full sentence, and the most compact complete thought within the sonnet, delivers the final shock. Passion can be “stranger and stronger” than anything felt before, and anything short of embracing it has worse consequences than all the reproach and rumors a town has to offer.

The Inevitable Hero: Masculine Exploration and a Return to Order

Within medieval romance there appears to be an almost obsessive relationship with names and the process of naming,* in which identity is intricately tied to a name, and more often than not, a lineage. Yet, this concept becomes muddled when names are unknown, and lineage is obfuscated. Lybeaus Desconus, following in the tradition of Le Bel Inconnu, utilizes the trope of the Fair Unknown, which is dependent upon demonstrating self worth outside the strictly defined parameters of genealogy. This trope, however, functions two-fold as it challenges the system of professed chivalric meritocracy while bringing into question the very essence of what Norris J. Lacy refers to as “perceived identity” on the part of the individual knight (374).

Through the process of acquiring or bestowing a name, an identity is formed for the character receiving the name. However, the template for name creation is seemingly restricted to descriptive nouns that represent the traits for which the character is known, ** while also restricting the character’s potential for actions outside the narrowly illustrated role until the time comes when the descriptor can be replaced by a proper name. Arguably any means of referring to a person bears an implication, even when the moniker is as undescriptive as “unnamed man” that carries a variety of inferences.   Much like Perceval in earlier traditions of Arthurian tales, Lybeaus enters Arthur’s court nameless as he never asked his mother for his own name (lines 28-29) and he does not know his patrilineal descent. Thus he can boast no lineage. His makeshift armor acquired roadside from a dead knight is symbolic of the ease with which he is able to form himself upon entry into Arthur’s halls. Lybeaus’s first test comes verbally via an entreaty from Arthur to state his name “withoute lesynge” (line 56), with this demand for truth evincing the seriousness of identity as proof of ability.

Further, Arthur remarks “Saw I never here beforne / No child so feyre of syght” (lines 59-60), echoing his reaction in the analogous scene of Lancelot’s arrival, and pronouncing the connection between pleasing physical appearance and inherited prowess – an association upon which the court structure depends. If nobles could boast superiority through their position within the structured hierarchy, they depend upon symbols of their excellence to justify that exact superiority. Their appearance serves as an indication of their right to dominance as well as a tell for identifying those of noble mettle. Arthur’s request for a name plays into this structure that demands a relationship between Lybeaus’s outward appearance and his inward gentry, and when such a relationship cannot be determined, in order to maintain order the association becomes assumed. In other words, physical beauty is an emblem of nobility, and must remain so, thus whoever possesses it is assumed to belong to a higher echelon. It is within this context that King Arthur “anon ryght / Lete make the chyld a knyght / On that ilke dey” (lines 85-87), and further granted Lybeaus the “first fight” (line 101) “what batell so ever it be” (line 105). Arthur must not only keep his promise to the lad, but simultaneously presuppose his victory. In other words, if an attractive appearance is related to inner nobility, and nobility breeds superior martial abilities, then beauty is equated to knightly prowess. Consequently, the greater a man’s beauty is, the more success will be bestowed upon his chivalric endeavors. Lybeaus finds himself at the crux between beauty and a perceived masculine identity, and will ultimately learn that they are far from mutually exclusive.

Male beauty within the Fair Unknown trope is the key to entry into the system. Once inside the hero must live up to the expectations placed upon him, and preserve the appearance of fairness and righteousness for which the system is credited. He must use his lack of a name, and thus absence of identity, to form one for himself that fits within the preconceived notions of what he should be. Moreover, his lack of a name engenders a fluidity of identity, allowing him to perform chivalry and knighthood from the standpoint of a blank slate. Despite that the reader knows from the first stanza that Lybeaus was conceived “by Sir Gawyne / By a forest syde” (lines 8-9), his disassociation from his patrilineage allows him to pick and choose those attributes he wishes, while essentially disinheriting his own birthright. The audience is able to view the construction and performance of identity unfold with full knowledge of the outcome.

Lybeaus, in an attempt to artificially construct his identity participates in perpetuating socially condoned mores of court, including an acceptable performance of his gender (Butler 21). However, his anonymity deprives him of a personal history within a specific gender, or any paternal role models with whom to associate, allowing for a gender fluidity that makes practicing gender altogether problematic for him. Unlike sex that has a physical form associated with it, gender embodies ideology, which in turn reproduces a commonly accepted image. However, within this reproduction there is always a slippage in which the artistic, deliberately created, image of self specifically fails to faithfully represent society’s conceptions and instead purposefully misrepresents and contorts the expected in order to elucidate decidedly more complex concerns (Jameson 75). Lybeaus, within the larger concept of the Fair Unknown, is that exact artistic representation.

With each articulation of anonymity among the disparate instances of knighthood and within chivalry, ranging from armor changes in Cligès during the eponymous hero’s demonstrations of prowess in tournament, to Lancelot’s adventures at the Castle of Dolorous Guard where he shields his face (Huot 20), or within the various iterations of Lybeaus Desoncus, the performance of gender is simultaneously the same as and different from all other instances. Such portrayals commence a dialogue between reality as seen within each text, and audience expectation that always rests upon the inevitable success of the knight. Throughout the multiple appearances of the hero within romance where his identity is unknown, an aesthetically pleasing physique is a common characteristic that functions as a credential and means of entry into various situations.

Northrop Frye succinctly notes that an exploration of identity in romance may be as undramatic as a change of clothes, or a lack of name, and does not need to enlist more profound means of obscurity (Frye 106), which has often been the case when a simple change of armor serves as a method for a complete transformation for a knight gone incognito. Nevertheless the need to classify and categorize inevitably will turn the most innocuous attributes of the self into often-reductive deconstructed emblems, resisting the hero’s negation of dichotomized standards. By not having a name it means others will attempt to find a name for him. Much like Arthur needed to uphold the structures of nobility by recognizing it within Lybeaus earlier, Aruthur continues to rely upon the link between beauty and nobility professing he will give the young man a name “For he is so feyr and fre” (line 75). Thusly the hero’s physical beauty behaves not only as a tell of his inner nobility, but also as a signifier of his place within a strict gendered understanding of social norms that ultimately begs the question as to whether beauty could be inherently masculine. However, if the newly minted “Lybeus Disconyusis” (line 80) is to represent the entirety of the Fair Unknown genre then “identity is that which signals group affiliation” (Bynum 163) and his beauty becomes a trait in common with his fellow knights, and by association with masculinity.

Accordingly, Lybeaus’s gender fluidity that is borne from his beauty creates the connection between beauty and masculinity. His “feyr and bright” (line 13) appearance coupled with “savage” (line 19) demeanor, clearly combine qualities ubiquitously allied to each sex and gender. Yet despite the unwieldy amalgamation of traits based on his sex, there is no ambiguity as to which gender he will attempt to perform – he clearly aligns himself with the other knights and sets out to join their ranks. He exhibits characteristics deemed highly masculine, and successfully completes his quests, conquering foes, slaughtering giants, and overcoming adversity along the way. As the romance comes to its conclusion he is rewarded, acquires the Lady of Synadon as a wife, and learns of his lineage proving he is Gawain’s son. The recognition scene, however, paradoxically operates in favor of and against his reputation. A precursory reading will necessarily negate this notion and situate Lybeaus’s success squarely within his own purview where he has achieved notoriety through his deeds, and it only so happened that he is also derived from noble stock. Nevertheless, the congratulatory remarks Gawain makes to Irain, the Lady of Synadon, play into the conception of nobility as exemplifying excellence above all else.

Identity in romance often follows an archetypal path, relying on the ending to resolve all issues, and more specifically to endow the hero with a greater understanding of self. As Lybeaus sidesteps the implications of the narrative’s resolution, he does not reject masculinity, but rather finds a novel approach to performing it. He does not turn down Irain’s marriage proposal or shun his duties. Similarly, he does not reject chivalry but uses his understanding of identity to alter how chivalry is enacted.

Consequently, through his hybridity he takes on the role of an Other, almost monstrous existence which constantly attempts to subvert socially acceptable ideologies concerned with conduct. Yet, it must be noted that this monstrous entity can only point out flaws in the system, but is never allowed to break them down. Lybeaus acquiesces to society’s demand for marriage as the proper marker for accomplishment and growth despite having elucidated numerous flaws inherent within chivalry, much like his predecessors had. He stems from a tradition that created Lancelot, Perceval, Tristan, Cligès, Erec, and numerous others who operated outside the boundaries of traditional masculinity that insists upon choosing a fixed mode of behavior in which masculinity is either overly present or completely absent. For these knights, courtly affairs were well balanced with martial escapades – all of which were encompassed within chivalry. They were thus better equipped to negotiate difficult situations, innately aware of which attributes to push forward at opportune moments and they essentially deconstructed the binary existence into which they would otherwise have been forced.

The duality necessary for such a shift for Lybeaus specifically becomes pronounced when looking at the distinction between private and public encounters. The narrative progresses through a series of juxtapositions between Lybeaus’s different personas, beginning with his own brief relation of the nickname his mother had given him, “Beuys,” noting his beauty. However, it was also his mother who came to know his nature first and best, realizing that despite his perhaps effeminate qualities he would turn “savage” (line 19) if allowed into the public sphere, hence she

hym kepte with alle hyr myght

That he schuld se no knyght

Armyd on no maner,

For he was so savage

And lyghtly wold outrage

To his felos in fere.

For doute of wyked lose

His moder kepyd hym close,

As worthy child and dere (lines 16-24).

In keeping him close she keeps him isolated, doubting his ability to curb his actions if left to his own devices – a battle he will wage with himself at various points in the storyline as he fluctuates between heroism, extreme bouts of violence, and moments of delicacy.

The distinctions in his character take root during his entrance scene at court as he casts off his mother’s moniker for him and accepts the one Arthur confers. His new name, Lybeaus, still functions as a reminder of his beauty, but it moves from the feminine beauty given by his mother to masculine beauty that equals chivalry. Moreso, in the presence of the lords and ladies he sheds his association with physical beauty and professes martial acumen to convince Arthur of his knightly potential, despite Arthur’s appraisal of his beauty as a link to Lybeaus’s noble nature. Once again the path from beauty to knighthood is clearly traced out. Then, in a definite act of relinquishing past associations, of which he has few, he abandons the “rych armour” (line 39) previously acquired from the dead knight and accepts the “armour bright” Arthur provides. Clearly he demonstrates an understanding of proper behavior, evincing the secondary, yet more important, quest he will undertake en route to saving the Lady of Synadon – he will learn the importance of his physique and the different situations in which he needs to utilize beauty or brawn, and to what extent. He will learn to temper the hyper masculinity expected of him with his more gentle side, and use his newly forged type of masculinity to construct his identity.

At first the separation between beauty and brawn is immediately made apparent through his comport in the public arena of knighthood where he must fight William Dolebraunche. He emerges from the encounter referred to by his adversary as “a strong knyght and sterne” (line 438), followed by his private rendezvous with Elyn in which he is described as “jentyll” (line 470).  Both of these descriptions bear implications of his physical demeanor using the language of common gender stereotypes, elucidating his fluctuation that is dependent upon occasion. Over the next thousand lines he becomes increasingly more violent, bringing to fruition his mother’s earlier concerns. Yet these instances provide him with experience and increase his knowledge of self in order to better understand the moveable parts of his personality and the ways in which he can manipulate them to achieve equilibrium. His extremely violent episodes allow him the opportunity to participate in improper conduct in order to learn restraint.

Jeffrey Jerome Cohen argues that giants in medieval literature are an embodiment of masculine identity (Cohen 82), and so the alarming rate at which Lybeaus slaughters them would be indicative of his desires to eradicate stereotypical masculinity in lieu of a more nuanced version that allows modicums of leniency and passivity. Consequently, countering his series of intense confrontations, his stint with Denamowre, the lady of Love, signals his return to his previous reorientation of masculinity. He renegotiates strongly gendered constraints on the image of knighthood and chivalry by inverting the roles typically prescribed to each character. His manhood is not questioned, but nevertheless sinks to the background of his existence. During his stay, as he temporarily abandons the primary quest he undertook to save the Lady of Synadon, he is left languidly existing on Y’Il d’Or, entranced by minstrel music. In his state he has discarded his previously acquired identity. Through his distance from those with whom he wishes to identify he deviates from the course and takes up the persona that has up until now presented itself in private locales, such as his encounter with Elyn in the forest.

Ironically it is Elyn who must reconstruct Lybeaus, and relies on an appellation to his once desired state of being, beginning her entreaty by referring to him as a “Knyght” (line 1536), and reminding him of the “dyshonour” (line 1540) he will incur if he either aligns himself with the wrong type of woman, or neglects his duties within the code of chivalry. Her admonishment functions as a reminder that there are prescribed ways of performing one’s persona, and more importantly one’s gender, and neither Lybeas nor Denamowre are operating within acceptable roles. In other words, remaining her companion strips him of his manhood down to the bare requirements of physical attributes, and also changes Denamowre’s means of performing her role as she surrenders to excesses, thus she cannot serve as his reward.

However, Lybeaus’s persona, when confronted with domestic situations consistently reverts to one of passivity and a performance of masculinity outside what would socially be deemed acceptable. Once he enters Denamowre’s domestic sphere “sche proferd hym at a word/ Ever more to be hyr lord/ Of cyte and of castell” (lines 1507-1509), in a proposal later echoing the Lady of Synadon’s offer of herself “to wyfe” (line 2099). Interestingly, both of these women are initially monstrous in either their denial of traditional roles and embracing of excessive behavior, or physically as the Lady of Synadon who first comes to him in the form of a dragon/serpent/worm before retracting to her female form. Lybeaus’s identity as a knight is dependent upon his encounter with monstrosity, and he forms himself precisely by negating the monstrous, curbing it, and aligning himself to order and subdued conduct. If giants and monsters represent masculinity, and he takes no issue in eradicating them, he uses the same impetus to destroy the monstrous hybridity within himself that would otherwise prevent him from progression. This is made apparent once he enters the terrain of the Lady of Synadon and he must bring to a halt the feminine and enchanted minstrel music that on Y’ll d’Or entranced him. he resists being conquered and reclaims his masculine persona as the conqueror. It is therefore necessary for his survival to fluctuate between poles along the gender spectrum in order to constantly shift the way he presents himself. In those instances where hyper masculinity is needed he calls it forth, but then he is also able to essentially turn it off.

If identity is based within a name, then through his ignorance Lybeaus is able to navigate and negotiate his reality and the ways in which he wishes to perform his actions. In other words, he wants to be a knight on his own terms, outside the boundaries of the hyper masculine performance played out by others attempting to live up to their own names. He also wants respites from knightly conduct. It is only when his lineage is revealed that he must succumb to a “perceived identity,” conforming to notions of a restored order that demand his return to court and subsequent marriage. This reentrance to a societally structured life marks his perceived progress in which he proves his prowess and rightfully obtains a name among Arthurian knights. Then his bride is reabsorbed into chivalric culture, all but forgetting her monstrous stretch, much like the erasure performed upon Lybeaus’s earlier infractions. His chivalry is celebrated not as an attack on the fixed forms of masculinity, but understood as literal bouts with monsters and giants in which he is, as originally presupposed by Arthur, the inevitably successful hero of his own story.

* Baron, English Medieval Romance, pp. 50-60; Kreuger, The Cambridge Companion to Medieval Romance, pp. 1-5; Mehl, Middle English Romances, pp. 250-252; Putter and Gilbert, Spirit of Romance, p. 1; Weiss, Insular Romance, pp. 1-25.

** The Knight of the Cart, in reference to Lancelot; the Knight of the Lion, in reference to Yvain; The Knight of the Handome Shield, in reference to Fergus; The Lady of the Lake, who remains unknown outside her geographic parameters; the various forms of Le Bel Inconnu, and Lybeaus Desconus; The Daughter of King Pelles, who has been referred to as Elaine, among numerous other examples.

Sources:

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Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge, 1990.

Bynum, Caroline W. Identity and Metamorphosis. New York: Zone Books, 2001.

Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. Of Giants: Sex, Monsters, and the Middle Ages. Minnesota: UP, 1999.

Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism. New York: Antheneum, 1967.

Huot, Sylvia. Madness in Medieval French Literature: Identities Found and Lost.   Oxford: Oxford UP, 2003.

Jameson, Fredric. The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Art.  Cornell: UP, 1982.

Kreuger, Roberta L., Ed. The Cambridge Companion to Medieval Romance. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000.

Lacy, Norris J. “On Armor and Identity: Chretien and Beyond.” De Sens Rassis: Essays   in Honor of Rupert T. Eickens. Keith Busby, Bernard Guidot, and Logan E. Whale, Eds. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2005. 365-74.

Mehl, Dieter. The Middle English Romances of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries. New York: Routledge, 1968.

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Weiss, Judith, and Jennifer Fellows and Morgan Dickson, Eds. Medieval Insular Romance: Translation and Innovation. Cambridge: Brewer, 2000.